The Book Thief

There was once a strange small man. 

But there was a word shaker too. 

Is it really you?

 Is it from your cheek that I stole the seed?

I've finally concluded a marathon of literary inhalation in the form of Markus Zusak's book thief. It's been a while since I've allowed myself to be so captured by a book - but it's descriptive language and Death's profound voice proved to be magic. It's a wonderful story - the kind of story that is rich with characters and their unfoldings. One of those novels that give you a glimpse into a different world. And I've always loved a peek into someone else's world. 

 Here's a postcard attached to this book:

Physically: tiny me standing on the hard pavement, on a surprisingly cold, windy day amidst grey towering blocks. People in office-wear hurrying around. The cough in my chest is beginning to settle. The low temperature was really rattling me, and the sun was hiding behind vast, dark clouds.

Mentally: me dashing through the dusty road of Himmel Street, standing in a chilly, cemented basement looking at a runaway Jew, the smell of caked paint in the air, listening to deft hands playing an accordion, tasting the tingling sweetness of champagne and crying out for a childhood friendship in World War II Germany.