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. . .

The End

Task 1- From Big Sur

I chose Big Sur as i felt it engaged the reader and made them think. This is shown by the main characters own confusion ("...all's well again.i still cant understand it"). I also like the way Kerouac keeps refering to things being golden which encapsulates the thoughts of the characters feelings and optimism. And finally I think the way in which we are always told the characters thoughts and feelings gives us a sense of understanding as to how they think and the reasons behind what they think.

Task 2
It was Valentines day and i had decided to treat my wife to breakfast in bed. Jill hadn't been well recently and i felt now was the perfect time to treat her. I had woken early in order to prepare this, yet somehow the toast was still burnt and there was no milk. Regardless, a collection of cereals and several cartons of fruit juice now meant I had something which resembled a breakfast.

The distinctive smell and brilliant white walls greeted me as I reached the top of the stairs, and gazed into the room infront of me. All appeared calm, yet the breeze still lingered and rippled through my hair as I stood there, steadying my anxiety with a reassuring smile before opening the door. the bed, table I placed the tray of food on the end of her bed before resuming my position beside her, it was then i realised I had forgotten the tea. Leaning over, I kissed her cheek. Her face felt cold, yet i thought nothing of it at the time and returned to the kitchen without a second though. The kettle had just began to howl when a loud scream erupted. I dropped the mug and ran several steps up at a time when nurses from every ward began to scurry into a room, like mice fleeing a deranged woman carrying a mop. When I reached the top I saw them surrounding a lifless body as though mourners at a funeral. It was Jill. My eyes suddenly began to swell as water slowly leaked from them I could no longer hear the crys or smell the disenfectent. My wife was gone. What had meant to be a routine check up was now the end; the end of our marriage, the end of my wife and the end of me. A white screen was now projected in my mind and i suddenly felt the roller-coaster affect as my body tumbled backwards...

When i was told, we would have to live at the hospital while my wife recieved her chemotherapy i never expected that it would be where we would both die for it symbolized hope. Yet clearly the strain of the treatment had been to much for her, and the shock of her death to much for me. It seemed cupid had struck his bow of love directly at my heart as I now had my final wish: to be with my wife. My heart attack was quick and as for the blood from my fall down the stairs, i think some Vanish should get rid of that.

The End

Part 1-A Concise Chinese-English Dictionary For Lovers

I found this extract quite funny. I liked the way Xiaolu Guo has written this piece. Hi style of writing is quite amusing and makes you want to read more. I think the way Xiaolu Guo has added spelling mistakes really gives us the feeling that the character does not know English. I also liked the way how he has taken a perfectly normal situation and turned it into something funny. This extract was fun to read.


The End...

I stared at the man who would snatch my life away from me. The man who thought he had the right to go against god and do as he pleased. The very creature who also killed my friend 5 minutes ago. He smiled a vile, crooked smile. “Where is the box?” he asked. He had asked this very same question before he killed my friend. I hesitated then answered, “I will never tell a filthy scum like you! Never do you hear me? I’d rather die!” My voice came out in a mumbled scream. The man laughed and then spoke again, “Oh come on sweet pea. It would be such a waste to kill a beautiful little thing like you. Go on tell me where the box is.” I stared at him with blatant disgust. How could he say such a thing?

My silence got the better of him. “Just tell me where the damn box is or I’ll shoot!” he shouted. I kept quiet. The other men had huge grins glued to their faces. I suppose it was because I was going to die and they sensed my fear. Fear was the key to keeping them happy, that and whatever else they wanted. My mind was in two places, indecision. I could tell them where the box was and live or I could not tell them and definitely die. If I did tell them where it was, innocent people would die. Die because of me.

I closed my eyes and drew in a deep breath. “I will not tell you. I will never tell you. I am the only surviving person who knows where it is, and if you do not kill me I will,” I said slowly and clearly. The time ticked on, and then he finally answered coldly, “Fine.” With that, he drew out his gun. I guessed that if he was not going to get what he wanted, then he would kill me himself out of pure anger. I closed my eyes once again. The last thing I heard was the bullet pierce through my heart. I saw my vision blur then turn black. I felt myself leaving my body, felt the pain from each bullet. I saw my life flash before my eyes. Then I knew I was dead. This was the end.

Task 39; The End

Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy

McCarthy’s syntax is what stood out for me, because although he is narrating a ‘predawn dark’ and ‘sinister’ ‘world’, he does so effortlessly, like breathing. Each sentence varies in length to give a flare to his writing: ‘see the child’ is a fantastic opening, three words that can open so many doors to so many possibilities, without the need of anything complex. The excerpt is written to seem like a long list of description rather than a narrative piece of prose, which brings to it a unique bluntness that escalates the empathy we feel for this ‘thin’ ‘child’. The strong emotive language he uses, ‘oddly innocent’ with a ‘shadowed agony’, helps to create the idea of a ‘bleeding’ ‘mankind’; one that this young boy has had to cope with over ‘fourteen years’ (‘night of your birth’, ‘a year later’, ‘forty two days’) – time also helps to paint this ‘predawn dark’.
As always, simplicity can be the key and McCarthy demonstrates a mixture of it and the above devices to create a special style of storytelling.

