The Book Thief, by Markus Zusak

I just finished it. The writing style perplexed me at times, though unquestionably remarkable. Allow me to draw a parallel: Here in San Antonio, winter delves into the warmth of our natural climate, confusing the plants, leaving trees barren except for the rebellious branches that provide a shock of flowers against a brown backdrop. Grey is part of the air itself as fog seems to have made a temporary home here. This book is that shock of flowers among the barren branches of books, that distracting breakthrough of light after hours of fog weighing down the literature in monotonous repeats of paltry authors.

I don't feel like I read the book; rather, I feel like I started with a tentative nibble, unsure of my own taste, wary of the bitter jolt that I sometimes get when I am unable to comprehend the characters fully. The nibbling continued in brief episodes of time-filching, whenever I had a moment away from the distractions we constantly create for ourselves. Slowly, the nibbles transformed into a feast of delicacies, leaving the taste of The Book Thief's words in my mouth for hours after every reading.

Soon, I acquired a fondness for the writing style, and began to connect a little better with Death (The Book Thief's narrator) and our reluctant Nazis. This book bleeds the story of a poor, hungry, conflicted community that never survived the greatest work of peer pressure the world has ever known; a tale chronicled and immortalized by a girl spellbound by the haunting friendship formed with words painted on a basement wall; nightmares that bring her closer to a dead brother a new father; a boy whom she refuses to kiss; and despicable women who make all the difference.

The Book Thief. To use a hated, hackneyed phrase: it's a must-read.