Book love

Today a colleague gave me a book I have been waiting a while to read. "The Book Thief" by Marcus Zusak (Picador, Sydney. 2005).

He has long been a fave author of mine - he writes wonderfully for the teenage boy market.
This is his adult novel. It is recent and apparently relies on his families memories of Nazi Germany.

It is wonderful.

I often brace myself before reading books on hefty topics. But it wasn't a 'roller coaster' and, thank god, it didn't seek to be at all emotionally taxing. Instead he writes with charm and grace, and with an affection for not only the characters but also for the words themselves.
And oh, I don't think anyone has written a book with Death as the narrator in as quite as wonderful a fashion before.

I started the first chapter in my lunch break, started the 2nd chapter on the trip home from work, and just finished the 584th page tonight.
I read through my flatmate going off to work, through dinner, through a visit from my boyfriend, through a weirdo skulking around the house next door, through mozzies and humidity and doggy smells and cicada sounds and sirens.

And at the end I let my head fall back and sobbed quietly for some time.