The Book Thief

I didn’t even bring this book home for myself. It is the strange way that my story with what arguably has become my favourite book begins. I didn’t bring it for myself, but still, being me I couldn’t resist picking it up and reading a little bit. Only for then, I had to say, sorry, I’m keeping it for a while, because it was impossible to put it down.

The story is narrated by Death, and while at first I wasn’t sure about this (I was younger when I read it), I quickly saw that my fears were ungrounded and that Death was the perfect narrator for the story. The story itself is nothing big, but more powerful just because it remains small. One of the few books that managed to make me cry.