2009
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A journalist notices a link between a number of victims of cot death. All of the children had the same poem read to them the night before they died. The journalist sets out to find and destroy every copy of the book containing the accursed poem.
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A journalist notices a link between a number of victims of cot death. All of the children had the same poem read to them the night before they died. The journalist sets out to find and destroy every copy of the book containing the accursed poem.
Forlag Vintage
Utgivelsesår 2003
Format Heftet
ISBN13 9780099459187
EAN 9780099459187
Genre Thrillere
Språk Engelsk
Sider 260
Utgave 1
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Start en diskusjon om verket Se alle diskusjoner om verketExperts in ancient Greek culture say that people back then didn't see their thoughts as belonging to them. When ancient Greek had a thought, it occured to them as a god or goddess giving an order. Apollo was telling them to be brave. Athena was telling them to fall in love.
Now people hear a commercial for sour cream potato chips and rush out to buy, but now they call this free will.
No one wants to admit we're addicted to music. That's just not possible. No one's addicted to music and television and radio. We just need more of it, more channels, a larger screen, more volume. We can't bear to be without it, but no, nobody's addicted. We could turn it off anytime we wanted.
Doesen't reincarnation strike you as just another form of procrastination?
Imagine immortality, where even a marriage of fifty years would feel like a one-night stand. Imagine seeing trends and fashions blur past you. Imagine the world more crowded and desperate every century. Imagine changing religions, homes, diets, careers, until none of them have any real value. Imagine travelling the world until you’re bored with every square inch. Imagine your emotions, your loves and hates and rivalries and victories, played out again and again until life is nothing more than a melodramatic soap opera. Until you regard the birth and death of other people with no more emotion than the wilted cut flowers you throw away.
I tell Helen, I think we’re immortal already.
These distraction-oholics. These focus-ophobics.
Old George Orwell got it backward.
Big Brother isn't watching. He's singing and dancing. He's pulling rabbits out of a hat. Big Brother's busy holding your attention every moment you're awake. He's making sure you're always distracted. He's making sure you're fully absorbed.
"This isn't about love and hate," Helen says. It's about control. People don't sit down and read a poem to kill their child. They just want the child to sleep. They just want to dominate. No matter how much you love someone, you still want to have your own way."
Either an ancient cursed Egyptian mummy has come back to life and is trying to kill the people next door, or they're watching a movie.
Every place is the same place. Kadzu. Zebra mussels. Water hyacinths. Starlings. Burger Kings.
The local natives, anything unique gets squeezed out.
"The only biodiversity we're going to have left," he says, "is Coke versus Pepsi."