I decided to make a second post for The Book Thief, as my review was taking on an extended life of it’s own and would have eventually grown beyond 3000 words. Since a lot of what is in this post isn’t a review of the book itself, I thought it best to put the following in a companion post.
Other thoughts about and quotes from The Book Thief:
Last week’s “Booking Through Thursday” question had to do with books made into movies, including the question “What book would you NOT want to be made into a movie?” At the time, I really didn’t have an answer for that question, but NOW I do.
I don’t ever want to see The Book Thief made into a movie. One of the major points of beauty with this book is the writing itself. Zusak’s poetic and illustrative narrative cannot POSSIBLY be translated to the screen. It is the word pictures and imaginative imagery that make The Book Thief so special, and I believe that when this book is presented in an acted-out format it will simply become just another sad, hard-knock-life, World-War-Two story like so many others that line the video store’s shelves.
Sadly, it is already optioned and in the pre-production stage with a tentative release date of 2010. *sighs and cries* Honestly, tell me how the following passage can be “re-formatted” for the big screen:
…For some reason, dying men always ask questions they know the answer to. Perhaps it’s so they can die being right.
The voices suddenly all sounded the same.
Robert Holtzapfel collapsed to his right, onto the cold and steamy ground.
I’m sure he expected to meet me there and then.
Unfortunately for the young German, I did not take him that afternoon. I stepped over him with the other poor souls in my arms and made my way back to the Russians.
Back and forth, I travelled.
It was no ski-trip, I can tell you.
As Michael told his mother, it was three very long days later that I finally came for the soldier who left his feet behind in Stalingrad. I showed up very much invited at the temporary hospital and flinched at the smell.
A man with a bandaged hand was telling the mute, shock-faced soldier that he would survive. “You’ll soon be going home,” he assured him.
Yes, home, I thought. For good.
“I’ll wait for you,” he continued. “I was going back at the end of the week, but I’ll wait.”
In the middle of his brother’s next sentence, I gathered up the soul of Robert Holtzapfel.
Usually, I need to exert myself, to look through the ceiling when I’m inside, but I was lucky in that particular building. A small section of the roof had been destroyed and I could see straight up. A metre away, Michael Holtzapfel was still talking. I tried to ignore him by watching the hole above me. The sky was white but deteriorating fast. As always, it was becoming an enormous dust sheet. Blood was bleeding through, and in patches, the clouds were dirty, like footprints in melting snow.
Footprints? you ask.
Well, I wonder whose those could be.
In Frau Holtzapfel’s kitchen, Liesel read. The pages waded by unheard, and for me, when the Russian scenery fades in my eyes, the snow refuses to stop falling from the ceiling. The kettle is covered, as is the table. The humans, too, are wearing patches of snow, on their heads and shoulders.
The brother shivers.
The woman weeps.
And the girl goes on reading, for that’s why she’s there, and it feels good to be good for something in the aftermath of the snows of Stalingrad.
–The Book Thief by Markus Zusak, pages 475-477
When Nazi soldiers march some Jewish prisoners back to the work camp in Dachau, the “parade” makes its way through Molching. The following quote describes this event:
On Munich Street, they watched.
… They watched the Jews come down the road like a catalogue of colours. That wasn’t how the book thief described them, but I can tell you that that’s exactly what they were, for many of them would die. They would each greet me like their last true friend, with bones like smoke, and their souls trailing behind.
When they arrived in full, the noise of their feet throbbed amongst the road. Their eyes were enormous in their starving skulls. And the dirt. The dirt was moulded to them. Their legs staggered as they were pushed by soldiers’ hands – a few wayward steps of forced running before the slow return to a malnourished walk.
… The suffering faces of depleted men and women reached across to them, pleading not so much for help – they were beyond that – but for an explanation. Just something to subdue this confusion.
Their feet could barely rise above the ground.
Stars of David were plastered to their shirts, and misery was attached to them as if assigned. “Don’t forget your misery…” In some cases, it grew on them like a vine.
At their side, the soldiers also made their way past, ordering them to hurry up and to stop moaning. Some of those soldiers were only boys themselves. They had the Fuhrer in their eyes.
… Liesel was certain that these were the poorest souls alive… Their gaunt faces were stretched with torture. Hunger ate them as they continued forward, some of them watching the ground to avoid the people on the side of the road. Some looked appealingly at those who had come to observe their humiliation, this prelude to their deaths. Others pleaded for someone, anyone, to step forward and catch them in their arms.
Whether they watched this parade with pride, temerity or shame, nobody came forward to interrupt it. Not yet.
