The Book Thief

Fucking Wordsmiths.

I am reading The Book Thief.  I have read a lot of books.  That last sentence is quite understated, because I am a book junky.  It is a hobby of mine.   I happen to have two degrees, a minor, and a graduate certificate related to reading books (not bragging, just to set the stage here), and I have never read a better book than The Book Thief.  I may be sometimes prone to exaggeration, but this is not one of those times.  Markus Zusak has crafted a masterpiece.

It’s different and compelling and artistic and funny and sad and innovative and extraordinary and insightful and different.  And I keep making myself NOT read it, because I don’t want it to end.  I hold on to the little nuggets like a starving child and just inspect them and consider them and try to remember them so I can sometime, anytime, EVER do something so impactful and important. 

Most people who impress me do so with honesty (because it’s so rare), but I think Zusak did it with creativity.  He presented a very familiar subject to me, but he fixed it in a formulated phrase – formulated it, sprawling on a pin, wriggling on the wall – (to steal from T.S. Eliot).   I can’t believe how much the book took me hostage and made me want to read it, but not want to read it too fast.  I want to savor every single morsel.  Slowly.  With enthusiasm.  

My jealousy eats me alive, while my gratitude overwhelms.  Markus Zusak has stunned me.

  Thank you, sir.