The End

There is nothing left. Just a shell. Just an empty phlegmatic shell. I look into his eyes and they are frozen; caught up in the bloody blaze of 1971. He sits there, all day. So long has he been staring that his eyes are now grey like the panes of my windows. My father was once a brave man. Now he is a lost one. He does not breathe. He does not move. He does not eat. Just sits. Sits like he sat in the throne aboard the flying castle. His beautiful flying castle. Twenty years was not enough to shake away the shock. I still bathe him. I still change him. Still I can not wake him up from his around the clock nightmare. When he sleeps, his eyes will dart from left to right in a constant jive. He is avoiding the incoming fire in his dreams. He will die soon, in his head. The end will come when he gets shot.

I have tried. Tried to speak to him, talk into the ears that are muffled with gunfire, tried to revive the previous sense that he's misplaced, tried to feed him, help him, wake him up and find my brilliant father in that hollow emptiness. Nothing. Now he is just a body, an old body. He is trapped in Vietnam, unable to reopen the portal.

I found him last night. Shaking uncontrollably.
I’m in the hospital now. Shaking uncontrollably.

The doctor is nice. He says that he will help him. I do not believe that he can. My clothes are two days old. My hair is greasy and unwashed. My mind is with my father who can not stop shaking his right arm. He is still empty. Like the inside of a termite infested tree trunk. The doctor has given him drugs to make him sleep. He will wake up screaming for his General.
I am almost his shade of sugar white. I dare not close my eyes in case my father trips over death’s foot and is not able to get up again. I dare not imagine what my mother would say, her black onyx hair on fire like orange topaz.

I dare not imagine what will happen to my father when he finally falls out of his flying castle.

Task 39 - The End

I chose excerpt 4 because I thought it was very original and with the first three sentences it grabs the reader’s attention. “First the colors, then the humans,” the reader starts thinking about why the human is next and wants to read on to find out. I really love the way how the author is direct to its reader, “you will know me well enough,” it gives the reader little clues throughout the story. I like the way in which the author keeps a focus on the ‘colors’ and makes it more important than anything else, “I make it a point to notice them.” “Who could ever replace me,” I like the way in which Zusak tries to get the reader involve in the story by making them think with the questions, “what does he need a distraction from?”


Would you have taken the step?

It wasn’t my idea, but do I still take the blame? The floor had a soft texture but I still felt the roughness digging slowly into my feet. I stood there. The colour on the wall absorbed the silence that was in the room. I could still sense it.

One step then another but the second falls deeper. The light in the room made a beautiful friendship with the silence that was present. They made the perfect bond. Wouldn’t you agree with me? Or perhaps you wouldn’t know. You weren’t the one standing there and you weren’t the one who took the step.

I made the move but don’t be mad at me, please don’t. One step will naturally follow into another one. Once you have chosen to be the follower then the word ‘regret’ shouldn’t be allowed to be yours anymore. You would lose the right to ever move your lips in the form of that word.

I could see it, it weren’t too far away. I didn’t decide the next step; that happened on its own, completely, will you trust me? He once did.

Being normal, that word didn’t have an existence in my mind; I nearly forgot the meaning of it. There is no end to normal, it only has beginnings. You would see yourself at the beginning once you reached the last step, the final step.

Red became the colour of the wall and the voice of the silence; that was my last view of the room.

Task 39

A Concise Chinese-English Dictionary For Lovers by Xiaolu Guo:
This text was incredibly hilarious. I absolutely loved the way the writer made the characters personal mistakes really quite amusing. I also liked the way the writer added deliberate spelling mistakes, to really show that the characters first language is not English. I think this is a perfect way to start a story because it instantly catches the reader’s attention and makes them want to read more. I thought that it used the show and not tell technique incredibly well! Another technique used was to give less description but to keep it short, sophisticated and funny. The author also kept it to the point which didn’t make the story drag on. The writer didn’t keep suspense but it did keep me interested in a way that I wanted to know more about the character. I loved this excerpt it kept me entertained through-out!!! It was marvellously funny!

The Beginning
You start the competition by speedily swimming through the blood stream, competing with the millions of contenders. If victorious, you will win yourself life. You are in the lead. Life is in sight. A few more strokes and you will make it, you will win yourself life. You have to do it; you’ve made it so far, if you give up now, you will be losing a chance of existence. You have to make it to that finish line. You have been given this chance, don’t lose it.
You cross the finish line. Victory. Out four hundred million, you made it, you came out triumphant. That is an achievement in its self. In return you will be given the gift of life. You l find yourself in a luxurious hotel called the womb. You have found what is to be your home. This is where you are to eat, grow and become a human; this will be where you will stay for 9 months. But this is only the beginning, who knows where life will take you…

The End
You’re looking straight at death. Your eyes are pinned on death. You are looking at a pistol, a pistol aimed to eradicate you. You are standing completely motionless in this lonesome London night as if your feet were nailed down to the ground. In your heavy mind, you are constantly going over how you are going to be shot, “will they aim to my head and detonate my brain or will they cut corners and aim for my heart and snatch my existence.” Yet your heart feels fear, it’s pumping faster and faster, you begin to go tenser and tenser. Your eyes deep blue portrays an immense amount of panic. You never thought this is how you were to die.

