'We Were The Lucky Ones' Belongs On Your Top 10 Books To Read This Summer

'We Were The Lucky Ones' Belongs On Your Top 10 Books To Read This Summer

Based around the true story of the Kurc family before, during, and after the Holocaust tore them apart. A story filled with power, destruction, and mostly love.

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World War II we know was brutal based on the history books we may read in school or from our Grandparents stories of this time. And every time we read something new about the cruelty of this war we are brought back into this place of solemnity and powerlessness. We read stories from the survivors of the labor and death camps, soldiers in this war, the leadership and power on all ends of this time. It's brutal really but it's something that we must remember today. We can't forget the past we must learn from it.

Georgia Hunter's book 'We Were The Lucky Ones" is based on the true stories that she heard and researched about her own family. Her grandpa was a Jew who actually was in France when Poland was overtaken by Hitler and his hometown turned into a bloody and depressing place where his family was forced from their homes and into the ghetto and ultimately separated for nearly 8 years.

This meant years without being able to contact one another and let each other know they were alive; years of having to just assume their siblings and in Mila's case (one of the sisters we read in the book) to assume her husband had died in the war just so she could keep going and fighting for her and her infant child's life.

Georgia Hunter's work is one of the best you will read about what is was like for Jews before, during, and after the war was finished.

Between chapters which are titled by the name of the sibling she focused the chapter on, Georgia adds bits of facts about where the war was at at the time of this character's journey. She was able to connect all these siblings and parents stories together beautifully through the date at which the characters experienced each event.

And the characters are truly based on people in her family; her Great-Grandparents, her Grandma and Grandpa, her Great-Aunts and Great-Uncles, cousins are all part of it. This book wasn't written just so people would buy her work, it was written because she had it on her heart to write down these stories and events her family was sharing. She knew she needed to keep these stories alive even after her loved ones are gone.

"We Were the Lucky Ones" is a beautiful story dedicated to a family who through the hardest and most inhumane of the human existence, stayed true to one another and fought to survive and return to one another, no matter what. Packed with actions, destruction, love, and above all hope, "We Were the Lucky Ones" is a must read!

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13 Of The Best, Most Famous Poems Ever Written

Masterpieces by some of our favorites like as Shakespeare, John Donne, and Homer.
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Some of us read poetry for an eager and fast escape from this world. On the other hand, some of us read poetry solely to share it with the ones we love. There are miracles on paper that can easily be forgotten about if we let them be. The following poems are written by some of our favorites such as Shakespeare, John Donne, Homer, and more. It is clear why these have become some of the most famous and unforgettable poems ever written. So grab a pen, and interpret these poems in your own, unique way.

1. “Go and Catch a Falling Star” - John Donne

Go and catch a falling star,

Get with child a mandrake root,

Tell me where all past years are,

Or who cleft the devil's foot,

Teach me to hear mermaids singing,

Or to keep off envy's stinging,

And find

What wind

Serves to advance an honest mind.

If thou be'st born to strange sights,

Things invisible to see,

Ride ten thousand days and nights,

Till age snow white hairs on thee,

Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me,

All strange wonders that befell thee,

And swear,

No where

Lives a woman true, and fair.

If thou find'st one, let me know,

Such a pilgrimage were sweet;

Yet do not, I would not go,

Though at next door we might meet;

Though she were true, when you met her,

And last, till you write your letter,

Yet she

Will be

False, ere I come, to two, or three.

2. “Drinking Alone in the Moonlight” - Li Po

Beneath the blossoms with a pot of wine,

No friends at hand, so I poured alone;

I raised my cup to invite the moon,

Turned to my shadow, and we became three.

Now the moon had never learned about drinking,

And my shadow had merely followed my form,

But I quickly made friends with the moon and my shadow;

To find pleasure in life, make the most of the spring.

Whenever I sang, the moon swayed with me;

Whenever I danced, my shadow went wild.

Drinking, we shared our enjoyment together;

Drunk, then each went off on his own.

But forever agreed on dispassionate revels,

We promised to meet in the far Milky Way.

3. “Sonnet 18” - William Shakespeare

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer's lease hath all too short a date:

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;

And every fair from fair sometime declines,

By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd;

But thy eternal summer shall not fade

Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st;

Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,

When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st;

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

4. “The World Is Too Much with Us” - William Wordsworth

The world is too much with us; late and soon,

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—

Little we see in Nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;

The winds that will be howling at all hours,

And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;

For this, for everything, we are out of tune;

It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be

A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;

So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,

Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;

Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;

Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.

5. “She Walks in Beauty” - Lord Byron

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that’s best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes;

Thus mellowed to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impaired the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o’er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express,

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!

6. “How Do I Love Thee?”- Elizabeth Browning

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,












I shall but love thee better after death.

