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Alert: This product may be shipped with or without the inclusion of the Oprah Book Club sticker. Please note that regardless of the cover, the books are identical. Night is Elie Wiesel’s masterpiece, a candid, horrific, and deeply poignant autobiographical account of his survival as a teenager in the Nazi death camps. This new translation by Marion Wiesel, Elie’s wife and frequent translator, presents this seminal memoir in the language and spirit truest to the author’s original intent. And in a substantive new preface, Elie reflects on the enduring importance of Night and his lifelong, passionate dedication to ensuring that the world never forgets man’s capacity for inhumanity to man.Night offers much more than a litany of the daily terrors, everyday perversions, and rampant sadism at Auschwitz and Buchenwald; it also eloquently addresses many of the philosophical as well as personal questions implicit in any serious consideration of what the Holocaust was, what it meant, and what its legacy is and will be.

Elie Wiesel
January 16, 2006
120 pages

File Size: 26 MB
Available File Formats: PDF AZW3 DOCX EPUB MOBI TXT or Kindle audiobook Audio CD(Several files can be converted to each other)
Language: English, Francais, Italiano, Espanol, Deutsch, chinese

In Nobel laureate Elie Wiesel’s memoir Night, a scholarly, pious teenager is wracked with guilt at having survived the horror of the Holocaust and the genocidal campaign that consumed his family. His memories of the nightmare world of the death camps present him with an intolerable question: how can the God he once so fervently believed in have allowed these monstrous events to occur? There are no easy answers in this harrowing book, which probes life’s essential riddles with the lucid anguish only great literature achieves. It marks the crucial first step in Wiesel’s lifelong project to bear witness for those who died. Review “A slim volume of terrifying power.” ―The New York Times“Required reading for all of humanity.” ―Oprah“Wiesel has taken his own anguish and imaginatively metamorphosed it into art.” ―Curt Leviant, Saturday Review“To the best of my knowledge no one has left behind him so moving a record.” ―Alfred Kazin“What makes this book so chilling is not the pretense of what happened but a very real description of every thought, fear and the apathetic attitude demonstrated as a response . . . Night, Wiesel’s autobiographical masterpiece, is a heartbreaking memoir. Wiesel has taken his painful memories and channeled them into an amazing document which chronicles his most intense emotions every step along the way.” ―Jose Del Real, Anchorage Daily News“As a human document, Night is almost unbearably painful, and certainly beyond criticism.” ―A. Alvarez, Commentary From the Inside Flap Born in the town of Sighet, Transylvania, Elie Wiesel was a teenager when he and his family were taken from their home in 1944 to the Auschwitz concentration camp, and then to Buchenwald. Night is the terrifying record of Elie Wiesel’s memories of the death of his family, the death of his own innocence, and his despair as a deeply observant Jew confronting the absolute evil of man. This new translation by his wife and most frequent translator, Marion Wiesel, corrects important details and presents the most accurate rendering in English of Elie Wiesel’s testimony to what happened in the camps and of his unforgettable message that this horror must never be allowed to happen again. This edition also contains a new preface by the author. About the Author Elie Wiesel is the author of more than fifty books, including Night, his harrowing account of his experiences in Nazi concentration camps. The book, first published in 1955, was selected for Oprah’s Book Club in 2006. Wiesel is Andrew W. Mellon Professor in the Humanities at Boston University, and lives with his family in New York City. He was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 1986. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. NightBy ELIE WIESELHILL AND WANGCopyright © 1985Elie WieselAll right reserved.ISBN: 978-0-374-50001-6Chapter One They called him Moishe the Beadle, as if his entire life he had never had a surname. He was the jack-of-all-trades in a Hasidic house of prayer, a shtibl. The Jews of Sighet-the little town in Transylvania where I spent my childhood-were fond of him. He was poor and lived in utter penury. As a rule, our townspeople, while they did help the needy, did not particularly like them. Moishe the Beadle was the exception. He stayed out of people’s way. His presence bothered no one. He had mastered the art of rendering himself insignificant, invisible. Physically, he was as awkward as a clown. His waiflike shyness made people smile. As for me, I liked his wide, dreamy eyes, gazing off into the distance. He spoke little. He sang, or rather he chanted, and the few snatches I caught here and there spoke of divine suffering, of the Shekhinah in Exile, where, according to Kabbalah, it awaits its redemption linked to that of man. I met him in 1941. I was almost thirteen and deeply observant. By day I studied Talmud and by night I would run to the synagogue to weep over the destruction of the Temple. One day I asked my father to find me a