The book thief

the book thief

Chen, Hsiao-chueh painting

The book thief / Author:Markus Zusak This is an unforgettable story about the ability of books to feed the soul.

picture book

concept and draft

Death in the story notice the colors of the sky always, especially when he need to ‘work’.

The whole story get two lines, one is the things happened around the world, the other focus on the people in himmel street. I separate them by the composition, the story blend with the different rhythm of two lines.

First the colors.

Then the humans.That's usually how I see things.

Or at least, how I try.

People observe the colors 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.

In my line of work, I make it a point to notice them.

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.

page1,2

1942

An abridged roll call for 1942

There were certain some rounds to be made that year, from Poland to Russia to Africa and back again. You might argue that I make the rounds no matter what year it is, but sometimes the human race likes to crank things up a little.

1. The desperate Jews: their spirits in my lap as we sat on the roof, next to the steaming chimneys.

2.The Russian soldiers: taking only small amounts of ammunition, relyong on the fallen for the rest of it.

3.The soaked bodies of a French coast: beached on the shingle and sand.

page3,4

The ashen taste in mouth that defined my existence during that year.

So many humans.

So many colors.

There is air like plastic, a horizon like setting glue. There are skies manufactures by people, puncture and leaking, and there are soft, coal-colored clouds, beating like black hearts.

page5,6

Finding a newspaper was a good day.If it was a paper in which the crossword wasn't done, it was a great day.

"Crossword?"he would ask.

"Empty."

"Excellent."

The Jew would smile as he accepted the package of paper and syaryed reading in the rationed light of the basement. Often Liesel would watch him as focused on reading the paper, complete the crossword, and then started to reread it, front to back.

During the day, the basement door was left open to allow the small bay of daylight to reach him from the corridor.

She decided that he could best be summed up as a picture of pale concentraition.

Beige-colored skin. A swamp in each eye.

And he breathed like a fugitive. Deserate yet soundless. It was only his chest that give him away for something alive.

On Himmel Street, her team had trounced Rudy's 6-1, she rushed down to the basement to describe it blow by blow to Max, who put down his newspaper and intently listened and laughed with the girl.

When the story of the goal was complete, there was silence for a good few minutes, until Max looked slowly up."Would you do something for me, Liesel?"

She did not say it, but her movement clearly showed her intent to provide exactly what he wanted.

"You told me all about the goal," he said,"but I don't know what sort of day it is up there. I don't know if you scored it in the sun, or if the clouds have covered everthing. Could you go up and tell me how the weather looks?"

"The sky is blue today, Max, and there is a big long cloud, and it's stretched out, like a rope. At the end of it, the sun is like a yellow hole..."

Max, at that moment, knew that only a child could have givenhim a weather report like that.

how the same thing could be so ugly and so glorious and its words and stories so damning and brilliant