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Hardcover
978-0-375-83100-3
March 2006
$16.95
Part 1: DEATH AND CHOCOLATE
First the colors.
Then the humans.
That's usually how I see things.
Or at least, how I try.
***HERE IS A SMALL FACT ***
You are going to die.
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. Please, trust me. I most definitely can
be cheerful. I can be amiable. Agreeable. Affable. And that's only the
A's. Just don't ask me to be nice. Nice has nothing to do with me.
***Reaction to the ***
AFOREMENTIONED fact
Does this worry you?
I urge you--don't be afraid.
I'm nothing if not fair.
--Of course, an introduction.
A beginning.
Where are my manners?
I could introduce myself properly, but it's not
really necessary. You 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. Your
soul will be in my arms. A color will be perched on my shoulder. 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 I'll 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 see--the
whole spectrum. A billion 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 SMALL THEORY ***
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.
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 I've been alluding to, my one saving grace is distraction. It keeps
me sane. It helps me cope, considering the length of time I've been
performing this job. 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 decision--to make distraction my vacation. Needless to say,
I vacation in increments. In colors.
Still, it's 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.
It's the leftover humans.
The survivors.
They're the ones I can't 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. It's the story of one of those
perpetual survivors--an expert at being left behind.
It's just a small story really, about, among other things:
* A girl
* Some words
* An accordionist
* Some fanatical Germans
* A Jewish fist fighter
* And quite a lot of thievery
I saw the book thief three times.
[continue to Part 2: BESIDE THE RAILWAY LINE]
From the Hardcover edition.
Excerpted from The Book Thief byMarkus Zusak Copyright © 2006 by
Markus Zusak. Excerpted by permission of Knopf Books for Young Readers,
a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this
excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing
from the publisher.
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