God søndag og velkommen til nye smakebiter!
Jeg håper du har en fin søndag! Jeg er reist bort, og kommer til å være hjemmefra ganske lenge så det begynner å bli vanskelig for meg å fortsette med smakebitene. Jeg lurer på om noen vil ha mulighet for å overta? Jeg skal prøve å gjøre så godt jeg kan, men jeg kan ikke lenger love at jeg får det til hver søndag. Send meg en mail på post@astridterese.no hvis du kunne tenke deg ansvaret.
Nå leser jeg The Cautious Traveller’s Guide to the Wastelands av Sarah Brooks. Den er virkelig nydelig. Fantasy, men likevel en reisebok. Den er en av bøkene på challengene til Goodreads.
Our names will be remembered,” he had said to the engineer. Isn’t that what everyone wanted? To not be forgotten. To be more than a line in a ledger, the sum total of your life adding up to little more than the strength you wasted to make other men rich.
As in we refuse to part by refusing to say goodbye, or as in we actually don’t part ways? (…) Is it somehow incomplete, the parting? (…) Is it deferred? The goodbye—or the closure? Indefinitely?
I wish it need not have happened in my time,» said Frodo.
Tiden hadde stoppet opp. Det intrikate urverket, tilvirket som en hyllest til selve Skaperen og jomfru Maria to hundre år tidligere, hadde ikke slått inn hver hele time gjennom døgnet i manns minne. Klokka hadde heller ikke vist månefasene og stjernenes bevegelser, men samlet støv i kunstkammeret på Christiansborg slott; den var et gammelt krigsbytte fra en forlengst glemt krig. Konger hadde kommet og gått uten at tiden rykket igang igjen på slottet.
There once was a girl,” he murmured, “clever and good, who tarried in shadow in the depths of the wood. There also was a King—a shepherd by his crook, who reigned over magic and wrote the old book. The two were together, so the two were the same: “The girl, the King… and the monster they became.
Books can’t live your life for you. The reader who forgets to walk on his own two feet is like an old encyclopaedia, his head stuffed with out-of-date information. Unless someone else opens it up, it’s nothing but a useless antique.
Inaction in the face of such hard knowledge is at best cowardice; at worst, it’s a rejection of the value of truth, an admission that you prefer a life of lies in spite of the horrors that metastasize from the compounding deceits.
“I can believe things that are true and things that aren’t true and I can believe things where nobody knows if they’re true or not.
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.
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.