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color me blind
There was a point to this story, but it has temporarily escaped the chronicler's mind. - So Long And Thanks for All the Fish by Douglas Adams |
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about the author
A female member of the homo sapiens species
(warm-blooded, omnivorous, currently alive) Diet includes walrus diarrhea, preserved portions of man-made worms cooked in boiling water and the outermost layer of flesh of eggs that have been incubated, raised, beheaded, plucked and fried in oil. Extremely unpredictable, high-five on sight. tagboard
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I just finished The Book Thief. And I tell you. It's definitely the best book I've ever read. I don't know why I didn't before. Because of the bombings and such, I thought it was boring. Well, I was dead wrong. And now I shall proceed to ramble about it. The whole story is basically set in Nazi Germany during Hitler's time. The only characters I really like are Death and Max. Death is the best character I've seen. Better than Dustfinger. And I can't believe I just said that. It's a representation of death that's not commonly seen. Death isn't cold or emotionless like most people think, or even evil. He actually feels sorry for the dead, although he can't do anything for them because, apparently, he's forbidden to. The book doesn't say by what. When he takes the souls from their bodies, he slings them gently over his shoulder and carries the children in his arms, after 'kissing them goodnight'. I like the part where he says that the one that serves Hitler most loyally was he, and that to him, war was a boss that kept giving him more work and never thanked him for it. OH YES. AND LOOK AT THIS. It was a year for the ages, like 79, like 1346, just to name a few. Forget the scythe, I needed a broom or a mop. And I needed a holiday. A SMALL PIECE OF TRUTH I do not carry a sickle or scythe. I only wear a hooded black robe when it's cold. I don't have those skull-like facial features you seem to enjoy pinning on me from a distance. You want to know what I truly look like? I'll help you out. Find yourself a mirror while I continue. - Death, The Book Thief This was from the part where Death started ranting xD I can't believe I saw 1346 in a book O_O It's stopped for some time, but it seems the curse is still here. And it's contradicting the common belief that death has no feelings, because when Himmel Street was bombed Death said that his heart broke at Liesel's grief, and he cried when he saw the death of Rudy. What I like about this is the fact that he doesn't make a big deal of his feelings, just mentions them casually like a footnote, like he's already used to ignoring them. Oh, and Max Vandenburg. I love his writing. As in seriously. If the author can make an author that writes so good, then really, there's nothing to say. And also the book uses quite simple words and sentences, and it's still able to convey so much. And of course, this is the only book I read in which I kept noting down the symbolization and the metaphors and literature things at the back of my head unconsciously. In summary, I love this book. Go read it. I will now proceed to quote like crazy. It kills me sometimes, how people die. You see, to me, for just a moment, despite all the colors that touch and grapple with what I see in this world, I will often catch an eclipse when a human dies. I've seen millions of them. I've seen more eclipses than I care to remember. I wanted to stop. To crouch down. I wanted to say. 'I'm sorry, child.' But that is not allowed. I did not crouch down. I did not speak. - Death, The Book Thief. I shall stop myself from quoting any more, lest I quote over 10% and get sued for copyright issues, or spoil the book for anyone else who reads it. I love this book. -- -- I thought everything was so whole, surrounded by warmth. Back then, I could only see what was on the surface. The things that stirred beneath those dark murky depths, I was completely unaware of. Only a long time after could I start to see the truth. The cracks and defects in the reality I once thought perfect. I wonder, this fragile reality, how long would it last? It doesn't matter. Because, long-lasting or not, we have to live it. This is reality. It was sunset. It is always sunset. Swirls of crimson and caramel danced together on the horizon. The smell of destruction lingered in the air like an unwelcome guest. There was red. The echo of violence. Scattered leaves of white, with their tattoos of black and fine robes of all colors. Smoke and ashes. Fire. A lone boy stood in the midst of the debris. With an ashen face and eyes of gold. Around him the flames ate their fill. The pages surrendered the words they had held for so long a time. In his hand, a white-hot flower blossomed. It has always been like this. They hate you when you are different. They hate you when you are the same. No matter what, they'll find a reason. Trust me. It doesn't matter at all then, does it? Except it does. It's just something everyone knows but has always been spoken of in silence. How did I not know it before? I did. It was a silent knowledge, muffled by ignorance. Perhaps ignorance would be better. Perhaps not. They both hurt when one meets the other. It doesn't matter at all then, does it? Except it does. It has to. Because that is the way it is. And no one can ask for any other. I hate this. Shadows upon shadows. Everyday I see it. And everyday I let it go on. Its brittle, false and as insubstantial as smoke. I might just crumble away. Why am I running? I'm always running. When it seems like I've found a way out, it turns out that I was just decieving myself after all. One way or another. I'm tired of running away. I don't want to stop running. To face what I'm running from. Otherwise, why would I run in the first place? It would catch me sooner or later. It's only a matter of time. It doesn't matter at all then, does it? Except it does. Because sooner and later can make a whole lot of difference. But what does it matter? Throughout everything, I'll always be the same. Why is that? Don't make me into something different. Tell me why I'm still the same. I'm content to stand aside, watching the world pass by. Letting their words and thoughts wash over me. Whenever I hear a word of love, of hate, of joy, of sadness, of anger, of bitterness, whenever I see a face among the sea of faces -- Whenever they look at me, whenever they pass me by -- They are a part of me, and I am a part of them. Without a single word exchanged. (note: I really think this is so true. It is said that we are all part of each other. As I see it, souls are made of memories. A person himself, his personality and who he is, is made of memories. It can be said that we are assembled from pieces of many other people. Whenever we look at someone in passing on the pavement, the person becomes part of our memory. We may not remember, but that moment on the pavement, that period of time in your life, however short, will always belong to them. Just as that moment of their lives will always belong to you. Some people have given you more than others. But no matter how you look at it, we all have a piece of each other.) Freakishly long post? A sign of insanity. |