The Book Thief

Grandgirl was right.

“I marvel and marvel at the writing,” I emailed.

“How far through are you?” she asked.

“Papa just found the Gravedigger’s Handbook when he pulled off the wet bedsheets.”

“Woah that’s pretty far,” she replied. “Is it better than the one about the dogs?”

“Doesn’t compare,” I wrote back. “I can barely contain myself.”

The words, the words. The awful awful story. Here’s a bit from a few pages in—

The last time I saw her was red. The sky was like soup, boiling and stirring. In some places, it was burned. There were black crumbs and pepper, streaked across the redness.

And then, next page—

Yes, the sky was now a devastating, home-cooked red. The small German town had been flung apart one more time. Snowflakes of ash fell so lovelily you were tempted to stretch out your tongue to catch them, taste them. Only, they would have scorched your lips. They would have cooked your mouth.

I’m not halfway through, yet. But I know, now, whose bomb-hit lips the thief kissed, alive amid all the bodies around her flattened and glued to the street.