I am haunted by humans.
I've just finished reading The Book Thief.
I know it sounds like a cliché, but I feel like Markus Zusak has ripped out my heart. My chest aches. I haven't been so weepy at a book for a long time. It is absolutely brilliant and I don't think I'll read anything like it again. It's vivid and detailed and realistic and lyrical and emotional and angry. You're left truly believing these characters are real, and in the cases of particular ones, you really mourn what they lose and celebrate what they win, or simply what they're left behind with.
Gah.
I'd reccommend it to anyone. Have tissues ready for the latter half, though. I surprised myself by crying; I think the last book I cried at was Philip Pullman's The Shadow in the North when Frederick died. Er, spoiler. Not that it matters particularly.
More on it another time; it deserves a full review.
People observe the colours of a day only at its beginnings and ends, but to me it's quite clear that a day merges through a multitude of shades and intonations, with each passing moment. A single hour can consist of thousands of different colours. Waxy yellows, cloud-spat blues. Murky darknesses. In my line of work, I make it a point to notice them.
Got to go. The lump in my throat from the ending is back. Damn you, Zusak.
I know it sounds like a cliché, but I feel like Markus Zusak has ripped out my heart. My chest aches. I haven't been so weepy at a book for a long time. It is absolutely brilliant and I don't think I'll read anything like it again. It's vivid and detailed and realistic and lyrical and emotional and angry. You're left truly believing these characters are real, and in the cases of particular ones, you really mourn what they lose and celebrate what they win, or simply what they're left behind with.
Gah.
I'd reccommend it to anyone. Have tissues ready for the latter half, though. I surprised myself by crying; I think the last book I cried at was Philip Pullman's The Shadow in the North when Frederick died. Er, spoiler. Not that it matters particularly.
More on it another time; it deserves a full review.
People observe the colours of a day only at its beginnings and ends, but to me it's quite clear that a day merges through a multitude of shades and intonations, with each passing moment. A single hour can consist of thousands of different colours. Waxy yellows, cloud-spat blues. Murky darknesses. In my line of work, I make it a point to notice them.
Got to go. The lump in my throat from the ending is back. Damn you, Zusak.