Jesus mothereffing Christ.
This is embarrassing.
Of course I’ve cried over books in the past, but never like this.
Portents of old age?
And I thought “Never Let Me Go” was a unique case. Now here’s “The Book Thief”.
Reduce me to a blubbering mess why don’t you.
So much shit in the middle of a world forced into hatred and anger and suffering and yet we manage to go on looking for and even finding beauty.
So much pain and suffering and pointlessness and stupidity and futility yet our capacity to love never diminishes.
How is this possible?
How do we look at shit and say, “we’ll get through this”?
How do we hope? How do we dream?
Why do we persevere in this bloody thankless existence?
Honestly? I think it’s because we can.