The Arrival
"She was the book thief without the words.
Trust me, though, the words were on their way, and when they arrived, Liesel would hold them in her hands like the clouds, and she would wring them out like rain.” -The Book Thief
There are many reasons for my obsession with literature, language and above all, words.
I think it began with a girl in 3rd grade, who had to leave 6th period Reading every day to go to her ESL class instead, who tried to absorb this new vocabulary, to understand the difference between V and W, practicing it with her uncle at home in the evening. She used to have her own words, but they were for a different place and time. Here, she possessed only a feeling of loss she could hardly comprehend herself, which she would tuck away every night under her pillow along with a picture she had snuck out of an album of her most-loved khala. But the words were patient with her, and they stood day by day, waiting for her to arrive, to examine them (from a distance only though).
In time though, the space between her and the words shortened and soon they were drawing nearer to her as fast as she was rushing to them. Both loss and memory began to be buried under a steady stream of words so opaque that they effectively hid all past emotions of shame and inadequacy. The clouds were definitely gathering, settling.... But there was yet to be any wringing.
Trust me, though, the words were on their way, and when they arrived, Liesel would hold them in her hands like the clouds, and she would wring them out like rain.” -The Book Thief
There are many reasons for my obsession with literature, language and above all, words.
I think it began with a girl in 3rd grade, who had to leave 6th period Reading every day to go to her ESL class instead, who tried to absorb this new vocabulary, to understand the difference between V and W, practicing it with her uncle at home in the evening. She used to have her own words, but they were for a different place and time. Here, she possessed only a feeling of loss she could hardly comprehend herself, which she would tuck away every night under her pillow along with a picture she had snuck out of an album of her most-loved khala. But the words were patient with her, and they stood day by day, waiting for her to arrive, to examine them (from a distance only though).
In time though, the space between her and the words shortened and soon they were drawing nearer to her as fast as she was rushing to them. Both loss and memory began to be buried under a steady stream of words so opaque that they effectively hid all past emotions of shame and inadequacy. The clouds were definitely gathering, settling.... But there was yet to be any wringing.
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