The Book Thief by Markus Zusak
Jun
'08
As amazing as this book turned out to be, I almost put it down shortly after I started it. Well, no, that’s a lie. I probably wouldn’t have put it down even if the world was shaking; I would have held onto the book and rescued it, along with my bunny, just so I could soak the words in the next day. What bothered me most about this book, however, was the writing style. I’ll get to that in a moment.
The book is narrated by Death, someone whom we all know very well, weather it be through relatives, parents, friends, or stories. It doesn’t matter which shape he comes in; he is as familiar to us as life the life we live every day. Death, in this particular title, has taken an interest in a little girl named Liesel Meminger. She’s a foster child who came to live with Hans and Rosa Hubermann, who found herself a best friend (Rudy), and who later discovered a talent for stealing books.
At first I found the “Death thing” to be a bit goofy, but then I started to see how necessary it really was. Set in Nazi Germany, death colors the world in this book. It isn’t strange that I say it in that way, for if you’ve read this book you’ll know how Death sees the world in colors. When thousands of Jews die, Death sees a murky grey sky with splotches of footprints in the sky. Through his narration, Death evokes so many images involving deep, vivid colors, that the distortion is illustrated. Did you ever see the movie 300? Remember how everything was sort of “burnt” - darkened, crispy, extremely sharp? That is how I imagined this book through the colors that Death described.
Liesel becomes a book thief right off the bat, though she doesn’t get the nickname for quite some time. Her brother’s death is an underlying reminder in this book; he stays with Liesel and helps her, scolds her, holds her hand and haunts her. Her first book evoked memories of him; The Gravedigger’s Handbook had significance in that she stole it after her brother’s death. In fact, all the books that Liesel stole were more than just words. They all had meaning, memory, significance attached to them which Liesel fully knew and understood. She took a book from a burning pile of Jewish literature and Nazi propaganda, another few found their ways into her hands through an open window and a dusty library.
The books had words, sure; all books do. They had stories and meanings of their own true to their authors and readers. For Liesel, however, they signified time, place, and events. She learned to read from The Gravedigger’s Handbook and used that skill later to comfort friends and townspeople in a basement while the booms of the bombs rolled through their ears. She formed an unlikely friendship with the mayor’s wife after stealing a book written by a Jewish author; it burned her skin to take it just as the woman’s eyes burned into her while she watched, but Liesel carried it home painfully just to have it. It wasn’t merely the satisfaction of stealing (though that was also apparent throughout); it was knowing it was hers, keeping it, holding it, and reading it.
She later finds it in her to write. Her inspiration, I think, was Max, the Jew her family hid in the basement. I held back tears throughout most of this book, but I couldn’t hold them in when it came to Max. The final pages talked of what happened to every character, the gut-wrenching realities and heartfelt moments soaked in adding potential to my tear ducts, but nothing came out until Death told me about Max. (It may not be what you think, but it made me cry nonetheless.) Max with his feathery hair and leather skin asked Liesel to tell him about the weather. He wrote her a book; in this book, she found the importance of words.
This is one of those books that leaves you feeling conflicted. Some people tell me they can’t read Holocaust fiction because they hate the feelings that come with it. They hate being sad while they’re reading, they hate getting to know a character whose entire family dies, who wakes up one day and realizes that the world she/he lives in is full of death and sadness. They would rather engross themself in “lighter” literature - even that of a fictional war would be better. Personally, however, I relish the thought of reading a book which touches me so deeply that I cry unexpectedly after merely four days of reading. I can only imagine the thoughts Zusak must have had while he was writing this; perhaps even he was crying during the bombing of Himmel Street.
I promised I’d mention this again, so here I am: the writing style. It reminded me of my seventh grade stories. Sometimes I’ll write reviews in the style that the book was written to show what an effect it had, but it’d be difficult to write this one as it was so utterly annoying. There were words. They were in sentences. The sentences were short. Short like this. Sometimes things repeated. Repeated as if you didn’t know what was said. But I knew, oh yes, I knew. And soon you will know too. Then there was the boldness and the asterisks; whenever Death had an announcement to make, there would be huge bold letters announcing the announcement and a small group of words in explanation. It could have been just as easily stated within a paragraph, no bold letters, no centered text, but instead it was necessary to draw attention to these things. I didn’t like it! My eyes kept averting to those bold letters; sometimes I’d read them before I got to them, and sometimes I’d go back and reread them even while in the middle of a paragraph on the next page. It never ended.
That said, I read through the book quickly, and most people I’ve talked to about it have said that they finished it in one sitting. It wasn’t that easy, but it was that good.
A powerful book. I usually keep the books I love on my bookshelves to stare back at me and smile, but this one I loved so much that I’m resigned to bringing it into my used bookstore. I want other people to read it, to feel what I’ve felt, and to sit and think for a while. This book should be passed from hand to hand, read several times over; The Book Thief should give meaning to lives just as Liesel’s books gave to her. These aren’t merely words.
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I have mixed feelings about reading Holocaust fiction. I like that they spread awareness of what happened to new generations, but I also find them very hard to read for the reasons you mentioned above. I guess I can read them, they just have to be few and far in between.
Jun
'08
I read The Book Thief recently also, and my reaction was similar to yours. The writing style almost gets in the way of the story. I definitely have approach-avoidance conflict over Holocaust lit. Like @Kathleen, I can only take a little of it at a time, but it also holds a fascination for me. (My father’s family escaped from Austria just in the nick of time, and I have other family members that weren’t so lucky. So it’s partly personal.)
Jun
'08
I really enjoyed this book. I’ll admit that the writing style took a lot of getting used to, but in the end I appreciated it. I thought it was quite inventive actually.
For those who don’t want to be immersed in the sadness and death you find in most Holocaust literature, this is a great book. Yes it’s sad in part (they were living during a horrible time) but its fun and funny and entertaining as well.
I too highly recommend this one!
Aug
'08
My reaction to this book was also similar. I’m assuming the writing style was why this book was classified as YA instead of adult. The subject matter is, unsurprisingly, a bit intense–perhaps even for younger teens.
Aug
'08