A while ago I told you all the story of how, following my reading Bridge to Terabithia, my elementary-school heart was brutally ripped out of my chest and then stomped into the ground by the boot of sorrow. I told you all about how no other book has ever made me out-and-out cry that way, and how thus Bridge has become a sort of icon in my literary career.
Well, a couple of weeks ago I read The Book Thief by Markus Zusak.
It’s a strange thing to say this, but Bridge was no longer alone the night I finished that book (the fourth of October, I believe).
Certainly, it wasn’t nearly as bad as the first time (owing, I’m sure, to the years in between and my subsequent tendency to not have the reactions of an eleven-year-old anymore), but it happened. I’m not ashamed of it. I don’t think it’s something to be ashamed of, having an emotional reaction to a book. I’ve gone over all of this before, and it still holds true. It was real for me. And it’s real for anyone who’s ever truly enjoyed a book.
I guess I just wanted to mark down this little piece of personal history. I highly recommend you read The Book Thief. Most of it is actually rather light-hearted. It’s about a German girl living through World War II and all the things that go along with that, though I wouldn’t categorize it as a Holocaust book, because that’s not the focus at all. It’s about family and books and war and growing up.
Also there’s a very interesting choice of narrator, but if you haven’t read it yet I won’t spoil the fun for you.
P.S. Bit of a side note – the irregular posting does not mean I’ve forgotten you.