7. “ Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” -Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound’s the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

8. The Jabberwocky” - Lewis Carroll

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

The frumious Bandersnatch!”

He took his vorpal sword in hand;

Long time the manxome foe he sought—

So rested he by the Tumtum tree

And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,

The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,

Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,

And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through

The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!

He left it dead, and with its head

He went galumphing back.

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?

Come to my arms, my beamish boy!

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”

He chortled in his joy.

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

9. “Tears Fall in My Heart” - Paul Verlaine

Tears fall in my heart

Rain falls on the town;

what is this numb hurt

that enters my heart?

Ah,the soft sound of rain

on roofs, on the ground!

To a dulled heart they came,

ah, the song of the rain!

Tears without reason

in the disheartened heart.

What? no trace of treason?

This grief's without reason.

It's far the worst pain

to never know why

without love or disdain

my heart has such pain!

10. “We Wear the Mask” - Paul Lawrence Dunbar

We wear the mask that grins and lies,

It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—

This debt we pay to human guile;

With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,

And mouth with myriad subtleties.

Why should the world be over-wise,

In counting all our tears and sighs?

Nay, let them only see us, while

We wear the mask.

We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries

To thee from tortured souls arise.

We sing, but oh the clay is vile

Beneath our feet, and long the mile;

But let the world dream otherwise,

We wear the mask!

11. “The Panther” - Rainer Maria Rilke

His vision, from the constantly passing bars,

has grown so weary that it cannot hold

anything else. It seems to him there are

a thousand bars; and behind the bars, no world.

As he paces in cramped circles, over and over,

the movement of his powerful soft strides

is like a ritual dance around a center

in which a mighty will stands paralyzed.

Only at times, the curtain of the pupils

lifts, quietly--. An image enters in,

rushes down through the tensed, arrested muscles,

plunges into the heart and is gone.

12. “Sea Fever” - John Masefield

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,

And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;

And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,

And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide

Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;

And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,

And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,

To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;

And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,

And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

13. "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Goodnight" -Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

















Save these poems for your next coffee shop date or solitude moment. You might be surprised at how much you can find yourself in a poem.

Cover Image Credit: Thought Catalog

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Why I Chose To Be A Children's Book Creator

The end goal is to make Dr. Seuss rise from the dead and tell me I'm cool.

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"What's some childhood books you remember?"

I bet several stories popped up into your head. Maybe Dr. Seuss? Or maybe it was "Where the Sidewalk Ends," "Velveteen Rabbit," or maybe even "Three Little Pigs," "Goldilocks," "The Giving Tree," or something else entirely.

For me, I want to write one of those books that are remembered. I want to write stories that are so captivating that they stay with someone into adulthood, something that people find so important, they carry it with them into the future.

As a child, I had always written journals filled with stories. They had multiple chapters and they were actually sort of morbid, but they were an adventure. There was one story I used to write about, but sadly never finished. It was about two children that became orphans because one of the children harassed the father to turn around to look at her grade. When the father turned around, their car crashed and killed the parents. The siblings had powers and some other children at the orphanage did as well. Something happened and a man warned the children of something. I am annoyed to say that I left it at a cliffhanger so I never actually figured out what the warning was for, but I certainly don't regret having made that story. It had mistakes and seemed a little bit cringe-worthy, but it was a foundation of when I started writing.

Then, I swayed on and off from writing and started drawing birds and flowers via watercolor on the side. The birds were actually overly realistic and my father never believed I did it, but his surprise always moved me. Making people was a bi*** though. Hands were a straight negative.

I have jumped back and forth on what I wanted to do. I was not sure how I could mix the two or even where to start, but I knew I wanted to leave something that my younger brother could read and keep. I wanted to leave a memory behind. Animating passed through my head, and so did storyboarding for tv shows, but both of those did not feel right. I did not like the idea of it being my full-time job. I wanted it to be kept as a hobby, something I would do for fun if I wanted to. I wanted to be able to create my own work, be my own boss. The idea of being stuck in a building and ordered around for every small thing stuck with me like a sandpaper glued to my feet.

Somehow, I came across the idea of being a children's book illustrator. It definitely is not easy and it is a competitive field, but the competition does not scare me. I am actually far from intimidated about it. For me, the goal is to create a book that a child likes and finds personally important. I want to show as much representation as possible, while also being able to create the books myself, think of the ideas myself. There are so many ideas always roaming around and I feel that children will find anything to be fun. I mean, "If You Give A Mouse A Cookie" was a great book. I could send people on a fast adventure and then start a whole new one if I wanted to.

For me, being a children's book illustrator is leaving a memory, doing something that is fun; something that never lets me lose that childish glee and bounds people away into chocolate lands with witches and gnomes.

It is magic.

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