Hard times and a simple book, stolen words.

I have more time of late on my hands than I care for. How quickly the world changes. Where once I stole time, took moments here and there, now I have more time than I care for. Dark thoughts occupy my mind, I can not find focus or rhythm, when all I have ever known has washed away, and I am left alone and empty once more, with a wondering in my mind was it all worth it.

I know now I need new direction, new hope, but can not find it with in myself to start again, instead in fits and spats I lisp on day by day. I have found a new solace in the bottom of a glass, a new friend to help pass the time. Once the machine that oiled the cogs, that spun the world and made the money role, now its steals from my pocket and drains my soul. Swings and round abouts.

Chasing out scenario’s in my mind, how to find eternal sleep, a length of rope, a sudden fall. A silent gunshot in the dead of night, it matters not how, the outcome is always the same, eternal sleep and an end to worries.

Job applications flow fast, looking at possibility’s, yet nothing returns expect rejection, time after time, I have lost my edge, this I know and so once more to my new friend I turn, another empty glass, just one more, a little one for the road.

In between time spent with my new friend and job applications, I have returned once more to the words, how fitting that one night whilst with my new found friend half full, I was passed a new set of words, a book I have never read. This book now fills my mind, it sits well for many reasons with in the hollow that has become my life. The title of which is “The Book Theif” it steals a moment and stems the tideof thoughts towards my own destruction, that quest of late that plunges deep, overwhelms my mind, suicide calls, but her voice is softened for a while.

If you read nothing else this year seek out “The Book Theif” its power has overwhelmed me, gives me breath. It took me a little over two days to read this novel, I have just finished it, it sits beside me as I sit here and type, I feel compelled to say something, but wonder if I can do it justice. It is the most beautifuly crafted piece of work I have seen in a while. Narrated by death, devoid of emotion the whole book stirs up emotion, the colours flow, from black to white to red, and the red so deep it touches the heart and wrings out the very soul and core of man.

This novel I am sure is one of those rare gems that will stay with me throughout the rest of my days, be they long or should I follow the current course of action open to me short, what ever the case that novel will grow with me, like a seed planted, it just begins to grow and will grow and bloom day by day.

I am going to borrow a piece of the novel now, so that you may see, I am not sure this is legal, but what the hell when you have nothing left to loose what more can the world do? Besides I have never been one for rules, I fear they waste the words we are given. There are so many passages with in the novel that speak volumes, its hard to choose, but this one stung me, and stung me hard.

“When there bodies had finished scourging for gaps in the door, their souls rose up. There fingernails had scratched at the wood and in some cases were nailed into it by the sheer force of desperation, and their spirits came towards me, into my arms. We climbed out of the shower facilities, onto the roof and up, into eternity’s certain breadth. They just kept feeding me. Minute after Minute, Shower after shower.

I’ll never forget the first day in Auschwitz, the first time in Mauthausen. At that place, as time wore on, I also picked them up from the bottom of the great cliff, when their escapes fell awfully awry. There were broken bodies and dead sweet hearts. Still, it was better than the gas. Some of them I caught when they were only halfway down. Saved you, I’d think, holding there souls up mid-air as the rest of their being – their physical shells – plummeted to earth. All of them were light, like the cases of empty walnuts. Smokey sky in those places. The smell like a stove, but still so cold.

I shiver when I remember – as I try to de-realise it. I blow warm air into my hands, to heat them up. But it is hard to keep them warm when the souls still shiver.


I always say that name when I think of it.


Twice, I speak it.

I say his name in a futile atempt to understand. ‘But it’s not your job to understand.’ Thats me who replys. God never says anything. You think you’re the only one he never answers? ‘Your job is to……’ and I stop listening to me, because to put it bluntly, I tire me. When I start thinking like that, I become so exhausted, and I don’t have the luxury of indulging fatigue. I’m compelled to continue on, because although it’s not true for every person on earth, its true for the vast majority – that death waits for no man – and if he does, he doesn’t usually wait very long.

On June 23 1942, there was a group of French Jews in a German prison, on polish soil. The first person I took was close to the door, his mind racing, then reduced to pacing, then slowing down, slowing down…..

Please belive me when I tell you that I picked up each soul that day as if it where newly born. I even kissed a few weary, poisoned cheeks. I listened to their last, gasping cries. Their French words. I watched there love-visions and freed them from their fear.

I took them all away, and if ever there was a time I needed distraction, this was it. In complete desolation, I looked at the world above. I watched the sky as it turned from silver to grey to the colour of rain. Even the clouds tried to look the other way.

Sometimes, I imagined how everything appeared above the clouds, knowing with out question that the sun was blond, and the endless atmosphere was a giant blue eye.

They were French, they were jews, and they were you. ”

This passage grips me deep, and reminds me of the vast unkindness of human nature, of what and who we are. The hands of today are stained by the blood of yesterday, and I fear there is no water pure enough now to wash that blood away. Even today on and on we go, destroying the past, ending the future in the vain hope of some tomorrow that will never come. Endless wasted life, a continual battle for survival, a futile attempt at living.

Are we really running from death or head long in to his open arms.

One thing for sure life confuses me more and more each day.

If nothing else this year, pick up this novel and read it, I assure you the words, may sting, but the power and beauty breaks through.

~ by Duma Key on May 28, 2009.

6 Responses to “Hard times and a simple book, stolen words.”

  1. I would say a book helps… But lately I’ve been into brutal and depressing books… I can’t say they’re helping… And I can’t say I can help not reading them.

    • I doubt they will help much, though the strange thing about humanity is our need to seek out the brutal and the dark at times when its really not the best for us.
      Try The Book Theif though, the brutaility is there but so to is a strange kind of hope.
      I hope things pick up soon for you.

  2. We have choices. We can choose what we put into our mind, we can choose the books we read, we can choose the movies / TV we watch, we can choose which friends we keep around. From the fragment of the book you quoted, I can feel it’s seductive power, but I need to fill myself with hopeful ideas, and I don’t believe this book will lift me and help me have a happier journey.

    I have a friend who worried about her mind being polluted. I think some of that has rubbed off on me. Life is hard – we all need a helping hand from time to time. Read any of those kinds of books lately?

    • I dont think I have done the novel justice with my words! Though darkness prevails light shines, and a power emits from from the words that stems my thoughst from eternal sleep.
      I have always beleived in words, they have held me through many a night, where blood ran, and I knew no other place to go…. the words I found and locked there in the pain stopped…I ran to a world that never was and never will be…..! whilst “parents” hit the nothing that I am and have become…words from books held me…may be that is why I seek them, I am sorry that I do no justice to this novel… it stung when I saw the words…and prehapes I stole them for myself, belonging in the dark…I have no grounds to show….

  3. Thanks for the review of this novel. I am not much for reading novels, however I will seek this one out on your recommendation.

    The mojo that you are missing is not gone, simply sedated, hidden behind a veil of sorts. It will come back to light when you are ready.

  4. Duma Key, I grasp alot of what you’re saying right now. I have no answers, but a few thoughts. The biggest is that your post affirms for me that ones words can deeply impact anothers life, as this novel has yours. So I encourage YOU to keep writing.
    My next thought has already been said best by tobeme:
    “The mojo that you are missing is not gone, simply sedated, hidden behind a veil of sorts. It will come back to light when you are ready.”

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