The Book Thief

by Markus Zusak

Each one an attempt – an immense leap of an attempt – to prove to me that you, and your human existence, are worth it.

Whoever named Himmel Street certainly had a healthy sense of irony. Not that it was a living hell. It wasn’t. But it sure as hell wasn’t heaven either.

In the beginning, it was the profanity that made the greatest impact. It was so vehement, and prolific. Every second word was either Saumensch or Saukerl or Arschloch.

It would inspire Hans Hubermann to come up with a plan to help the Jewish fist-fighter. And it would show me, once again, that one opportunity leads directly to another, just as risk leads to more risk, life to more life, and death to more death.

You see, people may tell you that Nazi Germany was built on anti-Semitism, a somewhat overzealous leader and a nation of hate-fed bigots, but it would have all come to nothing had the Germans not loved one particular activity – to burn.

It was one of those moments of perfect tiredness, of having conquered not only the work at hand, but the night who had blocked the way.

said. It’s hard not to like a man who not only notices the colours, but speaks them.

It’s a lot easier, she realised, to be on the verge of something than to actually be it.

Nightmares had reinforced themselves in each, as the book thief began to truly understand how things were, and how they would always be. If nothing else, she could prepare herself. Perhaps that’s why on the Führer’s birthday, when the answer to the question of her mother’s suffering showed itself completely, she was able to react, despite her perplexity and rage. Liesel Meminger was ready. Happy birthday, Herr Hitler. Many happy returns.

Liesel, by comparison, did not speak. Perhaps it was her first realisation that criminality spoke best for itself. Irrefutable.

‘When death captures me,’ the boy vowed, ‘he will feel my fist on his face.

To live. Living was living. The price was guilt, and shame.