I look at my newly-built bookshelf and think to myself, "I read all of this at one time or another." And then I think to myself, "No, that's not true."
I wanted to read something with a social consciousness ...I also didn't want to pay any more than $10.
I've heard things about this book for years, and now I finally have the chance to read it and find out what the fuss is all about (I know, a cliche).
Frankl witnesses atrocities in visceral detail in a shifty, elided flow that makes the Man's Search for Meaning a macabre memoir.
I think I've figured out what I need to work on for the next several months before I start my first year of teaching: the art of not giving a darn
Mom knew him as a silent, bellicose bank customer. Dad sees him as a colorful character of his youth. I'll wonder what I'll think of him in three hours of listening left.