I believe at various points Markus Suzak's style of writing is literary; at others, it's anti-literary. By saying that, I mean Suzak sometimes pushes language beyond the limits of its meaning, to the point he sometimes misuses words or bends the meanings of words, or uses them in non-standard ways. This isn't always bad. Sometimes it can be exciting. Sometimes it can fall flat, or include awkward phrasing that pulls us out of the story. More often than not, Suzak creates subtle and moving moments using non-literary methods. To his credit, I never fail to understand what he's getting at. I admire him for trying new things. Overall, I'd rather he took chances and failed than never took chances at all. In my view that's what makes him an extraordinary novelist, and his novel The Book Thief, a stolen masterpiece.
For example, the method he uses to describe Liesel's anger at the mayor's wife who gave Liesel, the book thief, a novel entitled The Whistler, right after she fired Liesel's mother as her laundress. Liesel resented the book she was holding in her hand, and on page 261 we read, "In her hand, The Whistler tightened." Of course, we know what Suzak is getting at, but isn't that writing awkward? I think it is.
Liesel becomes so angry she decides to return to the mayor's mansion and confront the mayor's wife:
"Two steps at a time, she reached the door and banged it hard enough to hurt."
Just as a book can't tighten in someone's hand on its own, neither can one exactly reach a mansion door "two steps at a time," but once again we know what Suzak is getting at.
On Pg. 262, Liesel tells off the Mayor's wife, saying, "'You think you can buy me off with this book?' Her voice, though shaken, hooked at the woman's throat.
I don't know how one person's voice can "hook" at another's throat.
Next sentence: "The glittering anger was thick and unnerving, but she toiled through it."
At this point Zusak has lost me. Granted, anger can be unnerving but how can it be thick? How can anger glitter?
"Evidently, the mayor's wife was shocked when she saw her [Liesel] again. Her fluffy hair was slightly wet and her wrinkles widened when she noticed the obvious fury on Liesel's usually pallid face."
If her hair was fluffy why would it be "slightly wet?" Fluffy hair is dry, no? Her "wrinkles widened?" Really?
The whole point of literary writing is—via an articulate narrator—to invite the reader into a world of deeper meanings and understandings, not a world of awkward phrasing.
Liesel finally tells off the mayor's wife: "You give me this Saumensch of a book, and you think it'll make everything good when I go and tell my mamma that we've just lost our last one [customer]? [WWII is bringing hard times to Germany and all businesses are losing customers.]
"The mayor's wife's arms.
"They hung.
"Her face slipped."
Zusak writes the above three sentences as paragraphs. He knows what he's doing. He's purposely being an iconoclast. I detect anger behind his decision to do that. That's why here I think he's being anti-literary. And by the way, "How does an entire face slip?]
"Liesel, however did not buckle. She sprayed her words directly into the woman's eyes."
I wonder "Was she spitting or speaking?" Now if Zusak had written, "She sprayed her words at the woman," or, better yet, "Her words sprayed out of her mouth," I would call that excellent writing.
In this scene, Liesel's anger becomes abstracted. I feel her emotions in a highly distant, muffled way. It's why at points I believe Zusak's writing isn't only non-literary, but anti-literary.
It's hard to believe the same writer wrote so beautifully, lovingly and movingly about Liesel's father, Hans. In fact the last hundred pages of the novel (the wrap-up when all the characters, except Liesel, die) are exquisite. Not one false word throughout. If you hang in for the entire 550-page ride, this novel will tear your heart out. It's why I still call it a masterpiece in spite of its flaws.
The most intimate relationship in the novel is the one between Liesel and her custodian dad. From the beginning, Hans has been associated with the accordion he loves to play and the accordion case he keeps his instrument in throughout the entire book. On page 527, the author lovingly turns Hans into an accordion, a living, breathing metaphor:
Here's a paragraph from a supposed short, hand-written book (a book within a book) Liesel herself wrote in first person that is also called The Book Thief. I think it's spellbinding—suburb writing:
"Papa sat with me tonight. He brought the accordion down and sat close to where Max used to sit. I often look at his fingers and face when he plays. The accordion breathes. There are lines on his cheeks. They look drawn on, and for some reason, when I see them, I want to cry. It is not for any sadness or pride. I just like the way they move and change. Sometimes I think my papa is an accordion. When he looks at me and smiles and breathes, I hear the notes."
Next month, I begin my discussion of a novel published in 2008 entitled Shadow Country. It's the work of a truly great novelist and environmental activist, Peter Matthiessen.
