Haunted by Humans
Noel Laflin
8-14-24
I finished
Markus Zusak’s novel, “The Book Thief” late last night and cried.
Again.
The final
chapter brought fresh tears to a story that I have read at least five times
over the last dozen years.
Now, some I
know never read a book twice.
Some don’t
care for books whatsoever.
Too many
these days think it’s their moral obligation to ban books.
But I crave
a good story – and when it’s good enough I feel no shame in reading it again
and again.
I mean,
Liesel Meminger read her first stolen book, “The Grave Diggers Handbook”
thirteen times according to the narrator.
And the
narrator, Death personified, read Liesel’s book thousands of time, or so he
tells us.
So five
readings is hardly a drop in the bucket.
I
recommended the book to a former teacher of mine eleven years ago. I remember
telling him that if he couldn’t make time for the book, the movie was still in
theaters. It’s nowhere as good as the book, I told him, but it would at least give him the
gist of the story.
He was a
favorite teacher of mine and I thought it nice to direct him to the story of Liesel,
Rudy, Hans, Rosa, Max, Death, and a fine assorted cast of supporting
characters.
My former
teacher called me a week later to yell at me for making him cry, as he’d just
returned from the movie theater.
I remember
making the man cry when I was Liesel and Rudy’s age, too.
It was due
to a story that I had created about a son and his mother. The summer school drama assignment was to
read the piece to music.
With the
lights darkened, the door closed, the summer heat held at bay outside, I choose
Percy Faith’s haunting rendition from the movie “Westside Story” and spoke
about a death.
Even at
fourteen, I knew how to twist the heartstrings and wrangle an A for a final
assignment.
“God damn
it, Noel, you really know how to turn on the waterworks,” he bellowed, wiping
his tears away as he quickly left the classroom, leaving the rest of us in
darkness, the needle of the record skipping and skipping as it wanted to return
to its resting place or at least play the violins once more.
I reminded
him of the incident from forty-five years prior on the day he yelled at me (but
in a loving way) regarding “The Book Thief.”
My old
mentor would be carried away in the arms of Death a year later.
And then it
was my turn to yell (but in a quiet, loving way) and let the waterworks flow.
To quote
Death: “I am haunted by humans.”
