One of the most enjoyable aspects of this book was Katherine Paterson’s ability to find exactly the right quote from a panoply of writers to reinforce her own thoughts and opinions. The book is comprised of various lectures and acceptance speeches mixed with reviews of other writers’ books and personal essays.
At the beginning of the book, when Paterson is asked when she wanted to be a writer, she explains that it was her love of reading that made her want to “get inside the process (Paterson, p. 2)” not that she ever wanted to be a writer at all. In this opening essay, she shares two items in her office that apparently protect her from her “terror of mediocrity.” One is a Greek quote borrowed from Edith Hamilton which also provides the title for this collection:
Before the gates of excellence
The high gods have placed sweat (Ibid, p. 3).
The other is a mounted Charles Schultz cartoon of Snoopy typing, “It was a dark and stormy night.” Snoopy then remarks, “Good writing is hard work.” I’m not sure the Greeks actually said “sweat” but the point is both remind her that she is a worker, not a part of some gifted group bestowing their words on “less fortunate mortals (Ibid p.3).”
In her Velma Varner lecture from 1979, she compares words to water. They are just as precious and necessary to life, but when both are plentiful, we have a tendency to waste them or not appreciate them. She gives the example of visiting Japan and being so frustrated at not being able to make herself understood because she did not have the words in that language. She wanted the people to know her as she was in her own language. She found a strong identification with Helen Keller in The Miracle Worker when she was “starving for words (Ibid p.7).”
Paterson personifies the dilemma of those of us caught between two cultures. She felt misunderstood in Japan but when she returned to the United States, she found that Americans did not understand or appreciate who she had become. Being entwined in two cultures changes us and makes us belong to both and neither at the same time. I thought about the many times I have been in a room full of people letting the music of Chinese wash over me, understanding words here and there, belonging and being other, or different, in the same moment.
In this same lecture on “Words,” she tries to define why humans have a need, a compulsion, for language and she quotes from Jacob Bronowski’s The Origins of Knowledge and Imagination:
The world is totally connected. Whatever explanation we invent at any moment is a partial connection and its richness derives from the richness of such connections that we are able to make. . . . The act of imagination is the opening of the system so that it shows new connections (Ibid p.11).
This could be a watchword for all of us who consider ourselves to be writers. It seems especially a propos for travel writers. Isn’t travel writing all about the connectedness among us all?
In the same essay, Paterson shares a story about how her book The Great Gilly Hopkins provided a connection for a young student named Eddie. A teacher had read the book aloud to her special reading class and when Paterson visited the school, Eddie bean questioning her about the book and the characters. Her point is that someone had to make that connection for Eddie. According to Paterson “Someone had to first give him the words.” Eddie’s “teacher believed that Eddie had a right to the words-- had a need for the words, even if no one else, not even Eddie did (Ibid p.16).”
Paterson also believes in the power of good stories and great writing. She had never read Homer’s Odyssey until she was 46 years old even though for many years she had been told she should read it. Now she was wondering did any of those people who recommended it ever read it? She says the reason Odyssey lasted for three thousand years is “because it is a simply marvelous story (Ibid, p.17).” That makes me think of the hatred most students have for Shakespeare, which can be attributed to poor or uninspired, uninformed teaching of Shakespeare, who was a marvelous story teller, at high school level.
Her article, “Dog Day Wonder” has the flavor of nature writing. She describes in delicate detail every step of a cicada shedding its skin. She quotes Rachel Carson from her book, A Sense of Wonder, where Carson says she would ask the good fairy that every child be given “a sense of wonder so indestructible that it would last throughout life. . . (Ibid, p.20).” I would hope as writers we all cultivate and keep that “sense of wonder” in all of our work.
Paterson speaks about sentimentality and creativity. She attempts to identify the difference between cheap sentimentality that deliberately plays on our emotions and a deeper response that can be life changing. As a writer she admits that she doesn’t get “a perfect pearl every time (Ibid p.26)” but she strives for that sense of true characters in her writing.
She sent me to my beloved Webster’s New Collegiate Dictionary published in 1953 because she says the word “creativity” doesn’t even appear in her 1971 Oxford (Ibid, p. 32). I think the word has just gone through some evolution because certainly I found “creativeness” and what really is the difference? The point is she is talking about concepts that are difficult to pin down or define, like creativity and freedom. What do they really mean? She freely admits to borrowing form her family and friends for her plots and characters even when it is unintentional.
