Markus Zusack’s The Book Thief is a great read for many reasons – it’s a different perspective on the horrors of war as lived out in World War II Germany, it’s centered on an orphan girl, and the street she lives on is named Heaven (Himmel). The most interesting part is the narrator who tells the tale: Death.

Death notices Liesel Meminger when she steals a copy of The Gravedigger’s Handbook (after her toddler brother died). What is a young girl going to do with a book like that? Then Death notices as Liesel steals more books throughout her childhood – one from a bonfire burning books outlawed by the Nazis, and several from the library of the mayor’s wife. Death notices Liesel because of the thefts, but then because of her life. Why steal books, and why steal books that aren’t the usual fare read by young girls?

I’m not advocating book thievery, but there’s something to grabbing onto anything that speaks of ages/places/people/professions/ideas beyond what daily life and expectations bring. In dark times, when fear robs people of their basic humanity, stealing a little of that back seems a daring and justified act. Death, largely uninterested in how humans live, noticed and found something worthwhile in it, something that revealed a life truly lived.

What marks the difference between existing for a number of years and truly living those years? Philosophy and religion have pondered and expounded on this question. God, self, neighbor. Love. Hope. Faith that things can be better – and working toward that better. Perhaps stealing a book or two…