mamma

vi sier muttern, så vi slipper å si mamma, muttern bæder, istefor mamma er redd, mamma er redd for meg

Jeg tenkte at jeg kunne vente, jeg kan holde ut, jeg kan klamre meg fast og så blir det min tur til å være lykkelig. Men livet er et maraton uten målområde og premieutdeling, den eneste målstreken er døden, og fram til den er alt en kamp mot tida, og tida tar som kjent aldri pause. Å være voksen er like fucka som å være tenåring, vi har bare flere regninger å betale. Det blir ikke lettere å stå opp om morgenen, vi bare må gjøre det, fordi vi må på jobb. Det blir ikke bedre, det blir bare meget mer av det hele.

Dette er livet, sier folk når de koser seg. Dette er livet, å bli født, å bli eldre, å bli voksen, å bli gammel. Så kan så klart en million eller en milliard ting skje innimellom der, men som regel skjer det ikke så mye, som regel er livet en lang rekke repriser og gjentakelser, en haug av ting du må eller skal eller burde. Da jeg var yngre, lengta jeg sånn etter å bli voksen, og her jeg ligger nå med øya lukka på en varm strand en sein sommerdag, ville jeg gitt alt jeg har og mer for å få være en lengtende tenåring igjen.

Hva jeg skulle gjort annerledes?
Alt.

Blame is just another way of refusing to take responsibility for your life, and when you blame us, you give up your own power and agency. Don't you see? It makes you into a victim.

For most humans throughout history, "more" wasn't even an option. "Enough" was the goal and was, by definition, enough.

He liked the past. He also liked the future. It was the present that was the problem.

That's what books are for, after all, to tell your stories, to hold them and keep them safe between our covers for as long as we're able.

LIfe is lived from birth to death, from the beginning into an unknowable future. But stories are told in hindsight. Stories are life lived backward.

"Tell me what you want me to say" he said finally.
"I can't. That's not how it works."

He has the sense that if he put his hands out, his palms would touch some invisible material that separates him from other people.

Sometimes he looked at her across the table and was overwhelmed by a sucking feeling; it was like turning a kaleidoscope of memories until the patternes clicked, a tunnel thorugh time to a place he thought he'd never see again.

The wonder is that you could start life with nothing, end with nothing, and lose so much in between.

I was born to wish for more than I can have.

It hit me pretty hard, how there's no kind of sad in this world that will stop it turning.

A kid is a terrible thing to be, in charge of nothing.

Growing up was bloody overrated. If I could have my time over again, I'd be more careful with it. I wouldn't let it slip thorugh my careless fingers like flour.

I know my father loves me, I know my mother does not. I know that I have to reap what I have sown, it's only fair. I am the mother of five children grown and gone in the blink of an eye. I am the sitting tenant of one farm, the wife to one husband, the fool to one lover. I have an empty nest, an empty lap, empty arms, a hollow heart.

Lose a person. Gain a ghost.

As I stared at him, I felt compelled to write his name on everything. On every blade of grass, on each rung of the water tower ladder, on all of the leaves of the tree beside us. I wanted his name on all these things and more. I was so afraid no one would know he had even existed.

'Don't look back. Go in the car and don't look back.'
'Looking back is all I've got,' he said.