The Book Thief, By Harry Potter

1448 Words Jan 19th, 2016 6 Pages
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I have never been as comfortable with people made of flesh and bone than I have been with those made of words. Whatever information I lose in the contours of the human face, I have no trouble locating in the unchanging, permanent text of a book. There is something about literature that felt safe to me; the worlds created within far more welcoming to little girls with problems fitting in than the one outside the pages. For this reason, fiction, from Harry Potter to The Book Thief, has remained my greatest passion ever since I learned to read.
When I was younger, the amount of obligations upon me fewer and less likely to affect life in the long term, it was far easier to pursue my passion for fiction. School consumed less time, and the classes were introductions to various principles rather than in depth study. The books contained within the library of my elementary school weren’t great works of literature either. They were simple stories, with simple characters and events, but I loved them anyways. These simple things made sense, a comfort blanket that I simply had to reach into a basket on a shelf to find. When library time rolled around every week, I always managed to find three or four new ones to take home, and then read them all within a day or two. I had never been a particularly athletic child; I had the time and the will to devour as many stories as I possibly could.
Middle school was the height of my reading career. The amount of obligations I…
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