There really aren't words, but yet, here I am typing away. I just finished reading one of the greatest books ever written. The Book Thief, by Markus Zusak, is beyond description. I started reading this book when it arrived from Amazon, October 12. I finished it this evening. I could have read it more quickly, and I certainly wanted to, but alas I was prevented from doing so by factors beyond my control. But that's neither here nor there.
This book has taken up a permanent residence in my mind and in my heart. I've been reading aloud my favorite parts to anyone who will listen--mostly my indulgent family, who've long since realized how crazy obsessive I am about books and such, and very kindly listen to their little rambler. There has been no shortage of these favorite moments. I laughed out loud several times as I read, enjoying the odd humor in such a grim setting. It works. It was so easy to picture every event in my head, sometimes even when I didn't want to. I won't say any more than that...
I never thought I would ever sympathize with Death as a character. I mean really, it's Death. Reading The Book Thief, I sympathized with Death. I wanted to console him, to thank him for his brutal honesty, and I did pity him for his eternal task. In fact, I think a little bit of Death died in this book. As a character, he sometimes tells information too soon for my taste, but for the purposes of the story, I understand why this was done. Another small thing about Death? He's a poet.
The entirety of The Book Thief is tragic, beautiful and poetic in its language and content. Zusak says so much with very few words, each word and phrase carefully chosen and constructed so as to give the most force. Case in point: instead of saying: "what Mama said," Zusak writes "the contents of Mama's voice" which tells me that not only is Mama's voice significant to the listener, but also that her words are so heavy and full of meaning that her voice carries the words and contains them. These words are not simply said, they are DELIVERED. This is just one instance of many supremely constructed phrases and asides within the novel. One must really take their time when reading so as to really understand and appreciate what is being said. This is mastery of craftsmanship and it deserves to be savored.
Finally, I want to offer the book my apology. I could not give it all that it deserves. I freely admit that this book made me cry often. They were not the ladylike tears that are beautiful in their sorrow, sliding gracefully down the face. Oh, no. These tears were big, sloppy, heavy tears and wracking sobs that shook me, making me close the book and push it away because I couldn't read any further. These tears were noisy. And yet, I had to come back, I had to finish. The book was like a drug--it demanded that my addiction be satisfied. I apologize though, because I couldn't give the book all the tears that it needed. I ran out of tears before I ran out of the need to cry.
So I sit here at my computer, red-eyed, head achy, and emotionally spent, offering my useless words to talk about a book that deserves more than I, or any one person (prove me wrong, please) could give it. Please, everyone, read this book. Take your time, love the characters, make the book a part of you.
p.s. I won't talk about the other characters in the novel, because I don't want to spoil them for you with my take on them. Besides, you need to meet them for yourself. I feel guilty enough talking about Death.
p.s.s. Even though there aren't words, I had to say something.
