I made a point to read The Book Thief before the movie hit the big screen. That was quite a while ago. Then I never saw the movie, but I never blogged about the book, either, so I suppose it's all fair.
Right away the colors stand out, so it's no surprise that I focused on marking passages with expected colors like brown and red and unexpected colors like skeleton. I think it would enhance any arguments to pay special attention to connotations, settings, frequency, human ages and sexes when dissecting the colors and trying to assign meanings. I doubt this is exhaustive of all the colors mentioned in the novel--I would highly suggest a second reading after the first--but here's a color log. Page numbers coordinate with the hardcover edition pictured here.
First the colours. Then the humans. (3)
The question is, what colour will everything be at that
moment when I come for you? What will the sky be saying? Personally, I like a
chocolate-coloured sky. Dark, chocolate. People say it suits me. (4)
First up is something white. Of the blinding kind. Some of
you are most likely thinking that white is not really a colour and all of that
tired sort of nonsense. Well I’m here to tell you that it is. White is without
question a colour, and personally, I don’t think you want to argue. (7)
Next is a signature black, to show the poles of my
versatility, if you like. (10)
The man, in comparison, was the colour of bone.
Skeleton-coloured skin. (11)
The last time I saw her was red. The sky was like soup,
boiling and stirring… There were black crumbs, and pepper, streaked amongst the
redness. (13)
When I recollect her, I see a long list of colours, but it’s
the three in which I saw her in the flesh that resonate the most. Sometimes, I
manage to float far above those three moments. I hang suspended, until a septic
truth bleeds toward clarity. That’s when I see them formulate:
RED: {rectangle}
WHITE: {circle}
BLACK: {swastika} (15)
That last time. The red sky… (19)
A suddenness found its way onto his lips then, which were a
corroded brown colour, and peeling, like old paint. (20)
In the dream, she was attending a rally at which he spoke,
looking at the skull-coloured part in his hair and the perfect square of his
moustache. (20)
The day was grey, the colour of Europe. (27)
All up, she owned fourteen books, but she saw her story as
being made up predominantly of ten of them. Of those ten, six were stolen, one
showed up at the kitchen table, two were made for her by a hidden Jew, and one
was delivered by a soft, yellow-dressed afternoon. (30)
In mid-February, when she turned ten, Liesel was given a
used doll that had a missing leg and yellow hair. (41)
A portrait of Pfiffikus: He was a delicate frame. He was
white hair. He was a black raincoat, brown pants, decomposing shoes, and a
mouth—and what a mouth it was. (54)
He smeared the charcoal on, nuce and thick, till he was
covered in black. Even his hair received a once-over. (58)
Black Magic (61)
I know, son—but you’ve got beautiful blond hair and big,
safe blue eyes. (63)
The yellow light was alive with dust. (67)
Liesel, half-wrapped in a blanket, studied the black book in
her hand, and its silver lettering. (94)
… they were able to see the pink bars of light on the snowy
banks of Himmel Street’s rooftops. (94)
“Look at the colours,” Papa said. It’s hard on not to like a
man who not only notices the colours, but speaks them. (94)
She gripped it tighter as the snow turned orange. (94)
There is a small collection of other passages I flagged, including texts (writing and reading) and expertly descriptive writing. A couple from above are repeated here, due to their dual nature.
Please be calm despite that previous threat. I am all
bluster—I am not violent. I am not malicious. I am a result. (7)
“The Gravedigger’s Handbook: A twelve-step guide to
gravedigging success, Published by Bayern Cemetery and Association. (29)
All up, she owned fourteen books, but she saw her story as
being made up predominantly of ten of them. Of those ten, six were stolen, one
showed up at the kitchen table, two were made for her by a hidden Jew, and one
was delivered by a soft, yellow-dressed afternoon. (30)
When she came to write her story, she would wonder exactly
when the books and the words started not just to mean something, but
everything. (30)
A definition not found in the dictionary. Not-leaving:
An act of trust and love, often deciphered by children. (38)
The Star of David was painted on their doors. Those houses
were almost like lepers. At the very lease they were infected sores on the
injured German terrain. (53)
After a month, the wall was recoated. A fresh cement page.
(76)
Like most misery, it started with apparent happiness. (91)
Liesel, half-wrapped in a blanket, studied the black book in
her hand, and its silver lettering. (94)
