Bokelskere.no

She laughed, shook her head. "Well, love is blind," she said.
"So they tell us," he sighed. "Can't see it myself."

He didn't understand women. He didn't understand men. He didn't even understand children very well. All he really understood, he thought, was himself and the rest of the universe.

'You know,' he said, 'if I had my way I wouldn't let anybody who believed in star signs or the Bible or faith healing or anything like that use electric power, or ride in cars and buses and trains and aircraft, or use anything made of plastic. They want to believe the universe works according to their crazy little rules? OK, let them live that way, but why should they be allowed to use the fruits of sheer fucking human genius and hard work, things produced only because people better than them once has the sense and the hope to - will you stop laughing at me?' He glared at her.

He believed in science, in maths and physics, in reason and understanding, in cause and effect. He loved elegance, and the sheer objective logic of scientific thought, which began by saying 'Suppose . . .' but could then build certainty, hard facts from that unprejudiced, unrestricted starting point. All faiths, it seemed, began imperatively by saying 'Believe:' and from this ultimately fearful insistency could conjure up only images of fear and domination, something to submit to but built of nonsenses, ghosts, ancient vapours.

It wiz this majishin that geez this thing, cald it a familyar soay did an it sits on ma showdder and gose jibber fukin jibber oll bludy day it gose. I cany stand the dam thing but am stuk with it I suppose an it wi me to, cumty think ov it. The majishin sed it woold help me; sed it would tel me things, which it duz alright, but I thaught he ment sum usefyull things no a lode a shite oll day. He wiz trying tay bribe me becose he thaught I was goantae kill him, whitch I wiz, an he sed if I didnae hed give us this reely intirestin an usefyull familiyar tay keep watch at niyht an give us oll that advyce an that.

I have an extensive wardrobe; it seems only polite, having been given so many well-made clothes, to give some thought to their effect. They are, after all, a language; they do not so much say things about us, they are what is said.

'Well, that would give me something to fight against, at least. No; I don't think there's any malice behind it all, just muddle, incompetence, apathy and inefficiency. You can't fight that; it's like trying to punch mist.'

"You're not upset, are you, Orr?" Brooke says, pouring wine into my glass.
"Merely sober. The symptoms are similiar."