Katie McCauley                                               12.12.13

Topic:Book in Markus Zusak's The Book Thief

Explanation: 

Author Markus Zusak emphasizes the infatuation of books in The Book Thief to force his readers to connect and relate to why people cherish books and how powerful books are to people. Death, the narrator, never calls the book thief by her real name, Liesel Memminger, to emphasize her passion for books and what Liesel will do to obtain a book. Liesel steals books to comfort her loss that she feels without having her mother or brother and Death explains that a simple book and stealing are a way to mask her misfortune. Books represent a form of protection, sorrow, and happiness throughout The Book Thief. Liesel immediately connects with books through the loss of her brother and mother and ends up finding a way to connect to them through happiness when she meets Max Vandenburg and through protection during the bombing throughout Germany. 

Works Cited

 Zusak, Markus. The Book Thief. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2005.

Books Meant to Symbolize Sorrow

"The sound of the accordian was, in fact, also the announcement of safety. Daylight. During the day, it was impossible to dream of her brother. She would miss him and frequently cry in the tiny washroom as quietly as possible, but she was still glad to be awake. On her first night with the Hubermanns, she had hidden her last link to him--The Grave Digger's Handbook--under her mattress, and occasionally she would pull it out and hold it. Staring at the letters on the cover and touching the print inside, she had no idea what any of it was saying. The point is, it didn't really matter what that book was about. It was what it meant the was more important" (38). 

"***The Book's Meaning***

1. The last time she saw her brother.

2. The last time she saw her mother"(38).

***Some Statistical Information***

First stolen book: January 13, 1939

Second stolen book: April 20, 1940

Duration between said stolen books: 463 days (83)

The book was red, with black writing on the spine. Der Traumträger. The Dream Carrier. She thought of Max Vandenburg and his dreams. Of guilt. Surviving. Leaving his family. Fighting the Führer. She also thought of her own dream—her brother, dead on the train, and his appearance on the steps just around the corner from this very room. The book thief watched his bloodied knee from the shove of her own hand (327).  

After that, there were weeks and months, and a lot of war. She remembered her books in the moments of worst sorrow, especially the ones that were made for her and the one that saved her life. One morning, in a renewed state of shock, she even walked back down to Himmel Street to find them, but nothing was left. There was no recovery from what had happened. That would take decades; it would take a long life (546). 

Books Meant to Represent Protection

Nearing the end of the break, the tally of comments stood at nineteen. By the twentieth, she snapped. It was Schmeikl, back for more. "Come on, Liesel." He stuck the book under her nose. "Help me out, will you?

Liesel helped him out, all right (78).

It was November 3, and the floor of the train helf on to his feet. In front of him, he read from the copy of Mein Kampf. His savior, Sweat was swimming out of his hands. Fingermarks clutched the book (157). 

When the door shut, Max opened the book and examined the ticket. Stuttgart to Munich to Pasing. It left in two days, in the night, just in time to make the last connection. From there, he would walk. The map was already in his head, folded in quarters. The key was still taped to the inside cover (158). 

"For starters," he said, "I will take each and every one of your books--and I will burn them." It was callous. "I'll throw them in the stove or the fireplace." He was certainly acting like a tryant, but it was necessary. "Undertsand?" (203).

Similarly, Max Vandenburg could not withstand the basement much longer. He didn’t complain—he had no right—but he could slowly feel himself deteriorating in the cold. As it turned out, his rescue owed itself to some reading and writing, and a book called The Shoulder Shrug (213). 

Rosa released her, and for comfort, to shut out the din of the basement, Liesel opened one of her books and began to read. The book on top of the pile was The Whistler and she spoke it aloud to help her concentrate. The opening paragraph was numb in her ears (381). 

For at least twenty minutes, she handed out the story. The youngest kids were soothed by her voice, and everyone else saw visions of the whistler running from the crime scene. Liesel did not. The book thief saw only the mechanics of the words—their bodies stranded on the paper, beaten down for her to walk on. Somewhere, too, in the gaps between a period and the next capital letter, there was also Max. She remembered reading to him when he was sick. Is he in the basement? she wondered. Or is he stealing a glimpse of the sky again? (381) 

She was still clutching the book.
She was holding desperately on to the words who had saved her life (499). 

