The Book Thief contains a few things you need to know about. A young girl, an old couple, a Jewish fist fighter, Hitler and Death. Sounds simple, right?  Liesel herself in a new town with a doting foster father and a sharp tongued foster mother, trying to understand why she can’t see her mother any more. But Liesel Memminger is haunted, haunted by the ghost of her younger brother whom she watched die. Another thing you should know she is a thief, but the novel is about more than that.

The novel is a about a young girl and a country that will never be the same after war. As Liesel, Hanns (her stepfather) and Rosa (her stepmother) hide a young Jewish man they know they are risking their lives, from such risk comes a beautiful tale. The problem with novels as good as this is that you don’t want to ruin any part of it because you love it so much. I will say though the novel is a long one but in a nice way. It’s the kind of book that you can take a break from but as soon as you turn another page you fall straight back into the story. I must tell you that Liesel is quite possibly the cleverest thief you will ever encounter in literature after she is given the gift of education – something no one can take away- she continues to feed that eagerness at all costs.

Which leads me on to another character I have to mention, because I know you will fall in love with him. Rudy is Liesel’s neighbour, a sweet boy who idolises black athlete Jesse Owens in the middle of Nazi Germany. As you can assume this does not work in his favour. The relationship between him and Liesel is one of my favourite parts of the novel though, without him I doubt the Book Thief would have become who she was. It is the childlike simplicity that really recounts the horrors of war, of children that cannot understand the fighting or why some parents never come home.

Although it’s a questionable concept, Death makes and incredible narrator and he was one of the best characters. Who would have thought death could be so kind, caring and thoughtful. Oh and let’s not forget funny, there is great humour in the book even if it seems sad. I laughed more than I ever wanted to cry and it wasn’t just little laughs that would escape me, it was loud laughter which is rare. Death is a curious character, reminiscent of a gentle old man trying to teach lessons to the young. By having war recounted by someone or something which many of us would assume reveled in war Zusak has done something incredible; very few authors could open someone’s mind as he has.

“Even death has a heart.”

At times the book made my heart hurt. I could see the scenes playing out in front of me, I wanted to look away but I couldn’t. I wanted to reach out but I wasn’t really there. What Zusak has done with his magical description should not be taken lightly. I have not read novel like this that is so vivid in a very long time. I wanted to laugh, I wanted to cry and I wanted to make sure nothing like this could ever happen again. It’s incredible that even though this is fiction, it feels as if it could be real and that is the magic of a good story teller, they made you believe the book is real.This book made me cry, and I’m grateful. It is a stunning piece of literature that I want to read again and again.

I can’t give this book anything less than five stars *****, something I don’t give lightly. I remember not reading this book years ago when I had the chance and I wish someone had shaken me! Zusak is an incredible writer, so much so that if he never wrote again this book would be enough. If you haven’t read it, you should need to, it is beautiful and one of the best novels ever written.

Review by Chloe Metzger

Walking around Waterstones (my bank accounts worst enemy), I marvel at all the books and just feel happy and calm surrounded by all the literature around me. Well apart from 50 shades, but I pretend that doesn’t exist. I feel so amazed and confident, all these books have been written, I can write one too. Right? Right! Then I go home, get a blank word document up and stare at my screen for a good few hours.

When I’m not thinking about writing I get so many ideas it’s unreal, when I can I scribble them and wish I could just stop and continue writing. The times I set aside to actually write I’m stuck. I’m stuck in a frenzy of wanting perfection, wanting to know where I’m going with this. Two months ago I was lucky enough to be accepted to spend a week studying in Athens for Kingston University’s Creative Writing Summer School. I had the best time, met like minded people and got some great tips and feedback on the novel I was working on. I flew back to the UK and now I’m stuck again.

Some of the inspiration in Athens 

Some writers compare writing a novel to a really long labour. Once it’s finished and you have the finished thing everything’s lovely and wonderful but while you’re trying to birth this magical piece of literature there is blood, sweat and tears and lots of them. Now as you know, I’ve never had a child (nor do I really want to at this point, I’ll stick to babysitting) but I can understand this thought process. Writing this book is on my mind 24/7, sometimes I feel like I eat, sleep and breath wanting to get it done. Ther problem is I have a huge enemy…myself.

Come on, hands up my fellow writers, who feeds their inner critic? Who’s let them get big and fat off of fears and negativity. Yes, I’m guilty of it as well. I, like many of you reading this, am a perfectionist. I give everything I care about 110% and that, in writing is not always a good thing. I stop myself sometimes from making progress because I’m so fixated on things not being quite right or some feedback that someone has given me. But I do have ideas! I really, really do. I have ideas that I’m working on about families, I have ideas for YA Literature and nonfiction too. I know it’s there I just need to unlock everything that’s there.

How about you all? I’d love to hear what you think and how you deal with the blocks! Leave me a message in the comments below!

10 years ago, London fell silent, what was first thought to be a power surge was actually more than anyone could imagine, a terror attack on our beautiful capital. Everyone remembers where they were when these things happen,  I was only 10 years old at the time, I even remember what I was wearing. I was heading back from a physio appointment with my Mum in her car (some things never change) and something came on the radio about something happening in London, being 10 years old I didn’t really understand or think much of it.

I didn’t go back to school, Mum took me home and my Dad was there it must have been his day off. He was trying to call his friend, Lee, but he couldn’t get through I just remember he kept calling. I still didn’t really understand properly but when Dad took me to get food shopping the next day the above picture was all over the papers, I remember both wanting to look and covering my eyes. My parents told me everyone needed to carry on, when they were kids bombs were going off in London all the time (when the IRA were around) , what had happened was awful but I wasn’t to be scared.

I’ve grown up with the constant reminders of 9/11 but there was something in my heart that made me never want to forget about 7/7. I wanted to keep getting the tube the older I got and not let fear dictate me (even though getting trapped on the underground is one of my worst fears). For the past few days I’ve read about each and every one of the people who were murdered 10 years ago, because they deserve to be remembered. I’ve sat and thought about them a lot today, their families, the people who tried to give them the dignity they deserved in death.

I decided to write a poem for them.

It didn’t seem different, like any other day

Rushing from the house

Can’t be late, can’t be late

London will never be the same.

The trains pull out of stations,

You think about the day ahead,

The pride of the Olympics

Something funny someone said.

But then everything is different,

You can’t see any more.

Everythings so dark, so dark

why are you on the floor.

The hours tick by and London’s awake

Clinging to the news, trying to guess their loved ones fate.

‘Did you hear about the bus?’ No one want’s to say.

It’s been 10 years now since that fateful day,

their hate will not replace the love of Londoners.

We’ll bow our heads in mourning, and remember each and every one.

Not just those who aren’t here today, but those replaying it, coping in their own way.

We will not forget you, or let your London down.

All we can hope is that we do your memory proud.

Image from the BBC