That being said, there's also something oh so appealing about sitting out in the sun with a good book. Looks like I'm cursed with a degree hiatus of the book kind.
I just finished a book by Denis Avey and Rob Bromley titled 'The man who broke into Auschwitz', which is a true story. Something about this book reminded me about my Grandad telling me stories when I was younger (and still today). It has the same tone, and to be fair, the beginning half, most of the same themes. It's not an easy read, but an important one nonetheless, or so I feel. Sometimes, stories that books can tell are ones that are the most important, after all, nothing gives hope quite like a good book when it makes you realise there's always someone else that has it worse.
What do you think?