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I am in all truthfulness attempting to be cheerful about this whole topic, though most people find themselves hindered in believing me, no matter my protestations. DON’T MISS BRIDGE OF CLAY, MARKUS ZUSAK’S FIRST NOVEL SINCE THE BOOK THIEF. The extraordinary #1 New York Times bestseller that is now a major motion picture, Markus Zusak's unforgettable story is about the ability of books to feed the soul. Markus Zusak is the international. This content was uploaded by our users and we assume good faith they have the permission to share this book. The Dream Thief (The Drakon, Book 2).

The Book Thief Online

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The Book Thief - Free download as PDF File .pdf), Text File .txt) or read online for free. Enjoy this sneak peek at Markus Zusak's Printz Honor Book, THE BOOK . DON'T MISS BRIDGE OF CLAY, MARKUS ZUSAK'S FIRST NOVEL SINCE THE BOOK THIEF. This 10th-anniversary edition of the extraordinary. You can download The Book Thief in PDF Format: The Book Thief PDF LINK If you're unfamiliar with DuckDuckGo, we are an Internet privacy.

It's not a bad life to be paid to make things up. Believing it is the hard part," he says. One of his favorite books has always been What's Eating Gilbert Grape by Peter Hedges, since it taught him that great characters lead to great stories and even greater books. When asked about his inspiration for The Book Thief, Zusak says that his parents told him and his siblings stories about growing up in Germany and Austria, both during and after World War II.

Hans and Rosa Hubermann take her in and become instrumental in her life. Hans develops a fatherly relationship with his foster daughter and teaches her to read. Rosa also dearly loves Liesel, despite swearing at her and being strict with her. Zusak notes that, as he was growing up, he read books that featured no parents or portrayed them in a negative light. However, in the first book he had published, the parents were hardworking and positive influences.

I believed it," he says. Hans and Rosa Hubermann were originally based on his mother's foster parents, but Zusak says that as he wrote the story, the two characters turned into their own people. The protagonist, Liesel, goes on in the story to steal books hence the fitting title. I found it interesting that Zusak chose to make her steal books in particular. Death: Shut up, Book Thief. Rudy: Hello everyone.

Have you ever seen a lemon? That's what my hair looks like.

Death: Here is a little information you should know: this books is filled with many interesting facts. Very relevant and everything. We shall kick off with the definition from the dictionary of the word lemon. Reader: The fuck? Death: A lemon is a vegetable that is very yellow and acid. That's what the Book Thief's friend's hair looks like. Reader: That's not a very good description. That's how I picture Rudy now. Death: Reader, are you crying yet? Where are my manners? I could introduce myself properly, but its not really necessary.

Y ou will know me well enough and soon enough, depending on a diverse range of variables. It suffices to say that at some point in time, I will be standing over you, as genially as possible. Y soul will be in my arms. I will carry you gently away. At that moment, you will be lying there I rarely find people standing up. You will be caked in your own body. There might be a discovery; a scream will dribble down the air.

The only sound Ill hear after that will be my own breathing, and the sound of the smell, of my footsteps. The question is, what color will everything be at that moment when I come for you?

What will the sky be saying? Personally, I like a chocolate-colored sky. Dark, dark chocolate. People say it suits me. I do, however, try to enjoy every color I seethe whole spectrum. Abillion or so flavors, none of them quite the same, and a sky to slowly suck on.

It takes the edge off the stress. It helps me relax. A single hour can consist of thousands of different colors. Waxy yellows, cloud-spat blues. Murky darknesses. In my line of work, I make it a point to notice them. As Ive been alluding to, my one saving grace is distraction. It keeps me sane.

It helps me cope, considering the length of time Ive been. The trouble is, who could ever replace me? Who could step in while I take a break in your stock-standard resort-style vacation destination, whether it be tropical or of the ski trip variety?

The answer, of course, is nobody, which has prompted me to make a conscious, deliberate decisionto make distraction my vacation. Needless to say, I vacation in increments.

In colors. Still, its possible that you might be asking, why does he even need a vacation? What does he need distraction from? Which brings me to my next point. Its the leftover humans. The survivors. Theyre the ones I cant stand to look at, although on many occasions I still fail. I deliberately seek out the colors to keep my mind off them, but now and then, I witness the ones who are left behind, crumbling among the jigsaw puzzle of realization, despair, and surprise.

They have punctured hearts. They have beaten lungs. Which in turn brings me to the subject I am telling you about tonight, or today, or whatever the hour and color. Its the story of one of those perpetual survivorsan expert at being left behind. Its just a small story really, about, among other things: First up is something white. Of the blinding kind. Some of you are most likely thinking that white is not really a color and all of that tired sort of nonsense. Well, Im here to tell you that it is.

White is without question a color, and personally, I dont think you want to argue with me. I am all bluster I am not violent. I am not malicious.

I am a result. Yes, it was white. It felt as though the whole globe was dressed in snow. Like it had pulled it on, the way you pull on a sweater. Next to the train line, footprints were sunken to their shins.

