The Book Thief

The Book Thief is one of those rare books that are bursting at the seams with life. It is dangerously addictive and haunting. The words are beautifully brewed and poured out-- have but a little and you will feel drunk. Stories of sunlit childhood days are not exactly rare (think Heidi, The Kite Runner) but what makes The Book Thief different is the sense of dread that pervades the most dazzlingly beautiful of moments. The story is narrated by Death and so you know how the story must end but, like the characters, you bask in the uneasy warmth and let yourself be lulled into a sense of comfort. The author, Markus Zusak, talks about the power of words-- he is not a stranger to the idea. His words carve themselves into the most resonant expressions. His words paint themselves into images of a girl, a stolen book, a library, a street, a fist-fighter, an accordionist, a boy who wants to be Jesse Owens and most importantly, the travelling shadow called Death who is as helpless, as miserable and as horrified as his victims. The Book Thief is a book that deserves to be read aloud, not only for the musical quality of its words but also for the colour that hides in its every page. Death likes to distract himself with colours, with stories and with humour. The last is present in great abundance. The humour is grim and premonitory of a dark future but it soothes nonetheless. In the end, Death finds the story of the eponymous book thief and takes it with him in all his travels. He finds the story to be a good distraction in all his hopeless voyages and by the end of the book, you can't help but agree.

Enno and Fear

So this is something that I wrote on the train.. It's not very good and more importantly, incomplete but it's something that I am quite fond of. In these times of word scarcity (for me), the occasional inspirational burst is rare and hence hugely cherished. Here goes:

          Enno vaguely remembered the day when he was born. Enno was almost five, short, wiry and had extremely dirty hands and knees. That day, like most other days, he had had nothing to do except ‘explore’. It was a game of sorts although it comprised of everything from collecting pebbles and sand to breaking into empty houses. It suited him well; he was a lonely kid. That morning, the task was to enter the house with the ‘lion on the wall.’ The house was clearly visible from Enno’s. It was the most desolate, sullen-looking house on the street. Its windows seemed to have wilted and the corners of their mouths were scaly and drooping. The house had a courtyard filled with shards of broken pots and fallen leaves. On the crumbling walls, was a melting pattern: a lion with an orb. The gates were rusty and squeaky. Enno peeked through the gaps between the iron, studying the house, coming up with a carefully structured plan to execute his day’s work. When he was satisfied with the plan, he jumped the wall and stealthily crept towards the house. He tried the front door and found that it was open. This should have bothered him, he thought years later, but it didn’t. As he entered the cold, dark hallway, a pair of hands grabbed him from behind and screamed “BOOOO!” into his ear. His heart leapt into his throat and for a second, he felt it beat its way into his mouth. Somewhere on the wall opposite him, he saw a frail, grinning face. The face flickered out the moment Enno’s heart stopped beating violently. The next second, he turned around, found himself face to face with the boy next door, socked him in the face and ran out. That was the day he was born. Enno called him Neno: an anagram of his own name. Neno was always grinning, “like the Cheshire Cat”, Enno would say. He had several bad habits, none of which seemed to bother him much. The worst of his habits was disappearing without prior notice. Sometimes, he would disappear in the middle of a conversation with Enno and Enno found this annoying, as would any other sensible person.