How can one find the words to describe a book about words? It's difficult, searching your brain for something that sounds intelligent enough to explain how you feel about it without saying things like: "Can't 'cuperate!" or "Why must I feel?".
Allow me to start at the beginning.
***A Beginning***
It was late at night.
My hands brushed the cover.
I lifted the book and turned it open.
I set my eyes on the first words and settled in.
That's how it all started, that's how I began The Book Thief. Of course I didn't know what I was getting into aside from the little snippets of conversation I'd heard. Of course I didn't know I'd be reading about a girl who faced such sadness, and was yet so brave. I didn't know that I'd read about the boy who loved her. I didn't know that my favorite character would be the tall man named Hans, who in my mind goes by the same name he does in Liesel's - Papa.
I knew none of this.
I struggled through the first 100 pages, stifling a yawn at this point. I just didn't find the interest.
I pushed myself to read it, but then I misplaced the book and couldn't find it.
When I did find it I had already completed another book.
So once more I took The Book Thief in my hands and tried to read some more. Little did I realize that Markus Zusak's words had crept into me, they nestled in the corner. When I put the book down I found myself mentally comparing everything to instances in the book. Isn't it odd, how humans do that? They think everything's about them and feel the need to compare everything in their lives to the lives of people who have real struggles. I guess it makes us feel correct, gives us something to complain about.
Back to the words.
Zusak's words had found a way to break my judgmental barrier and lay in the basement of my brain, amongst my paint sheets and cobwebs.
When I finished the book I knew that I was done for, I knew that I'd completely fallen for this book.
And the most important part? I wasn't ashamed at all.
***An End***
Toes curled in, tissues sat in front of me.
My hair fell in my face and I desperately pinned it back.
I had never cried when reading a book.
Never.
One character after another dies.
A tear falls down my cheek, after I struggled to keep it away.
Another follows, chasing the first.
Several more join in.
It becomes a game, all the tears gather at the starting line.
Death takes another character, leaving behind empty beds.
The tears are off, pushing each other out of the way, fighting to slip down and wet my blankets.
I timidly place the book down.
I am done.