The Book Thief

Trees wore blankets of ice. As you might expect, someone had died. They couldnt just leave him on the ground. For now, it wasnt such a problem, but very soon, the track ahead would be cleared and the train would need to move on.

There were two guards. There was one mother and her daughter. One corpse. The mother, the girl, and the corpse remained stubborn and silent. Well, what else do you want me to do? The guards were tall and short. The tall one always spoke first, though he was not in charge. He looked at the smaller, rounder one.

The one with the juicy red face. Well, was the response, we cant just leave them like this, can we? The tall one was losing patience. Why not? And the smaller one damn near exploded.

The Book Thief (Anniversary Edition)

He looked up at the tall ones chin and cried, Spinnst du?! Are you stupid?! The abhorrence on his cheeks was growing thicker by the moment. His skin widened. Come on, he said, traipsing over the snow. Well carry all three of them back on if we have to. Well notify the next stop. As for me, I had already made the most elementary of mistakes.

I cant explain to you the severity of my self-disappointment. Originally, Id done everything right: I studied the blinding, white-snow sky who stood at the window of the moving train. I practically inhaled it, but still, I wavered. I buckledI became interested. In the girl. Curiosity got the better of me, and I resigned myself to stay as long as my schedule allowed, and I watched.

Twenty-three minutes later, when the train was stopped, I climbed out with them. A small soul was in my arms. I stood a little to the right. The dynamic train guard duo made their way back to the mother, the girl, and the small male corpse. I clearly remember that my breath was loud that day.

Im surprised the guards didnt notice me as they walked by. The world was sagging now, under the weight of all that snow. Perhaps ten meters to my left, the pale, empty-stomached girl was standing, frost-stricken.

Her mouth jittered. Her cold arms were folded. Tears were frozen to the book thief s face. Next is a signature black, to show the poles of my versatility, if you like. It was the darkest moment before the dawn. This time, I had come for a man of perhaps twenty-four years of age.

It was a beautiful thing in some ways.

Logging out…

The plane was still coughing. Smoke was leaking from both its lungs. When it crashed, three deep gashes were made in the earth.

Its wings were now sawn-off arms. No more flapping. Not for this metallic little bird. I rush, and some people cling longer to life than expected. A boy arrived first, with cluttered breath and what appeared to be a toolbox.

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With great trepidation, he approached the cockpit and watched the pilot, gauging if he was alive, at which point, he still was. The book thief arrived perhaps thirty seconds later.

Years had passed, but I recognized her. She was panting. From the toolbox, the boy took out, of all things, a teddy bear. He reached in through the torn windshield and placed it on the pilots chest. The smiling bear sat huddled among the crowded wreckage of the man and the blood.

A few minutes later, I took my chance. The time was right. I walked in, loosened his soul, and carried it gently away. All that was left was the body, the dwindling smell of smoke, and the smiling teddy bear. As the crowd arrived in full, things, of course, had changed. The horizon was beginning to charcoal. What was left of the blackness above was nothing now but a scribble, and disappearing fast. The man, in comparison, was the color of bone.

Skeleton-colored skin. A ruffled uniform. His eyes were cold and brownlike coffee stainsand the last scrawl from above formed what, to me, appeared an odd, yet familiar, shape. A signature.

The crowd did what crowds do. As I made my way through, each person stood and played with the quietness of it. It was a small concoction of disjointed hand movements, muffled sentences, and mute, self-conscious turns. When I glanced back at the plane, the pilots open mouth appeared to be smiling. A final dirty joke. Another human punch line. He remained shrouded in his uniform as the graying light armwrestled the sky. As with many of the others, when I began my journey away, there seemed a quick shadow again, a final moment of eclipsethe recognition of another soul gone.

You see, to me, for just a moment, despite all of the colors that touch and grapple with what I see in this world, I will often catch an eclipse when a human dies. Ive seen millions of them. Ive seen more eclipses than I care to remember. 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.

Earlier, kids had been playing hopscotch there, on the street that looked like oil-stained pages. When I arrived, I could still hear the echoes. The feet tapping the road. The children-voices laughing, and the smiles like salt, but decaying fast. Then, bombs. This time, everything was too late. The sirens. The cuckoo shrieks in the radio. All too late. Within minutes, mounds of concrete and earth were stacked and piled.

The streets were ruptured veins. Blood streamed till it was dried on the road, and the bodies were stuck there, like driftwood after the flood. They were glued down, every last one of them.

The Book Thief (Anniversary Edition)

A packet of souls. Was it fate? Is that what glued them down like that? Of course not. Lets not be stupid. It probably had more to do with the hurled bombs, thrown down by humans hiding in the clouds. 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.He's found that if he plans for a chapter to be in part one or two, it ends up being in a completely different part.

Although it isn't my usual type of book, I found it to be a beautiful story. What's the second information? A gang of tears trudged from her eyes as she held on and refused to go inside. I think her mother knew this quite well. Well, who am I kidding.

Okay, okay. Murky darkness.

JAZMINE from Minnesota
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