She believes that the age range and length recommendations for her novels and others are rather arbitrary. A reading level test was applied to The Master Puppeteer and it was found to be two grade levels higher that Erica Jong’s Fear of Flying which was determined to be sixth grade level. She uses this to illustrate that she find very little limitations in her writing. Her subject matter has included death, prostitution, illegitimate birth, suicide and more, all for young readers (Ibid pp.33-34).
In the essay “A Song of Innocence and Experience,” she explains that, “Art has the power to change life (Ibid p.44).” She further says that, “this is what my intent has been and must continue to be.” She finds this to be a terrifying concept. When she has been asked who she writes for, she has often explained that she writes for herself. What she means is that she has inside of her the “weird little kid (Ibid p.100)” she once was. Apparently she has the gift of remembering that child inside her and gives us a little bit of that child in every book she writes. She is qualified to write for children because she still carries the child that she was inside.
She is kind and generous when she reviews other writers’ books such as All Together Now by Sue Ellen Bridger, Ramona and her Father by Beverly Cleary, The Disappearance by Rosa Guy, Children of the Fox by Jill Paton Walsh and Absolute Zero by Helen Cresswell. Maybe I am in the wrong time frame but I was not familiar with any of these books and her critique made me want to explore them. But of much greater interest to me was her evaluation of her own books that I have become familiar with including Bridge to Terebithia, Jacob Have I Loved, The Master Puppeteer and Lyddie. I felt that I knew her characters even better and that I knew Katherine Paterson much better.
Much in this collection of personal essays carried me back to my own childhood when I was also a “weird little kid” who lived in the library and devoured every book that came my way. Even her inspiration for writing The Master Puppeteer crossed over my past. She mentions Bunraku puppetry coming to the Kennedy Center (Ibid, p. 83). I thought that can only be a magical production they did years ago of The Tale of Peter Rabbit where Peter was played by a man on pointe and Farmer MacGregor was a giant towering to the top of the proscenium arch.
We cannot always identify that moment in time that inspires a new story in us but how wonderful it is when that spark comes and delivers a new idea, or as Paterson explains it, a seed that germinates and we hope will grow to be a full plant.
Paterson was asked by a child, “Is your story true?” and she replied, “I hope so. I meant for it to be true (Ibid, pp. 56-57).” I hope that is so for all of us who aspire to write for children. Every book that begins with “once upon a time . . .” or a hand clapping griot who gives us “a story, a story” is opening a door for children and it should be meant for true.
Showing posts with label Authors. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Authors. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
China Homecoming by Jean Fritz
China Homecoming by Jean Fritz amazed me with its impact. I had not realized that Fritz was the author of several books about American history on my son’s shelf. I had been familiar with her books for years and am embarrassed to admit that I paid no attention to the author’s name. I was extremely moved by this autobiographical book and I feel an affinity and connection with Jean Fritz now.
The most remarkable thing for me was her feeling of “otherness.” She worked so hard from adolescence on to feel like a “real American” (Fritz, p. 7), but always behind her was the connection with China. It is unbelievable that she waited fifty-five years to travel back to the country that had been her home. I cannot imagine going to China as a senior citizen after a lifetime in the United States. It took bravery and courage for her to fight for this trip to China, especially at a time when China was not really open to foreign visitors.
I have a similar feeling of otherness. Our household is more Chinese than American, ethnically and by choice. We eat with chopsticks. Our first choice for travel is China, not so much for vacations, but to visit family. But my son and I look white, so we don’t fit the norm that other people expect of us.
Fritz finished her first autobiographical book, Homesick: My Own Story, after the death of her father who had kept the memory of China alive for her. Her family had practiced what they remembered by speaking the language regularly. His death was a painful loss but it also meant the loss of a last connection with China and her memories. She found she could not write “The End” as usual (Ibid, p. 19). I loved the transition from her time in China being a “closed book” (Ibid, p. 13) to, “I knew now I had to go back to China . . . . to find out if at last I could call it my hometown (Ibid, p. 19).” So her trip back to China became a search for her beginnings.
China for me is a homecoming, too, but from the other end. I grew up on a farm in rural Kentucky. Now past age fifty, I have places in China that are more home to me than the places of my childhood. Reading about her homecoming brought my own homecoming into sharp focus. I wanted to call her on the phone and say, yes, I know!
