No tears for the writer, no tears for the reader, said Robert Frost.
Which probably means that Markus Zusak must have kept tissue factories going during the writing of The Book Thief. I got this book after a recommendation from dovegreyreader, but it's taken me a long time to get round to it, partly because of the cover. At the end of a long day, the last person I want to curl up with in bed is death. But I think this is probably my best book of 2007. It's wonderful, it's funny, it's sweet, but god, does it make me weep. It's obviously the story, and the characters, but it's also because the old man in it, Hans Hubermann, reminds me so much of my granddad. He's even got a cellar like my granddad had, smelling of apples and coal. And I used to run to my granddad sometimes to avoid my granny's sharp tongue, just like Liesel does. So I don't want anything bad to happen to Hans, I don't want anything bad to happen to any of them, but I've not finished reading yet, and the narrator, Death himself, has already told me get prepared. I'm wading through the tissues as it is. I'm not sure I can take much more.
I'm living this book, and enjoying it, as you can probably tell. Nothing would be worse than living the lives of the characters in it though. Always on the edge waiting for a hand on their shoulder, or to be picked out of a crowd.
Two other writers who have made me cry this week are Caroline Smailes and Cathy at The New Notebook. Both have been writing about their experience of being bullied when they were growing up, and both capture what it must have felt like so exactly it makes me cold, even now I don't have to go into a school playground ever again (you may have to scroll down some of the entries on both blogs). I never bullied anyone, and was only on the danger list of being bullied a few times myself, but I did stand by once and think 'thank goodness that isn't me'. Never again.
Yours weepingly
