I can't. I don't remember the last time a book made me cry. I don't remember the last time I've read a book this achingly beautiful. It should be the last gasp, the final masterpiece, of an old writer, knowing he can do no more. Instead, the inside front cover has a handsome young man, incongruously smiling, staring back at me.
When I was younger, I used to fantasize about traveling back in time and writing the books I've read and receiving the acclaim and money for them. A small part of me would feel guilty for this intellectual theft, but I could never steal this book. Markus Zusak has written a masterpiece.