Bokelskere.no

Abdul-Mickey pushed a plate of festering carbohydrate to a sunken old man whose trousers were so high up his body they were gradually swallowing him whole.

And then you begin to give up the very idea of belonging. Suddenly this thing, this belonging, it seems like some long, dirty lie... and I begin to believe that birthplaces are accidents, that everything is an accident. But if you believe that, where do you go? What do you do? What does anything matter?

'Do you know how battery chickens live?'

Irie didn't. Joshua explained. Cooped up for most of their poor chicken lives in total chicken darkness, packed together like chicken sardines in their chicken shit and fed the worst type of chicken grain.

And this belief in her ugliness, in her wrongness, had subdued her; she kept her smart-ass comments to herself these days, she kept her right hand on her stomach. She was all wrong.

He had to please all of the people all of the time. [...] Social chameleon. And underneath it all, there remained an ever present anger and hurt, the feeling of belonging nowhere that comes to people who belong everywhere.

It is odious to be reminded of one's children when one is calculating the exact shade and rigidity of a nipple that could so assert itself through a bra and shirt.

Millat's face fell, troubled that his answer did not seem to be the right one. He looed over at his father [Samad], who was gesticulating wildly behind the teacher, trying to convey the jerky head and hand movements of bharata natyam. (...) 'Thriiiii-ller!' sang Millat, full throated, believing he had caught his father's gist. 'Thriii-ller night! Michael Jackson, Miss! Michael Jackson!' Samad put his head in his hands. Miss Burt-Jones looked queerly at the small child standing on a chair, gyrating and grabbing his crotch before her. 'OK, thank you, Millat. Thank you for sharing... that.' Millat grinned. 'No problem, Miss.'

Du må ikke ta det ille opp.For min mening ække Guds ord,det skal Fanden vite,men det er fortsatt min mening.