Book review: The Book Thief by Markus Zusak

I found my way to the book thief purely by chance. Well if I'm being perfectly honest it's actually due to a faulty memory. I was browsing for some light reading preferably something on the lines of fantasy. I did my share of Terry Pratchett and Gaiman and was looking for a change of flavor. Racking my brain for a name I have not yet tried, the book thief fell out. Its only after I started did I realise that I was looking for 'The thief lord'. 

And its a mistake I'm rather grateful for. Had I actually remembered the Funke series correctly who knows how long it would have taken me to find my way to the book thief.

And being completely unprepared, the book managed to take away even more of my breathe than if I chose it knowingly. On so many levels. Just thinking back on the book makes my heart ache again. And after I finished the book I could not bring my self to believe this is a work of fiction. Though set in the dreary and grey background of the 2nd world war, the characters shine through with the kind of light that is reminiscent of Anne Frank; imperfect yet captivating to say the least.

Because there are so many aspects to explore the book from, I don't know where to start. To start with, the book felt intensely personal. Maybe because it mixed children and books and quiet rebels, my favorite kind of mix in a novel ( of course it comes as no surprise that my favorite book should be 'To kill the mockingbird', with roughly the same mix). But honestly, it transcended for me the space of a book telling an extraordinary tale and rather felt more like I was reading like a lost diary of mine, of life I had perhaps lost. That is not to imply that I write half as wonderfully as Mr. Zusak but that I could identify with the emotions like it was my own. This even when you know the narrator is Death himself. 

For such a morbid sounding narrator the book is full of color and light. How easily we paint death with shades of black. Maybe because the finality of death seems so harsh and unyielding to us, the living. Like a rock. So we imagine Death to have the same unyielding, hard character. But this book reminds us how we can be so wrong. That death can be tender, comforting and beautiful. And that Death can be understanding. I love the way Zusak gently guides us to different perspectives which breaks away from the hard and unconscious  prejudices we have formed. 

Its one of the hardest things to write from a child's point of view because they can be such contractions. At once unconditional and unforgiving in love. And for all their innocence and nativity they can be intuitive in a way no adult can be. They are fierce in their wants and yet pliable their demands. And we always tend to believe children to be so easily swayed by adult idiosyncrasies, that they grow up pumped up with ideas of their environs, like rudderless boats in a swift stream, helpless about the direction of their lives. Markus Zusak politely and firmly points us our follies by creating characters which sparkle with all that is human like Liesel and Rudy in an atmosphere which was tense with inexplicable hate, a demonstration of considerable skill since he also keeps them true with the kind of pettiness and pride only children can have. 

And the magic of a book. Of it's ability to warp or transform if you only let it. Of all the aspects of the story that is told, it's that unabashed and wild love of books which spoke to me. Every time Liesel stole a book from the mayor's wife, taking one at a time, I was, weirdly enough, proud of her. 

I was lucky enough to have been born into a household with loads of books and of love of reading. If I have to choose to reduce myself to one word, the word I would pick would be 'reader'. And maybe this is why I feel like this could have been a lost life of mine. Like Liesel, with life and odds disproportionately in favor of not reading anything leave alone anything worthwhile, I might have still found a way to books simply because it's encoded in my DNA. Or so I like to believe. Who is say who and how I would have turned out to be without books in my life. 

Every time I speak of Liesel I realise I end up talking more of myself than of her. But that is how the experience of reading her was. Usually when writing a review I try to separate the emotional experience of reading the book and try being more objective( I don't believe anyone can truly divorce the two). But this time I don't want to because it is a rare and wonderful experience to be immersed so completely within the character and the story. I don't even want to try to dilute it by looking at it rationally least I lose the feeling. 

And I'm also well aware that this feeling might be skewing this review by speaking only of Liesel and having thus far made no mention of Hans and Rosa Hubermann and of Max.

 As much as I love Liesel, she's not by far the favorite character in the book. The whole book lights up because of all the delicately etched characters. When we realise how stubborn the gentle Hans is (FYI, he's my favorite, the unsung hero ) and how soft the iron fisted Rosa is. And I can't start on Rudy without tearing up. Hell, Death himself gets all cut up about this specimen of boyhood so you can hardly blame me.

If you ask me, this whole book is a testimony to humanity. Both the best and worst of it. The dark history is the large background against which Zusak's people shine. That within grime and grit, it is still possible to love and find beauty. So do yourself a favor and pick up the book. You won't regret it! :)