Mao Zedong is a difficult and complex figure to understand. I found it fascinating that as an American in the 1980’s Fritz recognized the good in him and his good intentions toward China. John Acton first said, “Absolute power corrupts absolutely.” Mao is a perfect example of this, but Fritz is generous in acknowledging his vision for a new China and what he tried to accomplish (Ibid, p.33). She has extensive knowledge of this time and a sensitive perception of both Mao and the evils of his Cultural Revolution. This must be unique in American writers, especially from this era.
Fritz does an excellent job of sprinkling valuable information about Chinese history without sounding pedantic. Most Americans are not familiar with Chinese emperors and eras. She obviously wants her readers to understand and appreciate China. I thought it interesting that although she had sympathy and understanding for Mao, she had none for Mao’s wife and the so-called Gang of Four after Mao‘s death (Ibid, p. 35). Perhaps this was the influence of her friends who lived through this time. She sounded like a true Han who had experienced the Cultural Revolution and its aftermath.
I loved the section where one of her Chinese friends informs her that she is a Hubei-lao (Ibid, p 37) and explains the old Chinese joke about people born in Hubei Province. It is a wonderful set-up for when she later arrives in her hometown and identifies herself as a Hubei-lao to the locals (Ibid, p. 53).
Her excitement when she recognizes the Chinese characters in Hankou, her hometown, mirrored my own. My knowledge of written Chinese is very limited and I too am thrilled when I can read something without a translator. The “kou” that means mouth is one that I know, so it seemed just as wonderful to me (Ibid, p. 44).
My favorite section was when she accidentally discovers her old house after a particularly discouraging day. Meeting the people who lived there was a gift. I listened to them meeting like old friends. As she looks at her very own staircase and hiding place from her childhood, she brought tears to my eyes (Ibid, p. 98). To be given this opportunity to reclaim a lost part of her childhood and to be able to share her life with the lives of the current residents was beautiful. There was a profound feeling of completion, an unbreakable link with her own past, her parents and their past and future of her new acquaintances.
As Fritz and her husband explored the streets of China, I felt like I was waking with them. Even when she visited schools, I found myself calculating and realized that we have friends from Wuhan who might have been students in those same schools while Fritz was there (Ibid, p. 65). This only enhanced my feeling of identification with her experiences. She remembered lace antimacassars on the train seats and wanted to tell a neighbor who had wondered how she could possibly recognize anything after so long a time, “Fifty-five years and the antimacassars are still here (Ibid, p.41)!” I thought of our train trip this summer and wanted to call Jean Fritz to tell her that twenty-three more years have passed and the antimacassars are still there!
Near the close, she visits a pavilion built in the fifth century to celebrate a friendship. Next they go to a museum in Wuchang where she sees a cannon she remembers hearing in her childhood during the siege of 1926. Touching the cannon, the memory brings her to tears and she realizes, “China was not only, as it had always been, part of me. I was part of China (author’s italics) (Ibid, p. 128).“
At a banquet for her, she was given her own personal “chop,” a stone seal with her name engraved, and she was made an honorary citizen of Wuhan (Ibid, p. 132). Chinese tradition is that women retain their surname so the chop is a Chinese rendition of her maiden name, Guttery. An ink stamp from her seal ends China Homecoming “just as any Chinese would do at the end of a story (Ibid, p. 133).” China Homecoming appears on the spine but her “chop” is the only title on the cover of the book. It also decorates the end papers front and back of the book.
Before her mother passed away, Jean asked her if she had gone to China “out of a sense of duty” to her husband or did she “go for the adventure.” Her mother’s answer was, “Oh, I went for the adventure (Ibid, p. 40).” I am thankful that Jean Guttery Fritz also had the sense of adventure to return to China and the generosity to share her adventure with us. Her own daughter, Andrea, asked Jean long before the trip to China, “Do you miss the Yangtze, Mom?” She answers, “Yes, I miss the Yangtze (Ibid, p.13).”
I do, too, Jean. I miss the Yangtze, too.
24 October 2008
The most remarkable thing for me was her feeling of “otherness.” She worked so hard from adolescence on to feel like a “real American” (Fritz, p. 7), but always behind her was the connection with China. It is unbelievable that she waited fifty-five years to travel back to the country that had been her home. I cannot imagine going to China as a senior citizen after a lifetime in the United States. It took bravery and courage for her to fight for this trip to China, especially at a time when China was not really open to foreign visitors.
