14 October 2012
Prologue
A mountain range of rubble
In which our narrators introduces: Himself-the colors-and the book thief
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 all 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 am 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 had 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 really not necessary. You will know me well 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 away. At the that moment you will be lying there (I rarely find people standing up) . You will be caked in you own body. There might be a discovery; a scream will dribble down the air. The only sound ill here after that will be my own breathing, the sound of the smell of my footsteps. The question is, what color will everything be at the moment 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 of the stress. It helps me relax.
• •a small theory• • People observe the day only at the beginning 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 have thousands of different colors. Waxy yellows, cloud-spat blue. Murky darknesses. In my line if work, I make an appoint 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 vacation? The answer of course is nobody, which has printed me to make a 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 she even need a vacation? What does she need a 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, all though in 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 Uzbek 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 tonight, or today, or whatever the hour and color. It's a story on one of those perpetual survivors- a expert at being left behind. It's just a small story really, about, among other things: • a girl • some words • an accordionist • sons fanatical Germans • a Jewish fist fighter • and quite a lot of thievery
I saw the book thief three times.
The Book Thief • Opuss № I