The woman quieted her. She reached into her bag and pulled out a small black book. Inside was not a story, but lined paper. “I thought if you’re not going to read any more of my books, you might like to write one instead. Your letter, it was . . .” She handed the book to Liesel with both hands. “You can certainly write. You write well.” The book was heavy, the cover matted like The Shoulder Shrug. “And please,” Ilsa Hermann advised her, “don’t punish yourself, like you said you would. Don’t be like me, Liesel.” (524) 

Books Meant to Represent Happiness

"A black book with silver writing on it came hurtling out and landed on the floor, between the tall man's feet."

***A 2 A.M. Converstation***

"Is this yours?"

"Yes, Papa."

"Do you want to read it?"

Again, "Yes, Papa."

A tired smile.

Metallic eyes, melting.

"Well, we'd better read it, then" (64).

The Germans loved to burn things. Shops, synagogues, Reichstags, houses, personal items, slain people, and of course, books. They enjoyed a good book-burnign, all right--which gave people who were partial to books the opportunity to get their hands on ccertain publications that they otherwise wouldn't have. One person who was that way inclined, as we know, was a thin-boned girl named Liesel Meminger. She may have waited 463 days, but it was worth it. At the end of an afternoon that had contained much excitement, much beautiful evil, one blood-soaked ankle, and a slap from a trusted hand, Liesel Meminger attained her second success story. The Shoulder Shrug. It was a blue book with red writing engraved on the cover, and there was a small picture of a cuckoo bird under the title, also red. When she looked back, Liesel was not ashamed to have stolen it. On the contrary, it was pride that more resembled that small pool of felt something in her stomach. And it was anger and dark hatred that had fueled her desire to steal it. In fact, on April 20--the Führer's birthday--when she snatched that book from beneath a steamin heap of ashes, Liesel was a girl made of darkness (84). 

"Papa?"

He made only a noise, somewhere in his throat. 

"Are you awake, Papa?"

"Fa."

Up on one elbow. "Can we finish the book, please?"

There was a long breath, the scratchery of hand on whiskers, and then the light. He opened the book and began. "'Chapter Twelve: Respecting the Graveyard'" (86).

When the book closed, they shared a sideways glance. Papa spoke.

"We made it, huh?"

Liesel, half-wrapped in blanket, studied the black book in her hand and its silver lettering. She nodded, dry-mouthed and early-morning tiredness. It was one of those moments of perfect tiredness, of having conquered not only the work at hand, but the night who had blocked the way (87). 

She said it out loud, the words distributed into a room that was full of cold air and books. Books everywhere! Each wall was armed with overcorwded yet immaculate shelving. It was barely possible to see the paintwork. There were all different styles and sizes of lettering on the spines of the black, the red, the gray, the every-colored books. It was one of the most beautiful things Liesel Meminger had ever seen.

With wonder, she smiled. 

That such a room existed (134)!

The Shoulder Shrug, she decided, was excellent. Each night, when she calmed herself from her nightmare, she was soon pleased that she was awake and able to read. "A few pages?" Papa asked her, and Liesel would nod. Sometimes they would complete a chapter the next afternoon, down in the basement (143).

Also, there was the mayor’s wife, and reading in her husband’s library. It was cold in there now, colder with every visit, but still Liesel could not stay away. She would choose a handful of books and read small segments of each, until one afternoon, she found one she could not put down. It was called The Whistler. She was originally drawn to it because of her sporadic sightings of the whistler of Himmel Street— Pfiffikus. There was the memory of him bent over in his coat and his appearance at the bonfire on the Führer’s birthday (213). 

In February 1941, for her twelfth birthday, Liesel received another used book, and she was grateful. It was called The Mud Men and was about a very strange father and son. She hugged her mama and papa, while Max stood uncomfortably in the corner (221). 

After school, Rudy and Liesel stopped in at Alex Steiner’s shop, and as they walked home, they saw Rudy’s old friend Franz Deutscher coming around the corner. Liesel, as was her habit these days, was carrying The Whistler. She liked to feel it in her hand. Either the smooth spine or the rough edges of paper. It was she who saw him first (300). 

Typically, many of the titles tempted her, but after a good minute or two in the room, she settled for A Song in the Dark, most likely because the book was green, and she did not yet own a book of that color. The engraved writing on the cover was white, and there was a small insignia of a flute between the title and the name of the author. She climbed with it from the window, saying thanks on her way out (366).