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The Monday Morning Memo

Some books are forgettable.
The Book Thief is not.

In it, Markus Zusak gives us a look at 1942 Germany through the eyes of a 9 year-old girl. The book's quirky narrator, Death, will occasionally slip his own odd comments into the story. These observations always begin with the color of the sky during the moment he is about to describe. Here, Death describes Auschwitz:

“For me the sky was the colour of Jews.
When the bodies had finished scouring for gaps in the door, their souls rose up. Their fingernails had scratched at the wood and in some cases were nailed into it by the sheer force of desperation, and their spirits came towards me, up into my arms. We climbed out of those shower facilities, onto the roof and up, into eternity's certain breadth.”(p272)

Did I say the narrator was quirky?
Here, Death talks about 1942:

“Forget the scythe, God damn it, I needed a broom or a mop. And I needed a holiday.” (p329)

But for all his strangeness, Death doesn't make the book darkly comic; he makes it profoundly tender. Commenting on the countless voices in pain that call out for him to come:

“At times I wish I could say something like 'Don't you see I've already got enough on my plate?' But I never do. I complain internally as I go about my work and some years, the souls and bodies don't add up, they multiply.”  (p330)

The primary voice of the book is Liesel, a reasonably happy 9 year-old unaware of what's happening all around her. Though Death comments only from time to time, he is never far from the page and you feel him always close at hand.

Oddly, you are never afraid.

Markus Zusak is a young writer destined for greatness.
I much look forward to his next work.

– Roy H. Williams

 

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Random Quote:

“It was dusk and as the big vessel steamed out of Hakodate harbor, the sun was setting in one quadrant, a full moon was rising in another. On all sides of us, the open water was dotted with tiny wooden boats, each outfitted with luminous painted lanterns whose light was useful for attracting squid. It was as though the gods had plunked me down in the middle of a Hokusai wood-block print from the early nineteenth century. A solitary figure on the uppermost deck was playing a flute, ethereally, wistfully, as if coaxing the stars to come out of hiding, and, heart drumming an earthy accompaniment, my deep attraction to Japanese culture was rekindled.”

- Tom Robbins, Tibetan Peach Pie, p. 264-265

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