Task 39

Excerpt 4 – “The Book Thief” by Markus Zusak
I would like to begin my analysis by praising Mr. Zusak for his marvellously beautiful piece on the tabooed topic of death. There is something magical about his writing; is it the intimate way he converses with the reader (When I started reading, Markus painted a picture in my mind of two men lounging outside a café, drinking coffee and casually discussing death as if it were politics; I personally think it is rare to have such an abstract scene conjured where there aren’t obvious protagonists) or is it the pleasant mixture of philosophy and wit, with a distinct dash of humour? He hasn’t added too much absent - mindedness, which I’m sure would dilute the intended seriousness of his work. This would therefore result in a downgrade to its excellence. Another amazing factor of his writing is the amount we find out about this persona he is portraying: God may be all – powerful, but he almost looks down at us humans with little appraise and has hints of pompousness and vanity that dominate his character. It isn’t too perceivable that the protagonist is God, yet when you understand the essence of Markus' thinking, you appreciate the fact that you were told with the subtleness it deserves. Overall, I feel it is an exceptional extract with such an unpredictable plot you are left craving more of Zusak’s originality and charm!

The End: A Lily Who Once Lived
“Go and sit down, Millie, Oliver. And be quiet. The service is about to start.”
“Mummy, can we have a snowball fight outside?”
“Later. When we get home.”
Alicia turned around; called by the infancy and innocence in their voices and the maternal happiness of a young mother. Alicia watched as a scene shoved into the very back of her mind came alive again; replayed right in front of her eyes. The woman, pushing a pram, ushered her two children over to where Alicia was sitting in her pew.
“Take your coats off, darlings.” Her smile said it all. Elation sealed into every minuscule line on her lips.
Mothers take these precious moments for granted. The future is something we never think about. It’s the present that matters. You don’t think about how many more winters you will live to see with your loved one. Or how many more photos of you together will be treasured in the family photo album. It’s only until the days expire, it’s only until the clock strikes that very second, it’s only until life’s last links clasp hand – in - hand that the future for you and your family is your sole concern. Thinking back sixteen years ago, when she was only four, I wonder if my eyes glowed with pride when she found her first ladybird in the garden. I wonder if I laughed when she anatomised that slice of Mr. Kipling’s Battenberg cake. Of course I did. I remember she carefully took off the thick layer of marzipan, separated the pink and yellow dyed sponge cuboids and excavated the thin coating of apricot jam; licking her fingers contentedly as a result. I then walked into the kitchen. She stared; looking mischievous, yet coaxing me to believe that she wasn’t the perpetrator of the crime. The big tell - tale sign was the snowfall of sugar sprinkled on her arms. We both ended up chuckling together in unison. She was an angel from up above: an angel called early to the seraphic infinity of the heavens.
I also wonder if Grace, my beautiful, irreplaceable Grace, giggled at the sight of her very own snow angel. And did she sneeze as a snowball melted into her French rose mittens? Of course she did. She was like any four – year old. Audacious and cheeky. Years had rolled by and she had blossomed into a young adult. Like a lily. Grace used to love lilies. Right up until that the day she disappeared. She didn’t want to go missing. She didn’t have a choice. She was murdered. That’s why I am here today. To pray that Grace and our family are given justice. He still roams free, living. While we are imprisoned in a limbo of unanswered questions. While my daughter’s body is no where to be found. All I want to do is lay flowers on her grave, but how can I when I have no idea where her grave is? She didn’t deserve to be treated like that. Like an animal.
Alicia looked up from her current position of staring down at her hands. She gazed at the church hall: holly and tinsel and mistletoe. Blinding slashes of gold and red and green; all concocting a feeling of festive spirit. Families were preparing for the church service and choirs were assembling themselves in an orderly fashion; a small group of children were briefly rehearsing their hymns and prayers. A young woman walked past Alicia, dressed in the customary church attire: a long black skirt and a lilac blouse. Her chestnut brown hair was squashed in a tight bun. Alicia intuitively shot up out of her pew, stumbling over the mother’s pram. Her heart was galloping; legs lifeless but able to run that one step closer.
It’s her. She’s not –
Alicia clamped her hand down on the woman’s shoulder. She turned around; bewildered.
“Oh, I’m, um, really sorry. I thought you were someone else, I -”
“Are you alright?”
Alicia broke down crying. A year’s worth of torment came spilling out of her eyes. Almost like a milk bottle left out in the cold for days on end. When milk solidifies, its capacity expands and it yearns to be liberated. One day or another, it will explode; its contents as easy to read as an open book.
“What’s wrong?” She gently put her arm around Alicia.
“Nothing. I’m fine!” she shouted. She pushed her out of her way and ran out of the chapel, away from the gossiping of the church - goers, their ears eagerly attentive to get the inside story; away from the stiff upper - lipped woman who resent people "airing their dirty laundry" in public. Once outside, Alicia fell onto the blanket of snow, hands hiding her face, knees saturated with melted ice.
She knew Grace was gone. She knew the truth. She laid on the cold snow, succumbing to the desperate need to cry.
It's time to let go. I will never again have her in my arms. But it isn't over yet. I'm going to put that Satan in prison if it is the last thing I do. I'm going to give Grace what she deserves: justice. Whatever it takes, blood, sweat or tears - I'm doing this for my daughter. Grace - the lily who once lived. . .