The story was set in the depths of Nazi Germany, following the tale of one Liesel Meminger whom I was introduced to as she took a train journey through a snowy wilderness. Crowded into a packed train (at least, in my imagination) the young Leisel watched as her brother coughed and withered; eventually passing into the hands of death. That is to say, the hands of the narrator.
It is a special kind of book that tells a story entirely beyond its setting and characters, and after reluctantly putting it down I've begun to wonder what it was actually about. Death had a very different perspective from a human living in that time. He saw the colours in the sky; red, white, black. He listened to the hum of remembered stories that he had picked up along with the most tragic, and beautiful of souls. In 'The Book Thief' you aren't told about Stalingrad, or of Hitler's Struggle. Instead you see through the hauntingly realistic viewpoint of a girl who would never play the accordion because she could never match the casual joy her father could tease from it. Whose first act of book thievery was performed so that she would never forget where she came from; a last spontaneous grasp to keep something, as if she knew it would be important to her in years to come. In truth, she attained "The Twelve Steps To Gravedigging Success". Death wondered about the apprentice who had let it slip from his pocket. The man who had helped bury Liesel's nameless brother.
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| "A dance of death, out of a mystery tale" |
I'm coming to the conclusion that the story existed to be the frame of a mirror. Constantly during the entire experience I lost myself in the comparisons and contrasts between the way Liesel and death felt and how I did or would. I repeatedly imagined that I was reading an inscription on the frame, only to look down and see a reflection of, say, a family photograph. I would then be guided to remember what I felt about everything in it. It was reading about Leisel's first experience wetting the bed, when she went to her father in shame and apprehension. He simply said "Ah, we'd best clean that up then eh?" took the sheets to be washed, replaced them with fresh ones (nothing says comfort more than smooth new sheets) and sat with her until she was ready to sleep again. The whole book was spun around these acts of heartening kindness, and it shocked me to realise that is how I remember my own life. I have years worth of diary entries, but when I sum up my life in my head it always comes down to the little moments that left me helplessly, inexplicably glad to be alive.
I'm writing this entry now for a number of reasons; primary among them is that I'm flushed with the emotion that comes with the end of a good book. This is one advantage reading will always have over film for me; writers can take their time to create characters you feel a horrible sense of loss over once you are done. Death described the people he met in terms of what they took in their moments of abandon. Liesel was a book thief. When the Jew who had been hidden in a basement for over a year snuck up for a look; he stole the sky. In the same way, Liesel, Hans, Rosa, Rudy; you've stolen my afternoon, and many fleeting thoughts to come. Thank you for the memories.
I wont look in a real mirror today. I've spent hours seeing a reflection of the incredible emotions this book brought about; I don't see how meeting my own eyes could possibly feel as good as viewing my own mind. An odd thought. As odd a thought as I've ever had.
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Yesterday was Fireworks Night, and I found myself strolling towards Lochee park with two good friends of mine. I'm thoroughly enjoying the raw winter cold and the chance to avoid it by way of fashionable scarf and the sleak winter jacket I bought in C & A in Aachen this time last year. For little over a month now, I've been feeling the loss of what I had in 2009. This time last year I was 5 days away from the most unexpected, and more memorable, kiss of my life. I would be visiting Germany for a christmas under the roof of a wonderful and welcoming family, and I would be smiling fondly at the excitement of it all. This winter I have not been smiling so much. I have had a lot of work to do and friends to help me through it, but in truth I am constantly hoping to stumble upon someone that will give me a chance to remember what love feels like. I think I've reached a point where the deepest of friendships just wont be enough, and that has left me feeling weary and isolated. Yes, I've had a lot to think about, but last night told me something very important.
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| I especially like the ones that send a thud of noise right through you. |
After the incredible fireworks display I was inspired to enlongate the warmth I'd felt watching lightsaber-wielding children play around the legs of spectators, their heads tilted up and their eyes and mouths open. Hopelessly chuckling from the effortless humour and genuine likeability of the people I was with, I suggested we head to my favourite Dundee pub; The Counting House, for a late dinner. We sat round a table with our winter gear on the floor beneath us, shoved underneath to avoid tripping any of the patrons of the incredibly busy venue. The Ale and Cider festival was on so we had the opportunity to grab some bizarre guest ciders (Green goblin, anyone?) to let the food go down. Warm, merry, and with two incredible friends... last night told me something alright.
It told me I was going to be just fine.
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