A Woman In Berlin
I finished it about a week ago, and I still cannot get parts of it out of my head. Images that stick to your brain like maggots. Disgusting image, yes? Well, an apt one I think, considering no image in the book was very pretty.
The book itself was written quite well. I somehow thought it would be worded differently. How? I don't know. Perhaps more staccato than it was. It definitely was real and in the moment, written feverishly in a feverish time.
This woman makes amazing commentary on the state of humankind. She talked about insects that eat their own young at some point in the book, comparing it to how we (civilization) are treating our own kind-we are eating our own kind, and care nothing of it. Paraphrasing.
What intrigued me most about this and the woman who wrote it was the fact that she wrote only this and nothing else. Towards the end of the book, she says something to the effect of-I'm done writing.
I kept thinking you won't find any of this in the history books. You just won't. The dirt, the slime, what went on after the war, the things women had to do to stay alive. Another thing I thought of was this is probably no different than Afghanistan or Iraq or (insert any country in which our troops have invaded).
I am glad to have read it, to have seen a different perspective of what went on, but won't be reading this again for a long time. It was exhausting to read of so much destruction.