— Albert Camus, Notebooks, 1951-1959 (via thatkindofwoman)
This is not going to be a pretty, polished review. This is spur of the moment, post-waterworks, deep breath spewage of opinionated writing.
I honestly did not expect to like The Book Thief as much as I do. Sure, the book is told from Death’s perspective (an intriguing idea to say the least) and the writing is immaculate and surprising. I can’t even begin to count how many times I had to pause and sigh, doe-eyed, at a beautiful phrase. And, yes, I knew from the outset that this was going to be a book about human suffering, at least in part; the setting is Nazi Germany, for crying out loud.
One thing to know about me is that when it comes to entertainment, I don’t cry. It takes an immense amount of feels to get even a little wall of tears to rest against my eyeballs. As I was finishing this novel, I was weeping, the lip-quivering kind. It may take some time, but give ol’ Death a chance, and he’ll get you to truly feel for these characters. It certainly doesn’t help knowing that the kinds of atrocities that occur in the story were taken from our own human history.
Which brings me to my last point (and then I promise I’ll stop spewing). The Book Thief is 100% foolproof fuel for your next Existential Crisis. It’s one of those books that go down as just plain important to read, an excellent “this is the human condition” book. So, please, if you haven’t gotten around to reading it yet, read it already.
Or, I mean, you could see the movie if you’re feeling lazy. I can’t guarantee the same results, though.