I have a similar feeling of otherness. Our household is more Chinese than American, ethnically and by choice. We eat with chopsticks. Our first choice for travel is China, not so much for vacations, but to visit family. But my son and I look white, so we don’t fit the norm that other people expect of us.
Fritz finished her first autobiographical book, Homesick: My Own Story, after the death of her father who had kept the memory of China alive for her. Her family had practiced what they remembered by speaking the language regularly. His death was a painful loss but it also meant the loss of a last connection with China and her memories. She found she could not write “The End” as usual (Ibid, p. 19). I loved the transition from her time in China being a “closed book” (Ibid, p. 13) to, “I knew now I had to go back to China . . . . to find out if at last I could call it my hometown (Ibid, p. 19).” So her trip back to China became a search for her beginnings.
China for me is a homecoming, too, but from the other end. I grew up on a farm in rural Kentucky. Now past age fifty, I have places in China that are more home to me than the places of my childhood. Reading about her homecoming brought my own homecoming into sharp focus. I wanted to call her on the phone and say, yes, I know!
Mao Zedong is a difficult and complex figure to understand. I found it fascinating that as an American in the 1980’s Fritz recognized the good in him and his good intentions toward China. John Acton first said, “Absolute power corrupts absolutely.” Mao is a perfect example of this, but Fritz is generous in acknowledging his vision for a new China and what he tried to accomplish (Ibid, p.33). She has extensive knowledge of this time and a sensitive perception of both Mao and the evils of his Cultural Revolution. This must be unique in American writers, especially from this era.
Fritz does an excellent job of sprinkling valuable information about Chinese history without sounding pedantic. Most Americans are not familiar with Chinese emperors and eras. She obviously wants her readers to understand and appreciate China. I thought it interesting that although she had sympathy and understanding for Mao, she had none for Mao’s wife and the so-called Gang of Four after Mao‘s death (Ibid, p. 35). Perhaps this was the influence of her friends who lived through this time. She sounded like a true Han who had experienced the Cultural Revolution and its aftermath.
I loved the section where one of her Chinese friends informs her that she is a Hubei-lao (Ibid, p 37) and explains the old Chinese joke about people born in Hubei Province. It is a wonderful set-up for when she later arrives in her hometown and identifies herself as a Hubei-lao to the locals (Ibid, p. 53).
Her excitement when she recognizes the Chinese characters in Hankou, her hometown, mirrored my own. My knowledge of written Chinese is very limited and I too am thrilled when I can read something without a translator. The “kou” that means mouth is one that I know, so it seemed just as wonderful to me (Ibid, p. 44).
My favorite section was when she accidentally discovers her old house after a particularly discouraging day. Meeting the people who lived there was a gift. I listened to them meeting like old friends. As she looks at her very own staircase and hiding place from her childhood, she brought tears to my eyes (Ibid, p. 98). To be given this opportunity to reclaim a lost part of her childhood and to be able to share her life with the lives of the current residents was beautiful. There was a profound feeling of completion, an unbreakable link with her own past, her parents and their past and future of her new acquaintances.
As Fritz and her husband explored the streets of China, I felt like I was waking with them. Even when she visited schools, I found myself calculating and realized that we have friends from Wuhan who might have been students in those same schools while Fritz was there (Ibid, p. 65). This only enhanced my feeling of identification with her experiences. She remembered lace antimacassars on the train seats and wanted to tell a neighbor who had wondered how she could possibly recognize anything after so long a time, “Fifty-five years and the antimacassars are still here (Ibid, p.41)!” I thought of our train trip this summer and wanted to call Jean Fritz to tell her that twenty-three more years have passed and the antimacassars are still there!
Near the close, she visits a pavilion built in the fifth century to celebrate a friendship. Next they go to a museum in Wuchang where she sees a cannon she remembers hearing in her childhood during the siege of 1926. Touching the cannon, the memory brings her to tears and she realizes, “China was not only, as it had always been, part of me. I was part of China (author’s italics) (Ibid, p. 128).“
At a banquet for her, she was given her own personal “chop,” a stone seal with her name engraved, and she was made an honorary citizen of Wuhan (Ibid, p. 132). Chinese tradition is that women retain their surname so the chop is a Chinese rendition of her maiden name, Guttery. An ink stamp from her seal ends China Homecoming “just as any Chinese would do at the end of a story (Ibid, p. 133).” China Homecoming appears on the spine but her “chop” is the only title on the cover of the book. It also decorates the end papers front and back of the book.
