With every book I read I feel a little destroyed. Some of them appear like telling the truth and belittle or trash every notion I had about various contents of life. They leave me torn asunder. And I live with their painful memories for they do not go away from my mind and linger like a bad dream.
But finally I decide not to give in, when I begin to pick up the pieces of my shattered self. I thank the writer for his book. But I have to move on.