An boy I went to school with quite some time ago had a father who is a somewhat famous author (at least in this country). Said father has, in the last few years published two books based on his own life, the last apperently involving the birth of his (first? only?) son.
I think the books sound intriguing. He describes living with and adjusting his dreams to a disease, growing up in the same time as my parents, and the reviews I have read have been good.
However, I cannot escape the feeling that by reading the books, I pry into the life of my previous schoolmate - who I barely even knew, and that feels so wrong.
I think the books sound intriguing. He describes living with and adjusting his dreams to a disease, growing up in the same time as my parents, and the reviews I have read have been good.
However, I cannot escape the feeling that by reading the books, I pry into the life of my previous schoolmate - who I barely even knew, and that feels so wrong.
contemplative
happy