Before her mother passed away, Jean asked her if she had gone to China “out of a sense of duty” to her husband or did she “go for the adventure.” Her mother’s answer was, “Oh, I went for the adventure (Ibid, p. 40).” I am thankful that Jean Guttery Fritz also had the sense of adventure to return to China and the generosity to share her adventure with us. Her own daughter, Andrea, asked Jean long before the trip to China, “Do you miss the Yangtze, Mom?” She answers, “Yes, I miss the Yangtze (Ibid, p.13).”
I do, too, Jean. I miss the Yangtze, too.
24 October 2008
Monday, February 9, 2009
I am the Messenger by Markus Zuzak
In the world of literature for young adults, Markus Zusak is a literary writer. His book, I Am The Messenger, is a book that stands above typical young people’s fare. Zusak is a master of writing in first person. His characters are watchers, observers. This is true in I Am The Messenger and was especially effective in The Book Thief which I read earlier this year. The protagonist, Ed, in I Am The Messenger is the most ordinary of ordinary people. He is nineteen years old. He has nothing. He has done nothing. He is not a hero at all. Readers must trust Zusak in the early chapters of his books. He likes to start out slow and paint a detailed portrait of the people he wants you to know. Some complain that it is hard to get involved in the beginning of his books. But once he captures the reader, his books are impossible to put down.
After reading I Am The Messenger, I am reminded of the poet Basho’s "The Records of a Weather-Exposed Skeleton." Similar to Basho’s style, Zusak is trundling along through his narrative when, suddenly, there is a phrase or a passage that stops the reader. You stop with a catch in your breath at the profound beauty of a particular passage. You’ve been moving along through the book as the distant reader and, in a heartbeat, you realize that he is speaking directly to you, to everyone. You read the passage again, and again, just to savour the absolute perfection of that moment. Zusak uses this technique sparingly and each time the poem is brief and simple. No flowery words or descriptions. Stripped down and sparse, in a few words he looks into our souls. One such passage in Chapter 6 of Part Three (Zusak p 224) says:
Sometimes people are beautiful.
Not in looks.
Not in what they say.
Just in what they are.
The main character, Ed, has just witnessed a moment of happiness between a couple. These two are also not heroes. They are an immigrant family with a houseful of kids but this is a gem of a moment. There is a perception shift in Ed where he appreciates the true beauty of the love this man and woman have for each other. We, as voyeurs, experience this moment with Ed and we are transformed along with him.
Zusak is sparse with his prose too. His language is simple with few descriptive terms but he wields his chosen words so that there is no mistaking the atmosphere, the mood and the tone of each section. He chops his words. Sentence structure is of no importance especially when his character is upset or disturbed. Words and thoughts blurt out the way they do in our heads. Ed describes his feelings in staccato sentences of one word. “Cowardly. Meek. Positively weak (Zusak p.45).” His dog, Doorman, however, converses with him regularly, in italics, mostly regarding food.
Ed begins a mission, later it becomes more of a quest, when he receives a single playing card with three street addresses on it. He knows it’s important but he doesn’t know why or how. He must go to each address to watch and wait and discover what is needed there. He chooses the easier ones first. Wouldn’t we all? He accomplishes his mission of the first card, the ace of diamonds, only to receive a second playing card, the ace of clubs. The second card gives only names, not addresses and so it continues. As Ed brings each mission to completion, he becomes more real to us.
Gradually he is transformed from a rather colorless, plain young man into a sympathetic supporter, a kind friend and an avenging angel and that is only from the first playing card. Each of the addresses on the ace of diamonds contains a “diamond” of a person who must be protected, cherished.
Who is the person behind the playing cards? Who is the person sending Ed on these missions? Zusak maintains tight control over Ed and every moment in this book. The plot is as spare as the language but any more would be fluff. Everything is there that should be there. The story is told in this same tight terse fashion but it does not seem rushed or forced. The interspersing of the brief snippets of poem-like prose create moments where the reader can take their time. By then we are tied to Ed’s fate.
Zusak makes it clear from the beginning that this is not a book for very young readers. The opening line is, “The gunman is useless.” Ok, we have a gun. The word “bastard” appears a few lines lower and there are some rather stronger words within the next few pages. Interestingly, the rough language does not continue throughout the book. The book opens with everyone under considerable stress. He is setting a scene and I think by choosing this language from the start, he is saying something about the characters, the plot and the subject matter. Later in the book most of the time the strongest word is “arse.” Zusak is Australian. That explains the pronunciation.
