The book thief

This is a book written by Markus Zusak. I started to read it 2-3 months ago and I´m going really slow (tiredness+laziness+reading 3 books at the same time:P), but I love it! It´s really well written and I like the setting (Nazi Germany and Second World War). The story is narrated by a busy Death, that introduces us to a nine-year-old girl´s life named Liesel. She lives with a foster family, because her parents were taken away to a concentration camp and her brother died. She´s just learned to read, she steals books. On the back of the book, it says:

THIS IS A NOVEL NARRATED BY DEATH.

it´s a small story, about: 

a girl

+ an accordionist

+ some fanatical Germans

+ a jewish fist fighter

+ and quite a lot of thievery.

Here is a brief passage, when Liesel enters a room full of books in the house of a Nazi:

´Jesus, Mary…`

She said it out loud, the words distributed into a room that was full of cold air and books. Books everywhere! Each wall was armed with overcrowded yet immaculate shelving. It was barely possible to see the paintwork. There were all different styles and sizes of lettering on the spines of the black, the red, the grey, the every-coloured books. it was one of the most beautiful things Liesel Meminger had ever seen.

With wonder, she smiled.

That such a room existed!

Even when she tried to wipe the smile away with her forearm, she realised instantly that it was a pointless exercise. She could feel the eyes of he woman travelling her body, and when she looked at her, they had rested on her face.

There was more silence that she ever thought possible. It extended like an elastic, dying to break. The girl broke it.

´Can I?´ The two words stood amongst acres and acres of vacant, wooden.floored land. The books were miles away. The woman nodded. Yes, you can.

Steadily, the room shrank, till the book thief could touch the shelves within a few small steps. She ran the back of her hand along the first shelf, listening to the shuffle of her fingernails gliding across the spinal cord of each book. It sounded like an instrument, or the notes of running feet. She used both hands. She raced them. One shelf against the other. And she laughed. Her voice was sprawled out, high in her throat, and when she eventually stopped and stood in the middle of the room, she spent many minutes looking from the shelves to her finders and back again.

How many books had she touched?

How many had she felt?

She walked over and did it again, this time much more slowly, with her hand facing forward, allowing the dough of her palm to feel the small hurdle of each book. It felt like magic, like beauty, as bright lines of light shone down from chandelier. Several times she almost pulled a title from its place but didn´t dare disturb them. They were too perfect.

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