On Saturday I read a book, the contents of which were so light and fluffy that I cannot even post it in good conscience. Halfway through I was already debating just putting it aside, but did not, thinking (hoping) that something of substance was bound to come up, because after all (the only reason I bought the book in the first place) the story was set in a bookshop. But no. So I read it to the end (which did not take very long, it was such an easy read) and afterwards felt as though my brain had literally been weakened by this (like having a meal of marshmallow fluff and cotton candy), and had to resort to something with more substance, in this case reading some fifty pages of Christopher Clark’s The Sleepwalkers. How Europe Went to War in 1914, which I started some time ago but have been neglecting, in order to strengthen myself again.
(I should have known better – it had a pink cover, which generally means sappy romances, doesn’t it, no matter what else they are trying to hook me with? I should never reach for anything with a pink cover!)
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