master who could guide me in my studies of Kabbalah. “You are too young for that. Maimonides tells us that one must be thirty before venturing into the world of mysticism, a world fraught with peril. First you must study the basic subjects, those you are able to comprehend.” My father was a cultured man, rather unsentimental. He rarely displayed his feelings, not even within his family, and was more involved with the welfare of others than with that of his own kin. The Jewish community of Sighet held him in highest esteem; his advice on public and even private matters was frequently sought. There were four of us children. Hilda, the eldest; then Bea; I was the third and the only son; Tzipora was the youngest. My parents ran a store. Hilda and Bea helped with the work. As for me, my place was in the house of study, or so they said. “There are no Kabbalists in Sighet,” my father would often tell me. He wanted to drive the idea of studying Kabbalah from my mind. In vain. I succeeded on my own in finding a master for myself in the person of Moishe the Beadle. He had watched me one day as I prayed at dusk. “Why do you cry when you pray?” he asked, as though he knew me well. “I don’t know,” I answered, troubled. I had never asked myself that question. I cried because … because something inside me felt the need to cry. That was all I knew. “Why do you pray?” he asked after a moment. Why did I pray? Strange question. Why did I live? Why did I breathe? “I don’t know,” I told him, even more troubled and ill at ease. “I don’t know.” From that day on, I saw him often. He explained to me, with great emphasis, that every question possessed a power that was lost in the answer … Man comes closer to God through the questions he asks Him, he liked to say. Therein lies true dialogue. Man asks and God replies. But we don’t understand His replies. We cannot understand them. Because they dwell in the depths of our souls and remain there until we die. The real answers, Eliezer, you will find only within yourself. “And why do you pray, Moishe?” I asked him. “I pray to the God within me for the strength to ask Him the real questions.” We spoke that way almost every evening, remaining in the synagogue long after all the faithful had gone, sitting in the semi-darkness where only a few half-burnt candles provided a flickering light. One evening, I told him how unhappy I was not to be able to find in Sighet a master to teach me the Zohar, the Kabbalistic works, the secrets of Jewish mysticism. He smiled indulgently. After a long silence, he said, “There are a thousand and one gates allowing entry into the orchard of mystical truth. Every human being has his own gate. He must not err and wish to enter the orchard through a gate other than his own. That would present a danger not only for the one entering but also for those who are already inside.” And Moishe the Beadle, the poorest of the poor of Sighet, spoke to me for hours on end about the Kabbalah’s revelations and its mysteries. Thus began my initiation. Together we would read, over and over again, the same page of the Zohar. Not to learn it by heart but to discover within the very essence of divinity. And in the course of those evenings I became convinced that Moishe the Beadle would help me enter eternity, into that time when question and answer would become ONE. AND THEN, one day all foreign Jews were expelled from Sighet. And Moishe the Beadle was a foreigner. Crammed into cattle cars by the Hungarian police, they cried silently. Standing on the station platform, we too were crying. The train disappeared over the horizon; all that was left was thick, dirty smoke. Behind me, someone said, sighing, “What do you expect? That’s war …” The deportees were quickly forgotten. A few days after they left, it was rumored that they were in Galicia, working, and even that they were content with their fate. Days went by. Then weeks and months. Life was normal again. A calm, reassuring wind blew through our homes. The shopkeepers were doing good business, the students lived among their books, and the children played in the streets. One day, as I was about to enter the synagogue, I saw Moishe the Beadle sitting on a bench near the entrance. He told me what had happened to him and his companions. The train with the deportees had crossed the Hungarian border and, once in Polish territory, had been taken over by the Gestapo. The train had stopped. The Jews were ordered to get off and onto waiting trucks. The trucks headed toward a forest. There everybody was ordered to get out. They were forced to dig huge trenches. When they had finished their work, the men from the Gestapo began theirs. Without passion or haste, they shot their prisoners, who were forced to approach the trench one by one and offer their necks. Infants were tossed into the air and used as targets for the machine guns. This took place in the Galician forest, near Kolomay. How had he, Moishe the Beadle, been able to escape? By a miracle. He was wounded in the leg and left for dead … Day after day, night after night, he went from one Jewish house to the next, telling his story and that of Malka, the young girl who lay dying for three days, and that of Tobie, the tailor who begged to die before his sons were killed. Moishe was not the same. The