I keep buying copies.

Whenever there was a death in a child's family, Mrs Achterberg sent them down to me, on the theory that a library is quiet and I would know what to do. I did not know what to do. I gave them somewhere to sit and did not talk to them, and about half the time, on the third or fourth visit, I put this in front of them.

Not the second half. The second half is a lecture on logotherapy and it dates badly; the vocabulary is of its moment and the case studies are thin. The opening section is what does the work, and what does it isn't the horror. It's the man who dreamed the date of his liberation and died the day after it passed. I've not got over that, and nor do I wish to.

Frankl is not a comforting writer, whatever the covers keep insisting. My copy is the old blue Rider one with the awful typeface, and I've replaced it twice because I keep giving it away. The card says 1987 for the first reading (no, 1986; I've the card here and the ink has gone brown).

Ten. I do not hand those out.