Page 500 - The Book Thief

By the next raid, on October 2, she was finished. Only a few dozen pages
remained blank and the book thief was already starting to read over what shed
written. The book was divided into ten parts, all of which were given the title of
books or stories and described how each affected her life.

Often, I wonder what page she was up to when I walked down Himmel Street in
the dripping-tap rain, five nights later. I wonder what she was reading when the
first bomb dropped from the rib cage of a plane.

Personally, I like to imagine her looking briefly at the wall, at Max Vandenburgs
tightrope cloud, his dripping sun, and the figures walking toward it. Then she
looks at the agonizing attempts of her paint-written spelling. I see the Fhrer
coming down the basement steps with his tied-together boxing gloves hanging
casually around his neck. And the book thief reads, rereads, and rereads her last
sentence, for many hours.

THE BOOK THIEF LAST LINE
I have hated the words and

I have loved them,
and I hope I have made them right.

Outside, the world whistled. The rain was stained.