Book Review: The Book Thief

 by Markus Zusak
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I loved this book. Even if the story hadn't been any good (which it was!), I still would have given it 4 stars just for the diction. The author can put words together in an incredible way. The descriptions are fresh and amazing, and really put things in a new light. And I loved the story. Absolutely loved it. Having Death be the narrator was pure genius, and I like that Death isn't all grim and creepy, but that he's kind of a character and has a sense of humor. I love the way Death gives away things that are coming up in the future of the story, because he's right, it takes away the suspense of what's going to happen and lets you focus completely on what is happening. It's beautiful, the whole thing is just beautifully done. I will be buying this book and reading it again and again. That's for sure. Here are a few samples of the writing style.

“The consequence of this is that I'm always finding humans at their best and worst. I see their ugly and their beauty, and I wonder how the same thing can be both.”

“I have hated words and I have loved them, and I hope I have made them right.”

“I wanted to explain that I am constantly overestimating and underestimating the human race - that rarely do I even simply estimate it. I wanted to ask her how the same thing could be so ugly and so glorious, and its words and stories so damning and brilliant...I AM HAUNTED BY HUMANS.”

“It's a lot easier, she realized, to be on the verge of something than to actually be it. This would still take time.”

“The words were on their way, and when they arrived, she would hold them in her hands like the clouds, and she would wring them out like the rain.”

“Liesel's blood had dried inside of her. It crumbled. She almost broke into pieces on the steps.”

“Don't punish yourself,' she heard her say again, but there would be punishment and pain, and there would be happiness, too. That was writing.”

“Sometimes I think my papa is an accordion. When he looks at me and smiles and breathes, I hear the notes.”

“Each night, Liesel would step outside, wipe the door, and watch the sky. Usually it was like spillage - cold and heavy, slippery and gray - but once in a while some stars had the nerve to rise and float, if only for a few minutes. On those nights, she would stay a little longer and wait. Hello, stars.”

“The song was born on her breathe and died at her lips.”

“She tore a page from the book and ripped it in half.
Then a chapter.
Soon, there was nothing but scraps of words littered between her legs and all around her. The words. Why did they have to exist? Without them, there wouldn't be any of this. Without words, the Führer was nothing. There would be no limping prisoners, no need for consolation or wordly tricks to make us feel better.
What good were the words?
She said it audibly now, to the orange-lit room. "What good are the words?”

“If only she could be so oblivious again, to feel such love without knowing it, mistaking it for laughter and bread with only the scent of jam spread on top of it. It was the best time of her life.”

“It was one of those moments of perfect tiredness, of having conquered not only the work at hand, but the night who had blocked the way.”

“Yes, I'm often reminded of her, and in one of my array of pockets, I have kept her story to retell. It is one of the small legion I carry, each one extraordinary in its own right. Each one an attempt - an immense leap of an attempt - to prove to me that you, and your human existence, are worth it.”

“Whoever named Himmel Street certainly had a healthy sense of irony. Not that is was a living hell. It wasn't. But is sure as hell wasn't heaven, either.”

“The human child – so much cannier at times than the stupefyingly ponderous adult.”

“… it was raining on Himmel Street when the world ended for Liesel Meminger.
The sky was dripping.
Like a tap that a child has tried its hardest to turn off but hasn’t quite managed.”

“Somewhere in all the snow, she could see her broken heart, in two pieces. Each half was glowing, and beating under all that white.”

“She didn't dare to look up, but she could feel their frightened eyes hanging onto her as she hauled the words in and breathed them out. A voice played the notes inside her. This, it said, is your accordion.”