The vile crook asks the same question you’ve heard 10 times in the longest 10 minutes of your life, “Give me your money, NOW, or I’ll blow up your brains.” You hesitantly take out your phone and place it on his grim, grubby hands. But that doesn’t seem enough, because now he’s declaring with his strong cockney drawl “Is that it!!! Is that all you have got to give! Well it’s not good enough.”

He smiles, Showing his crooked yellow teeth. You know what’s about to happen. He pulls the trigger. You fall to the ground. Everything starts to become unclear. You begin to feel weak as if life was being seized from you, as if life was a meaningless substance and it was being strained away. You see a hundred eyes, all fascinated by you. You stay sprawled on this cold damp concrete. Your heart feels nothing anymore; it’s pumping slower and slower. Your eyes deep blue but are now portraying an immense amount of pain and misery. Everything becomes black. You feel nothing anymore. You can only hear a distort sound of speaking; the sound of cars, you can hear sirens and most of all you hear the echoing BANG of the shot.
Your Sight turns from black to white to red to white and back to black….
All your senses have faded: Absolutely vanished.
You are dead.
This is where life took you. This is the end.

Part One: from Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy

This extract intrigued me the most because it uses strong emotion to show what the character is feeling, what he is wearing and describing the way he lives. I think the author used some powerful vocabulary to attract the reader e.g. 'See the child. He is pale and thin, he wears a thin and ragged linen shirt. He stokes the scullery fire. Outside lie dark turned fields with rags of snow and darker woods beyond that harbor yet a few last wolves'. In some parts it’s quite simple, but it gets straight to the point. I like the way the author suddenly gets deep into the story and starts using complex sentences and words to create tension. Another thing which occurred to me was that in the sentence: The mother dead these fourteen years did incubate in her own bosom the creature who would carry her off. The father never speaks her name; the child does not know it. He has a sister in this world that he will not see again. He watches, pale and unwashed. He can neither read nor write and in him broods already a taste for mindless violence. All history present in that visage, the child the father of the man.

I personally think that this paragraph hit me the most, with the emotion of sadness, he wrote: The mother dead these fourteen years did incubate in her own bosom the creature who would carry her off. The father never speaks her name; the child does not know it. I thought this part was quite depressing because, the child didn’t even recognise his mother’s name.

THE END..


It was the night I could never forget. Never will. The daunting moment that ripped my family right apart, but in a way brought me closer to realising that you only have one life, and one chance.

It all began, whilst I and my mother were trying out some new clothes that we had bought- as you know girls do adore shopping. Anyway it was then that I suddenly realised, today I was supposed to meet up with my dad but on second thoughts I rather stay with my mum. All afternoon we messed around, until the door bell rung, I thought it was probably my dad going on and on about me going round his place. No. Completely wrong. Right there and then a drunken man armed with a gun pointing at my mother’s head. Luckily before he could shoot I threw a punch right where it hurts, yes bull’s-eye.

The panic began to fill me, my heart thumping. We looked at each other and just gradually started laughing.

The day drew to an end; the picturesque colours of the sky are still appearing as the sun goes down. Tucked in bed I felt rather stout, yet still frightened. Pitch black in the night, the sound of the creaking had alarmed me, sweat was pouring down my pale white face as I had no idea of what I was about to see.

My mum. She had left a note saying that she was held captive and that I should go to my dad’s and forget about her. Who does she think I am? So I set off following the trail of grubby boots.

Finally I had reached the destination. I took a glimpse of the torture she was set to face- not this time.
Grabbing on to the railings I set of to rescue her, little did they know I was right at the back of them.

Unfortunately, the man in front of me was armed also, and I got caught. The tears dripping from my mum’s rosy cheeks made me wonder if we were going to die.

Since I’m the brain box of the family I’d always have a plan B. Carrying a knife with me isn’t that good but hey at least it will help you in this situation. At first I struggled to get untangled but in the end I released myself. The good thing was that the men were busy smoking, drinking to really care. The shock entered my mum when she felt her hands untangling but when she saw my reassuring face she calmed down.

As soon as we tried to escape a bullet was fired to the ground which startled me, and then out of the smoke came the men pointing the gun now directly at me.

Trapped. It was then that I realised that it was the end for me but surprisingly when he fired the bullet I didn’t feel a thing. In front of my watering eyes lay my mum she took the bullet for me, I knew this was.....