I'm going to need a minute before I write a review.

And a bucket of ice cream and a family-sized box of tissues.

*sob*

Thanks.

UPDATE:

Okay. I'm ready. And yet, I'm not. Because I made the mistake of falling down the rabbit hole of reviews by folk who didn't like this book. Bordering on trollish hate, there were people who despised what made this book special; Death as a narrator (but not as you expect), a liberal, lairy use of language and no apologies-given-spoilers that magically didn't take away from the overall impact.

How I wish I hadn't seen those reviews, because it sort of tainted my opinion of this book. Not because I agree with them, but because I feel a bit silly for letting something move me so much when others couldn't even finish it.

But is that not the beautiful nature of this book-reading lark we all partake in? Not everyone is going to have the same experience, opinion or everlasting impression as you. And I'm sure there's a metaphor for life in there. I mustn't let that simple fact dilute what I gained from those hours I spent lost in Liesel's word nor must I forget how those tears I cried at the conclusion of The Book Thief were real, raw and ready tears; the kind that I like to cry; the kind I don't cry enough.

Don't read the reviews for this or book. Just read it for yourself. Form your own opinion, experience and possible everlasting impression.

And so what if he describes the sun as breakfast-coloured?