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cannotdice 's review for:
The Book Thief
by Markus Zusak
there are moments that are peaceful, like a quiet morning. it is snowing, and the earth is cold. it was a moment like this when death came, a warm drink in hand, and told me a story.
there was a girl, and she survived. somebody threw a seven-sided die, and the odds were always with her. but no, his story was not of death. death was good; it is not painful. his story was about life, of earth, of humans.
his story was about a girl and her pain, and her joys, and of circumstantial luck. his voice was calm. it, sometimes, even drifted to humerous. but his voice, it breaks. it stops in wonder. maybe in sorrow.
it flowed, like tears that had been held for too long. his words were beautiful, a poet who knows. he knows humans. we are an enigma. we were made, trial and errors, to withstand pain.
this girl, it breaks his heart. and it breaks my heart too. these people are broken, tragic, and most of all in pain. but they are you.
there was a girl, and she survived. somebody threw a seven-sided die, and the odds were always with her. but no, his story was not of death. death was good; it is not painful. his story was about life, of earth, of humans.
his story was about a girl and her pain, and her joys, and of circumstantial luck. his voice was calm. it, sometimes, even drifted to humerous. but his voice, it breaks. it stops in wonder. maybe in sorrow.
it flowed, like tears that had been held for too long. his words were beautiful, a poet who knows. he knows humans. we are an enigma. we were made, trial and errors, to withstand pain.
this girl, it breaks his heart. and it breaks my heart too. these people are broken, tragic, and most of all in pain. but they are you.