God søndag og velkommen til nye smakebiter!
I dag har jeg hatt helt fri. Jeg har ikke en gang hatt noe jeg måtte gjøre. Så jeg har brukt tiden på å vaske klær og å lese. Men jeg prøvde meg først på to bøker jeg ikke hadde lyst til å lese videre. Først The ministry of time av Kaliane Bradley og så Fourteen days, som er en novellesamling av ulike forfattere. Jeg prøvde begge to, men la de fra meg. Det var ikke noe for meg.
Så lette jeg gjennom bøkene jeg hadde tatt med hjem fra biblioteket, og begynte på serieromanene «Clara Wahl» av Natalie Normann. Det er en annen type bøker enn jeg bruker å lese, men de virker bra så langt.
I går leste jeg ferdig Under the Whispering Door av TJ Klune. Det var en fantastisk nydelig bok. Jeg valgte i utgangspunktet boken på grunn av fremsidebildet. Klune har gitt ut flere bøker med lignende forsidebilder, så nå skal jeg lese dem og. Under the Whispering Door handler mye om døden, men er en fantasy og romantikk roman.
It’s never enough, is it? Time. We always think we have so much of it, but when it really counts, we don’t have enough at all.
Everyone loses their way at some point, and it’s not just because of their mistakes or the decisions they make. It’s because they’re horribly, wonderfully human. And the one thing I’ve learned about being human is that we can’t do this alone. When we’re lost, we need help to try to find our way again.
Witch. The word slithers from the mouth like a serpent, drips from the tongue as thick and black as tar. We never thought of ourselves as witches, my mother and I. For this was a word invented by men, a word that brings power to those that speak it, not those that it describes. A word that builds gallows and pyres, turns breathing women into corpses.
Ver observante når de nyttar dei sterkaste verkemidla i språket. Det sa eg alltid til elevane mine. Nyttar de dei for mykje, då mister dei krafta si. Men, la eg til, ver heller ikkje så tørre at de aldri nyttar dei.
There were not enough pages in all the books Elm had read, in all the libraries he’d wandered, in all the notebooks he’d scrawled, that could measure—denote or describe—just how beautiful she was.
First, there was trust. Then, there was betrayal. You cannot have one without the other. You cannot be betrayed by someone you do not trust … what you have learned is the same heart-wrenching journey of every woman to whom I have sold a poison. And it is, indeed, the same path for me.
We take your bags and send them in all directions – Dansk flyselskap
Being forgotten, she thinks, is a bit like going mad. You begin to wonder what is real, if you are real. After all, how can a thing be real if it cannot be remembered?
Smakebiten kommer fra The Butcher of the Forest:
Heredity or environment? I wondered wryly. We were all of us, to some degree, mad after his fashion. To be honest, it had to be a form of madness, to have so much and to strive so bitterly for just a little more, for a bit of an edge over the others. He carried this tendency to its extreme, that is all. He was a caricature of this mania in all of us. In this sense, did it really matter which of us was the traitor?
I like libraries. It makes me feel comfortable and secure to have walls of words, beautiful and wise, all around me. I always feel better when I can see that there is something to hold back the shadows.