Again, I am inside the womb of the house and a womb of fog. I haven't seen the moon or sun for days.
I finished the book The Book Thief by Markus Zusak last night, and I knew I was affected, but I don't think I realized how much until Jane and I spoke this morning. When I went to write my own words, I could not find them. He speaks of how Hitler used words to manipulate, and, yet, he himself is writing beautifully and communicating to us through words. When I went to write this morning, I could not help but think of how even Bush who mangles and tortures words has managed to use them for death and destruction.
Jane said today that "It's difficult to fight a lack of integrity without losing one's own," and so we back off, not wanting to get drawn into a nasty battle.
With The Book Thief, I was at first put off by the use of a narrator, narrating, and by the end I saw the power it gave this book. I was also expecting when the young girl was sent to a foster home, that she would be sexually abused. How sad is that, but isn't that the theme of so many books written in America today? Instead this is a story of unbelievable care and love. The book came out in Australia as an adult book. It was released here in the Young Adult category. What does that say about us? We are drawn on in this book on the emotion of one possible kiss. A girl reaches the age of 13 in Nazi Germany and is still sexually innocent, though she has dealt with death and deep love over and over again. Our books say something about us. What we are reading and watching on TV and what does that lead us to expect as to people? We live in fear.
When I was walking in my neighborhood the other day, a young boy actually felt safe enough to speak to me. He was four or five, and pointed out three or four new bushes in their yard. Then, his mother came rushing out. I was thrilled that he felt safe enough to talk to me. She had concern. Something is greatly lost in this world of fear in which we are encased. Something huge.