For the love of the Game

How fascinating it would be to peek in to a diary of a young girl? How painful it would be if the said diary happened to be written during the time of Second World War? And oh, by the way the girl is not a Jew. And to top it all up, the narrator is a presence that has haunted all the life-forms ever since the life started – the Death. All stories about WW2 are stories of death, but this one is narrated by the Death himself (now I don’t suppose feminists would insist that here also I add “or herself”).

Too much beating around the bush (or should I say Obama now?). The title is “The Book thief”.
And what a book it is. A painting of vibrant colors of innocence and adolescence on dark background full of hatred, bigotry and violence. The novel is definitely not first of its kind nor it is singular in terms of the emotions it conveys. But I somehow am able to identify with the protagonist because I also steal for my love of words and books. Though I have as yet not resorted to stealing books, I steal time. And I understand that unyielding force that makes you resort to stealing, though the motivations of the protagonists might not have been the same thorughout the book.

The book captures the humour in death and tragedy of life. It portrays thieves who love and rulers who hate. It has mud-splattered atletes and broken musical instruments.

The book reeks of death, smells of life and talks about a girl that has survived both.

Read it. It's worth it.