joy in his eyes was gone. He no longer sang. He no longer mentioned either God or Kabbalah. He spoke only of what he had seen. But people not only refused to believe his tales, they refused to listen. Some even insinuated that he only wanted their pity, that he was imagining things. Others flatly said that he had gone mad. As for Moishe, he wept and pleaded: “Jews, listen to me! That’s all I ask of you. No money. No pity. Just listen to me!” he kept shouting in synagogue, between the prayer at dusk and the evening prayer. Even I did not believe him. I often sat with him, after services, and listened to his tales, trying to understand his grief. But all I felt was pity. “They think I’m mad,” he whispered, and tears, like drops of wax, flowed from his eyes. Once, I asked him the question: “Why do you want people to believe you so much? In your place I would not care whether they believed me or not …” He closed his eyes, as if to escape time. “You don’t understand,” he said in despair. “You cannot understand. I was saved miraculously. I succeeded in coming back. Where did I get my strength? I wanted to return to Sighet to describe to you my death so that you might ready yourselves while there is still time. Life? I no longer care to live. I am alone. But I wanted to come back to warn you. Only no one is listening to me …” This was toward the end of 1942. Thereafter, life seemed normal once again. London radio, which we listened to every evening, announced encouraging news: the daily bombings of Germany and Stalingrad, the preparation of the Second Front. And so we, the Jews of Sighet, waited for better days that surely were soon to come. I continued to devote myself to my studies, Talmud during the day and Kabbalah at night. My father took care of his business and the community. My grandfather came to spend Rosh Hashanah with us so as to attend the services of the celebrated Rebbe of Borsche. My mother was beginning to think it was high time to find an appropriate match for Hilda. Thus passed the year I943. SPRING 1944. Splendid news from the Russian Front. There could no longer be any doubt: Germany would be defeated. It was only a matter of time, months or weeks, perhaps. The trees were in bloom. It was a year like so many others, with its spring, its engagements, its weddings, and its births. The people were saying, “The Red Army is advancing with giant strides … Hitler will not be able to harm us, even if he wants to …” Yes, we even doubted his resolve to exterminate us. Annihilate an entire people? Wipe out a population dispersed throughout so many nations? So many millions of people! By what means? In the middle of the twentieth century! And thus my elders concerned themselves with all manner of things-strategy, diplomacy, politics, and Zionism-but not with their own fate. Even Moishe the Beadle had fallen silent. He was weary of talking. He would drift through synagogue or through the streets, hunched over, eyes cast down, avoiding people’s gaze. In those days it was still possible to buy emigration certificates to Palestine. I had asked my father to sell everything, to liquidate everything, and to leave. “I am too old, my son,” he answered. “Too old to start a new life. Too old to start from scratch in some distant land …” Budapest radio announced that the Fascist party had seized power. The regent Mikls Horthy was forced to ask a leader of the pro-Nazi Nyilas party to form a new government. Yet we still were not worried. Of course we had heard of the Fascists, but it was all in the abstract. It meant nothing more to us than a change of ministry. The next day brought really disquieting news: German troops had penetrated Hungarian territory with the government’s approval. Finally, people began to worry in earnest. One of my friends, Moishe Chaim Berkowitz, returned from the capital for Passover and told us, “The Jews of Budapest live in an atmosphere of fear and terror. Anti-Semitic acts take place every day, in the streets, on the trains. The Fascists attack Jewish stores, synagogues. The situation is becoming very serious …” The news spread through Sighet like wildfire. Soon that was all people talked about. But not for long. Optimism soon revived: The Germans will not come this far. They will stay in Budapest. For strategic reasons, for political reasons … In less than three days, German Army vehicles made their appearance on our streets. ANGUISH. German soldiers-with their steel helmets and their death’s-head emblem. Still, our first impressions of the Germans were rather reassuring. The officers were billeted in private homes, even in Jewish homes. Their attitude toward their hosts was distant but polite. They never demanded the impossible, made no offensive remarks, and sometimes even smiled at the lady of the house. A German officer lodged in the Kahns’ house across the street from us. We were told he was a charming man, calm, likable, and polite. Three days after he moved in, he brought Mrs. Kahn a box of chocolates. The optimists were jubilant: “Well? What did we tell you? You wouldn’t believe us. There they are, your Germans. What do you say now? Where is their famous cruelty?” The Germans were already in our town, the Fascists were already in power, the verdict was already out-and the Jews of Sighet