Where’s the will to hold on? - The Book Thief

'The Book Thief' by Markus Zusak
I am currently reading this lovely book called 'The Book Thief'. It is in the form of a narrative told by Death himself. As Mr Death points out in the very beginning of the book - its not a gloomy sad book as one might expect. Infact, its quite a nice little read. The story is about a little girl Leisel and her journey through life. I would say that just like 'To kill a mockingbird' captured the thought process and reactions of a kid, so does this book. I particularly like this scene about a little jewish boy called Max who is quite the fighter-spirit and does not understand why his uncle gives in to all the bullshit he receives from people around for being jewish. Why doesn't he fight back?

Excerpt from 'The Book Thief':
At thirteen, tragedy struck again when his uncle died. As percentages would suggest, his uncle was not a hothead like Max. He was the type of person who worked quietly away for very little reward. He kept to himself and sacrificed everything for his family—and he died of something growing in his stomach. Something akin to a poison bowling ball.


As is often the case, the family surrounded the bed and watched him capitulate. Somehow, between the sadness and loss, Max Vandenburg, who was now a teenager with hard hands, blackened eyes, and a sore tooth, was also a little disappointed. Even disgruntled. As he watched his uncle sink slowly into the bed, he decided that he would never allow himself to die like that.


The man’s face was so accepting. So yellow and tranquil, despite the violent architecture of his skull—the endless jawline, stretching for miles; the pop-up cheekbones; and the pothole eyes. So calm it made the boy want to ask something. 

Where’s the fight? he wondered.

Where’s the will to hold on?

Of course, at thirteen, he was a little excessive in his harshness. He had not looked something like me in the face. Not yet. With the rest of them, he stood around the bed and watched the man die—a safe merge, from life to death. The light in the window was gray and orange, the color of summer’s skin, and his uncle appeared relieved when his breathing disappeared completely.

“When death captures me,” the boy vowed, “he will feel my fist on his face.”


Personally, I quite like that. Such stupid gallantry.

Yes.

I like that a lot.