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A review by jonscott9
The Book Thief by Markus Zusak
5.0
What's not to love about this tale of an illiterate 9-year-old girl Liesel stealing books in Nazi Germany, eventually learning with the aid of her foster father to read and write, and then to do both increasingly well?
Need I mention the narrator here is Death himself? Yes. He makes for a quip-tastic observer who alternately looks on fondly at these mere mortals, Jews and/or Germans, and on the same page is prone to whisk away their souls (light or heavy, depending on the person's goodness). Admittedly, a couple times in the middle here, the narrator's side notes and quips, Death's voice, yanked me up and out of the story and into the realization that this was but a bleak fiction, Liesel's life. I did not dig that. Distracting.
Heady, clever prose here from the boyish Aussie Zusak, himself the son of German immigrants. The story sings, and the book breezes by at 550 pages paperback. A notoriously slow reader, I pounded this one in a week and a half.
Some images will endure in my mind. Thank you, author. Thank you, words. Rudy Steiner is an anti-hero for the ages; the image is burned behind my eyes of him holding a retrieved book aloft, triumphantly, as he stands in the middle of a freezing river. Hans Hubermann ("Papa") is the German wartime version of Atticus Finch, seemingly perfect in every way. His wife Rosa ("Mama") and the street-soccer kids gave me quite a few Deutsch names and taunts ("Arschgrobbler" = ass scratcher) for future use. The still image of tough-as-nails Rosa snoring upright in a chair in the dark, her husband's beloved accordion strapped to her chest, made me want to weep.
Weird to see the Allied forces of WWII as makeshift bad guys as they relate to this tale. Strange also to find myself inserting my own maternal grandparents into the roles and faces of Hans and Rosa H. Makes sense, though: Their shack at 33 Himmel Street outside Munich reminded me of my grands' double-wide trailer in southern Indiana. Their personalities matched those of Paul (Hans) and Eileen (Rosa) to a T. My grandparents are Wagoners. Wagners. Germans. This made it all the harder -- dare I say, more emotional -- when I realized I may have to let go of the Hubermanns in this story.
Finishing a book feels like a breakup, like the end of a relationship. I sometimes hate it, thus I don't read quickly and read the last 10 pages and especially the last 10 lines at snail's pace. The epilogue ending seemed fitting. It was as it should be. Perhaps it was as it could only be.
As represented here, the Fuhrer himself (Hitler) reminded me of the Anton Chigurh character from the 2007 film No Country for Old Men for how, despite not appearing in every (any) scene, his awful presence is felt in every word and deed performed. What a small man. What an outsized story, a sprawling imagination in an author so young.
Need I mention the narrator here is Death himself? Yes. He makes for a quip-tastic observer who alternately looks on fondly at these mere mortals, Jews and/or Germans, and on the same page is prone to whisk away their souls (light or heavy, depending on the person's goodness). Admittedly, a couple times in the middle here, the narrator's side notes and quips, Death's voice, yanked me up and out of the story and into the realization that this was but a bleak fiction, Liesel's life. I did not dig that. Distracting.
Heady, clever prose here from the boyish Aussie Zusak, himself the son of German immigrants. The story sings, and the book breezes by at 550 pages paperback. A notoriously slow reader, I pounded this one in a week and a half.
Some images will endure in my mind. Thank you, author. Thank you, words. Rudy Steiner is an anti-hero for the ages; the image is burned behind my eyes of him holding a retrieved book aloft, triumphantly, as he stands in the middle of a freezing river. Hans Hubermann ("Papa") is the German wartime version of Atticus Finch, seemingly perfect in every way. His wife Rosa ("Mama") and the street-soccer kids gave me quite a few Deutsch names and taunts ("Arschgrobbler" = ass scratcher) for future use. The still image of tough-as-nails Rosa snoring upright in a chair in the dark, her husband's beloved accordion strapped to her chest, made me want to weep.
Weird to see the Allied forces of WWII as makeshift bad guys as they relate to this tale. Strange also to find myself inserting my own maternal grandparents into the roles and faces of Hans and Rosa H. Makes sense, though: Their shack at 33 Himmel Street outside Munich reminded me of my grands' double-wide trailer in southern Indiana. Their personalities matched those of Paul (Hans) and Eileen (Rosa) to a T. My grandparents are Wagoners. Wagners. Germans. This made it all the harder -- dare I say, more emotional -- when I realized I may have to let go of the Hubermanns in this story.
Finishing a book feels like a breakup, like the end of a relationship. I sometimes hate it, thus I don't read quickly and read the last 10 pages and especially the last 10 lines at snail's pace. The epilogue ending seemed fitting. It was as it should be. Perhaps it was as it could only be.
As represented here, the Fuhrer himself (Hitler) reminded me of the Anton Chigurh character from the 2007 film No Country for Old Men for how, despite not appearing in every (any) scene, his awful presence is felt in every word and deed performed. What a small man. What an outsized story, a sprawling imagination in an author so young.