were still smiling. THE EIGHT DAYS of Passover. The weather was sublime. My mother was busy in the kitchen. The synagogues were no longer open. People gathered in private homes: no need to provoke the Germans. Almost every rabbi’s home became a house of prayer. We drank, we ate, we sang. The Bible commands us to rejoice during the eight days of celebration, but our hearts were not in it. We wished the holiday would end so as not to have to pretend. On the seventh day of Passover, the curtain finally rose: the Germans arrested the leaders of the Jewish community. From that moment on, everything happened very quickly. The race toward death had begun. First edict: Jews were prohibited from leaving their residences for three days, under penalty of death. Moishe the Beadle came running to our house. “I warned you,” he shouted. And left without waiting for a response. The same day, the Hungarian police burst into every Jewish home in town: a Jew was henceforth forbidden to own gold, jewelry, or any valuables. Everything had to be handed over to the authorities, under penalty of death. My father went down to the cellar and buried our savings. As for my mother, she went on tending to the many chores in the house. Sometimes she would stop and gaze at us in silence. Three days later, a new decree: every Jew had to wear the yellow star. Some prominent members of the community came to consult with my father, who had connections at the upper levels of the Hungarian police; they wanted to know what he thought of the situation. My father’s view was that it was not all bleak, or perhaps he just did not want to discourage the others, to throw salt on their wounds: “The yellow star? So what? It’s not lethal …” (Poor Father! Of what then did you die?) But new edicts were already being issued. We no longer had the right to frequent restaurants or cafs, to travel by rail, to attend synagogue, to be on the streets after six o’clock in the evening. Then came the ghettos. TWO GHETTOS were created in Sighet. A large one in the center of town occupied four streets, and another smaller one extended over several alleyways on the outskirts of town. The street we lived on, Serpent Street, was in the first ghetto. We therefore could remain in our house. But, as it occupied a corner, the windows facing the street outside the ghetto had to be sealed. We gave some of our rooms to relatives who had been driven out of their homes. Little by little life returned to “normal.” The barbed wire that encircled us like a wall did not fill us with real fear. In fact, we felt this was not a bad thing; we were entirely among ourselves. A small Jewish republic … A Jewish Council was appointed, as well as a Jewish police force, a welfare agency, a labor committee, a health agency-a whole governmental apparatus. People thought this was a good thing. We would no longer have to look at all those hostile faces, endure those hate-filled stares. No more fear. No more anguish. We would live among Jews, among brothers … Of course, there still were unpleasant moments. Every day, the Germans came looking for men to load coal into the military trains. Volunteers for this kind of work were few. But apart from that, the atmosphere was oddly peaceful and reassuring. Most people thought that we would remain in the ghetto until the end of the war, until the arrival of the Red Army. Afterward everything would be as before. The ghetto was ruled by neither German nor Jew; it was ruled by delusion. SOME TWO WEEKS before Shavuot. A sunny spring day, people strolled seemingly carefree through the crowded streets. They exchanged cheerful greetings. Children played games, rolling hazelnuts on the sidewalks. Some schoolmates and I were in Ezra Malik’s garden studying a Talmudic treatise. Night fell. Some twenty people had gathered in our courtyard. My father was sharing some anecdotes and holding forth on his opinion of the situation. He was a good storyteller. Suddenly, the gate opened, and Stern, a former shopkeeper who now was a policeman, entered and took my father aside. Despite the growing darkness, I could see my father turn pale. “What’s wrong?” we asked. “I don’t know. I have been summoned to a special meeting of the Council. Something must have happened.” The story he had interrupted would remain unfinished. “I’m going right now,” he said. “I’ll return as soon as possible. I’ll tell you everything. Wait for me.” (Continues…) Excerpted from Nightby ELIE WIESEL Copyright ©1985 by Elie Wiesel. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site. Read more <div id="

  • Every human on this planet should read this book!It’s not very long but it didn’t need to be. It is heart wrenching and infuriating and inspiring and about a million other adjectives I could think of… but that’s the kind of feeling we need to experience when we’re reading about this type of horror. The real life, actual horror people inflict on one another, sick, twisted, wretched, heartbreaking and utterly disgustingness of what Nazi Germany really did.Elie survived, that in itself is a miracle, that he chose to share that terrible chapter of his life with all of us so that we may learn, that’s his gift to us. Don’t waste that.It only takes good men to do nothing for evil to prevail. Keep your eyes open, people.