Although I think his Book Thief is the stronger book, this one was a treasure. Zusak has something to say about how people treat people in both the best of situations and the worst. His books seem to feature people who have friends who are incredibly important in their lives and he takes us into the lives of people who are living in abject despair and hopelessness. But Zusak always delivers. When you close the cover of the book, after perhaps reading the ending three or four times, you are left with an uplifting sense of hope. Hope for the characters. Hope for the human race and hope for more books by Markus Zusak.
Zusak, Markus. I am the messenger. Alfred A. Knopf. New York. 2002.
14 September 2008
After reading I Am The Messenger, I am reminded of the poet Basho’s "The Records of a Weather-Exposed Skeleton." Similar to Basho’s style, Zusak is trundling along through his narrative when, suddenly, there is a phrase or a passage that stops the reader. You stop with a catch in your breath at the profound beauty of a particular passage. You’ve been moving along through the book as the distant reader and, in a heartbeat, you realize that he is speaking directly to you, to everyone. You read the passage again, and again, just to savour the absolute perfection of that moment. Zusak uses this technique sparingly and each time the poem is brief and simple. No flowery words or descriptions. Stripped down and sparse, in a few words he looks into our souls. One such passage in Chapter 6 of Part Three (Zusak p 224) says:
Sometimes people are beautiful.
Not in looks.
Not in what they say.
Just in what they are.
The main character, Ed, has just witnessed a moment of happiness between a couple. These two are also not heroes. They are an immigrant family with a houseful of kids but this is a gem of a moment. There is a perception shift in Ed where he appreciates the true beauty of the love this man and woman have for each other. We, as voyeurs, experience this moment with Ed and we are transformed along with him.
Zusak is sparse with his prose too. His language is simple with few descriptive terms but he wields his chosen words so that there is no mistaking the atmosphere, the mood and the tone of each section. He chops his words. Sentence structure is of no importance especially when his character is upset or disturbed. Words and thoughts blurt out the way they do in our heads. Ed describes his feelings in staccato sentences of one word. “Cowardly. Meek. Positively weak (Zusak p.45).” His dog, Doorman, however, converses with him regularly, in italics, mostly regarding food.
Ed begins a mission, later it becomes more of a quest, when he receives a single playing card with three street addresses on it. He knows it’s important but he doesn’t know why or how. He must go to each address to watch and wait and discover what is needed there. He chooses the easier ones first. Wouldn’t we all? He accomplishes his mission of the first card, the ace of diamonds, only to receive a second playing card, the ace of clubs. The second card gives only names, not addresses and so it continues. As Ed brings each mission to completion, he becomes more real to us.
Gradually he is transformed from a rather colorless, plain young man into a sympathetic supporter, a kind friend and an avenging angel and that is only from the first playing card. Each of the addresses on the ace of diamonds contains a “diamond” of a person who must be protected, cherished.
Who is the person behind the playing cards? Who is the person sending Ed on these missions? Zusak maintains tight control over Ed and every moment in this book. The plot is as spare as the language but any more would be fluff. Everything is there that should be there. The story is told in this same tight terse fashion but it does not seem rushed or forced. The interspersing of the brief snippets of poem-like prose create moments where the reader can take their time. By then we are tied to Ed’s fate.
Zusak makes it clear from the beginning that this is not a book for very young readers. The opening line is, “The gunman is useless.” Ok, we have a gun. The word “bastard” appears a few lines lower and there are some rather stronger words within the next few pages. Interestingly, the rough language does not continue throughout the book. The book opens with everyone under considerable stress. He is setting a scene and I think by choosing this language from the start, he is saying something about the characters, the plot and the subject matter. Later in the book most of the time the strongest word is “arse.” Zusak is Australian. That explains the pronunciation.
Although I think his Book Thief is the stronger book, this one was a treasure. Zusak has something to say about how people treat people in both the best of situations and the worst. His books seem to feature people who have friends who are incredibly important in their lives and he takes us into the lives of people who are living in abject despair and hopelessness. But Zusak always delivers. When you close the cover of the book, after perhaps reading the ending three or four times, you are left with an uplifting sense of hope. Hope for the characters. Hope for the human race and hope for more books by Markus Zusak.
Zusak, Markus. I am the messenger. Alfred A. Knopf. New York. 2002.
14 September 2008
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