I present to you another quick (not so much so) book review because I’ll be having my exams soon, and being a newbie, I just wanted to build a base here. So without further ado, let’s get reviewing.
I would like to say that the book has been a great one; and I enjoyed it greatly and all of that wonderful stuff that we readers say…
But no. No. No. No.
I am NOT going to just say so and put a full stop. The book deserves more.
How can a book tear your heart apart (as it always do); squeeze tears out of your eyes; and punch the sobs out of you?
By being “the book thief”.
A devastatingly beautiful book with dark humour fed into the most realistic of tragedies. I’m not a German girl in the 1930’s and ’40’s. But I can tell you with great confidence that I was there. I literally lived each part of that wonderful piece. I blocked out my reality for minutes and stayed inside a mute bubble of words. Words and emotions.
I’m not going to summarise the book because entering this world of sensations surrounded by oblivion is the best way to read the book. But I will tell you what it is about.
Our book here is narrated by Death. Yes; Death. Death takes us through Nazi Germany during World War II; but only a very small section of it. One that I guarantee to you would break your heart into 17 pieces— if not more.
It talks about words. Oh, the words. The power they yield; the greatness within them; the sound a word could utter and generally how much it could change the world.
“I have hated words,
And I have loved them,
And I hope I have made them right.”
To put it simply; I know that this review is not my best; and perhaps it isn’t good at all; but I really did try to summon up the right descriptions for this book. And I couldn’t find any. No piece was so well-written and amazingly paced as this one. No piece had literature woven and punctured in the right places such as this one.
Not a single novel has ever made me hold my breath as much as I did with this novel. I was afraid of finishing off a page; wary and conscious of every written word. I feared turning a paper to another chapter; and I just really went through the wildest of journeys in this book.
I cried. I laughed. I cried some more and I have bidden my farewell.
But I tell you this:
In my opinion, no book ever really ends. These words and pages will always breathe within us; and as long as we respire; then they, too, shall never expire.
So I hope that this book grows old and creaky within me.