  • No one should need an excuse to re-read a book as powerful as Night, but if I needed one, the new(er) translation by the author’s wife provided it. Everything that needs to be said about this book has been said, I suppose, many times over. In its brief, straightforward narrative it captures not just the horror of the attempted extermination of Europe’s Jews, but the destruction that was wrought even in the souls of survivors. Amid all the other losses, including members of his family, the loss that persists through the book, is the narrator-author’s loss of faith, the loss of God. The one thing that might have helped make sense of the grotesque insanity was gone, and with it, a large portion of the previously pious young victim’s self and soul. Remarkably (particularly given how pious the narrator was before being herded in cattle cars with so many others to Auschwitz), the complete loss of a sense of God’s justice did not happen over the course of a long incarceration as he struggled to find meaning in the light of faith. The change was immediate, everything was lost in a day, so brutal, so thorough, was the Nazi violation. How could a just God let this happen?There are so many memorable scenes in this short book: the journey in the cramped cattle cars; the arrival at the camp; the sight, sound, and ash of the crematorium; the hanging of a child; the crusts of bread; the forced march when the camp was abandoned at war’s end; the gratuitous murders even in a place where gratuitous murder was the organizing principle. And there are so many painful moments, most having to do with loss: the loss of God, the loss of identity, the loss of friends and family, in the end the loss of his father, too, who was his mainstay through most of the ordeal. But there are also moments of remembering that humanity must be preserved. As the camp was being evacuated, the prisoners stopped long enough to clean their prison camp. Why? To let the liberating army know “that here lived men and not pigs.” I was reminded of Italian chemist Primo Levi’s account of his imprisonment in Auschwitz, If This Is a Man, in which he describes the ex-army sergeant who washed daily, even though the water was dirty and he had only his soiled clothes to dry himself with. But he did it, and encouraged others to do the same, for the sake of dignity more than cleanliness, to remain human and to prevent the machine of war, imprisonment, and dehumanization from turning prisoners into beasts, as its masters wished it to do.This book is a ringing call to remember, and to resist injustice, ignorance, and apathy. As Wiesel said in his speech accepting the Nobel Peace Prize in 1986 (reprinted at the end of this book): “We must take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented. Sometimes we must interfere.”
  • Night, written by Elie Wiesel, is a short book that includes the narrator’s haunting personal experience with concentration camps during the holocaust. It is a necessary read full of true stories about Wiesel’s time in Nazi concentration camps. Forced out of his home as a teenager, Wiesel traveled with his family to Birkenau. He and his father embarked on the deadly and involuntary journey, moving from one death camp to another. Throughout the book, the author provides numerous anecdotes that provide the reader with an image of what these concentration camps were really like. This a mature book, but it is definitely a must read for teenagers and adults. The ideas may be a too strong for children or pre-teens. It is poignant and graphic, but gets a clear message across. If you’re looking for short read and have interest in the holocaust and the victims who suffered through it, this is the book for you. I suggest you read through the preface and the forward in the beginning of the book, as well as the author’s note at the end. All in all, this is a great book that will provide you with both information and a saddening perspective of World War II.
  • I have read Night several times, and every time I read it I am reminded of why it is such a great book.  I picked up some 9th grade English classes this school year and it was on the required reading list. I really looked forward to re-reading it with the students. It was amazing to watch them get drawn into his story. They were shocked at the atrocities that were committed, were able to understand and follow Elie’s journey and I had a few say they loved the book or that it was a good read.  It is such a powerful, well-written, and eloquent account of what Elie and so many other Jews went through during the Holocaust. If you haven’t read it, it is definitely one that needs to be added to your TBR Bucket List. His use of internal dialogue, first person narrative, and reflection throughout the story pulls the reader in and keeps their attention.  You become a witness to what happened. Beautiful.  Powerful. Memorable. And one of my absolute favorite books of all time.
