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Ingvild S siterer The Goldfinch av Donna Tartt (side 852)
23:27, 28. august 2014 Ingen har det som favoritt.
Why am I made the way I am? Why do I care about all the wrong things, and nothing at all for the right ones? How can I see so clearly that everything I love or care about is illusion, and yet - for me, anyway - all that`s worth living for lies in that charm?
Why am I made the way I am? Why do I care about all the wrong things, and nothing at all for the right ones?
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