Once in a while, a man or woman – no, they were not men and women, they were Jews – would find Liesel’s face amongst the crowd. They would meet her with their defeat, and the book thief could only watch them back in a long, incurable moment before they were gone again. She could only hope they could read the depth of sorrow in her face, to recognise that it was true, and not fleeting.
… She understood that she was utterly worthless to these people. They could not be saved, and in a few minutes, she would see what would happen to those who might try to help them.
In a small gap in the procession, there was a man, older than the others.
He wore a beard and torn clothes.
His eyes were the colour of agony, and weightless as he was, he was too heavy for his legs to carry.
–The book Thief by Markus Zusak, pages 398-400
I particularly love the line, “His eyes were the colour of agony,” and hate to see that lost when it’s on screen.
One line in the previous quote that I find particularly chilling is, “Some of those soldiers were only boys themselves. They had the Fuhrer in their eyes.”
We often consider Hitler’s greatest evil being the systematic devastation of an entire people group. Certainly, his “final solution” that brought about the deaths of approximately 6 million Jews, what is more commonly referred to as The Holocaust, was an unimaginably horribly wicked thing. However, not to sound dismissive, those six million people are dead and gone. If it had ended there, it would have been an appallingly grotesque act of a fiend.
No, the greatest evil still being perpetrated by Hitler was the indoctrination of childred. “They had the Fuhrer in their eyes.” Those boy soldiers grew up and taught their children the doctrines of hate. And when those children had children of their own, they too passed on the poisonous cancer of intolerance. As terrible as these beliefs are for those to whom they are directed, the worst pain of all is inflicted on the believers themselves. They will never know peace and love, and they will never truly experience a sense of self-acceptance. Hate only breeds more hate. And in this way, Hitler still lives on and continues to enslave and destroy his followers.
The following quote describes the residents of an undamaged Himmel Street returning home after an air raid:
The only sign of war was a cloud of dust migrating from east to west. It looked through the windows, trying to find a way inside, and as it simultaneously thickened and spread, it turned the trail of humans into apparitions.
There were no people on the street any more.
They were rumours carrying bags.
–The Book Thief by Markus Zusak, page 390
ARGH! I just can’t see a movie being able to give you that. “They were rumours carrying bags.” They can make the set smoky, and they can have people trudge in front of the camera, but how can it ever fully express them as rumors?
One of the stresses in the Hubermann household is that Hans isn’t a card-carrying party member. Because he gave a Jewish shop owner back a little bit of his dignity by painting over an anti-Semitic slur on his door, Hans had never been approved membership. Without being a member, people were reluctant to hire him as a painter.
What probably saved him was that people knew he was at least waiting for his application to be approved. For this, he was tolerated, if not endorsed as the competent painter he was.
Then There was his other saviour.
It was the accordion that most likely spared him from total ostracism. Painters there were, from all over Munich, but under the brief tutorage of Erik Vandenburg and nearly two decades of his own steady practice, there was no-one in Molching who could play exactly like him. It was a style not of perfection, but of warmth. Even mistakes had a good feeling about them.
–The Book Thief by Markus Zusak, page 191
Hans’ accordion had belonged to Erik Vandenburg, his friend and fellow soldier in World War I and the man who saved Hans’ life. Hans and Erik had passed the time learning and playing the accordion, and in the years that followed Hans had developed his own special style that was much loved in his community. Ironically, Erik Vandenburg was a Jew.
And being a Jew in Nazi Germany was the least desirable position of all, as the following quote points out:
You could argue that Liesel Meminger had it easy. She did have it easy compared to Max Vandenburg. Certainly, her brother practically died in her arms. Her mother abandoned her.
But anything was better than being a Jew.
–The Book Thief by Markus Zusak, page 168
When Liesel first comes to live with the Hubermann’s at nine years of age, she is completely illiterate. As Hans works with her, first teaching her the alphabet then words and sentences, she begins to understand and sense the power bound within the covers of books, and books themselves become objects of priceless worth. So, when Liesel first steps into the personal library of Mayor’s wife, she is overcome with joy at the sight of it:
“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!
–The Book Thief by Markus Zusak, page 141
The last of my little post-it flags have been removed from my book, and I’m out of quotes. I think I can finally part with my copy of The Book Thief, it’s destined for a fellow BookMoocher, though I guarantee I will grab any… and every, in all likelihood… copy I come across in the future. I know I will re-read this book again, and probably more than once.
The final quote I’ll end this post with is the first few lines of the book:
First the colours.
Then the humans.
That’s usually how I see things.
Or at least, how I try.
–The Book Thief by Markus Zusak, page 13
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