  • I liked this book. I will not say I loved this book because the subject is too awful to be real. Reading this story I felt like that young boy asking “… Is this a dream…” It’s hard for me, an infant of the 70’s, a child of the 80’s, a teen of the 90’s, to believe that these atrocities ever occurred. I remember reading in history that Churchill/ Patton? (please correct me if I’m wrong) wanted pictures taken “… Because someday, there will be those who’ll say ‘this never happened’.”I feel for the survivors, their families. I worry for my children who will learn that great men like this author are less than current winners of this prestigious award. It is up to us, the third generation, the generation that makes or erases history, “to look into that young Jews eyes and say … That we are not forgetting [them]. When their voices are stifled, we will lend them ours”Here is my testimony in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.
  • This is a short book. It is well written and therefore easy to read. Although seething with emotion, it does not linger or explain. It’s a simple testimony of one person’s experience of the cruelest genocide in European history from it’s beginning to its end.I would urge everybody to take the time to read this book because the people and ideas who brought about this horror are once more in the ascendant and it falls to us send them back to the shadows where they belong.
  • Excellent first hand description of one of the many grim episodes in recent history.In western minds the holocaust seems to eclipse the mass murders attributed to Stalin and Mao Zedong (both of whom murdered greater numbers), not to mention the millions who have died due to political mistakes such as the partition of India and the cumulative horrors of nasty little wars in Vietnam, Korea, Afghanistan, Syria, Iraq, Pol Pot’s genocide in Cambodia and China’s annexation of Tibet and Hong Kong and the incarceration in concentration camps of millions of Uyghurs. Perhaps the atrocities inflicted on the Jews and the author of this book occurred closer to home and have received more attention in movies, news media and books?Elie Wiesel describes how, in spite of repeated warnings, he and his family simply didn’t believe that Jews were being rounded up and exterminated. Even when the Gestapo arrived and began lodging nearby, no one believed that the Germans posed a danger; they were initially charming. Elie and his family ignored rumours about the camps. Even when the family was ordered to leave their home, they rejected offers from an old maid to hide them from the Gestapo. They could never have believed what lay ahead.While witnessing atrocities inflicted by the Germans on an industrial scale, Elie, a deeply religious man, is forced, time and again, to reconcile his faith with what he was experiencing.Having read this book, I am surprised how ruthless the current Jews are towards the Palestinians and it is perhaps time that the international community woke up to the ethnic cleansing being perpetrated not only in Israel, but in Xinjiang, China; millions of Uyghurs removed from their homes and taken to concentration camps in the same way that the Gestapo removed Elie and his family from their home.Elie suggests that it is when people ignore what is happening that events like the holocaust occur.
  • It is tragic that this book exists, it documents a young persons experience of the Nazi holocaust. However, given that these terrible events took place, this book is now essential to the future of humanity. It is a painful read, I had to keep dipping in and out, even although the book is short. The level of depravity it documents, from a first hand eye witness, can only be called evil. Events were witnessed and suffered which could only be believed because they were reported by this reliable, totally credible eye witness. Clearly, a book that should never have needed to be written, but is now essential. How could such events happen in a modern western country? As you can see, Im already lost for words, just get this book and read it.
  • I began reading Night on 27th January, Holocaust Memorial Day. Of all the testimonies I have read, Elie Wiesel’s Night, together with Primo Levi’s If This Is A Man, have had the most profound impact.Wiesel conveys the utter helplessness, the brutality and inhumanity of the final solution in a short book. No more words are needed. There is power in every word, every line. How a child could come through this most heinous of times, this darkest of nights and go on to achieve what he did, is remarkable. There are passages that describe certain events in Auschwitz Birkenau that leave you cold. I had to put the book down and reflect. To continue reading at that moment did not seem right. A moment to reflect on the lives lost. But lived Wiesel has ensured will never be forgotten. Every one should read Night.
  • I am not completely sure what I was expecting when I started the book. I heard about the book and decided to give it a go, without any specific goal in my mind.I found this book really inspiring in the sense that it helps me to put in perspective my own challenges. It is quite difficult to complain about our everyday life challenges when reading about the experience of a young innocent man sent to a concentration camp for no other reason than belonging to a specific community.The main lesson for me from this book is: “some people have suffered and survived inimaginable pains, whatever challenge you are going through, you have the resources to overcome them”.
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