Bokelskere.no

They started leaving the apartment. One day they drove to Federal Hill to have pizza. Afterward, Leonard insisted that they go into a cheese shop. It was dark inside, the shades drwan. The smell was a presence in the room. Behind the counter, an old white-haired man was busy doing something they couldn't see. "It's eight degrees out," Leonard whispered, "and this guy won't open the windows. That's because he's got a perfect bacterial mix in here and he doesn't want to let it out. I read a paper where these chemists from Cornell identified two hundred different strains of bacteria in a tub of rennet. It's an aerobic reaction, so whatever's in the air affects the flavor. Italians know all that instinctively. This guy doesn't even know what he knows."

"How about couscous?" Larry said. "Mitchell, have you ever had couscous?"

"No."

"Oh, you have got to have couscous."

Claire made a wry face. "Whenever somebody comes to Paris," she said, "they have to go to the Latin Quarter and have couscous. Couscous in the Latin Quarter is so encoded!"

"You want to go somewhere else?" Larry said. "No," Claire said. "Let's be unoriginal."

The Pleshette's refrigerator was the first place Maitchell had encountered gourmet ice cream. He still remembered the thrill of it: coming down to the kitchen one morning, the majestic Hudson visible in the window, and opening the freezer to see the small round tub of exotically named ice cream. Not a greedy half gallon, as they had at Mitchell's house in Michigan, not cheap ice milk, not vanilla, chocolate, or strawberry but a flavor he had never dreamed of before, with a name as lyrical as the Berryman poems he was reading for his American poetry class: rum raisin. Ice cream that was also a drink! In a precious pint-size container. Six of these lined up next to six bags of dark French roast Zabar's coffee. What was Zabar's? How did you get there? What was lox? Why was it orange? Did the Pleshettes really eat fish for breakfast? Who was Diaghilev? What was a gouache, a pentimento, a rugelach? Please tell me, Mitchell's face silently pleaded throughout his visits.

Madeleine [...] nibbling all the treats, the nice-smelling fruit candies, the meaty drumsticks, as well as more sophisticated offerings, the biscotti flavored with anise, the wrinkly truffles, the salty spoonfuls of olive tapenade. She'd never been so busy in her life.

She kept her glasses on, left her hair loose, and walked over to Leonrad's apartment on Planet Street. On the way, she stopped at a market to buy a hunk of cheese, some Stoned Wheat Thins, and a bottle of Valpolicella.

Madeleine had the book in her lap. With her right hand she was eating peanut butter straight from the jar. The spoon fit perfectly against the curve of her upper palate, allowing the peanut butter to dissolve creamily against her tongue.

"You don't? Never had a little slice of Wisconsin cheddar with your apple pie? I'm sorry to hear that."

[...]

Finally, the waitress came over. Madeleine ordered the cottage cheese plate and coffee. Leonard ordered apple pie and coffee. When the waitress left, he spun his stool rightward, so that their knees briefly touched.

"How very female of you," he said.

"Sorry?"

"Cottage cheese."

"I like cottage cheese."

men det er kanskje ikke så mye man trenger til en tur i rommet? rent undertøy tannbørste negleklipper pass, kanskje noe å spise noe å drikke noe å puste

When I got home I mixed a stiff one and stood by the open window in the living room and sipped it and listened to the groundswell of traffic on Laurel Canyon Boulevard and looked at the glare of the big angry city hanging over the shoulder of the hills through which the boulevard had been cut. Far off the banshee wail of police or fire sirens rose and fell, never for very long completely silent. Twenty four hours a day somebody is running, somebody else is trying to catch him. Out there in the night of a thousand crimes, people were dying, being maimed, cut by flying glass, crushed against steering wheels or under heavy tires. People were being beaten, robbed, strangled, raped, and murdered. People were hungry, sick; bored, desperate with loneliness or remorse or fear, angry, cruel, feverish, shaken by sobs. A city no worse than others, a city rich and vigorous and full of pride, a city lost and beaten and full of emptiness. It all depends on where you sit and what your own private score is. I didn't have one. I didn't care. I finished the drink and went to bed.

I was neat, clean, shaved and sober, and I didn't care who knew it.

For denne ene gang, du skjønne kvinne,
Da jeg lot hjertet vrenges for å vinne
Din kjærlighet, da var du altfor vred.
Og vrangvillig du sendte meg avsted.
Men hvis du bare lytter, vil du finne
At jeg slett intet syndig har i sinne
Og vil du virkelig jeg skal forsvinne,
Så si du bare: «Gå min venn, i fred,
For denne ene gang.»

Jeg volder ingen skade ved å minne
Om flammen som du selv har tent her inne.
La meg få nyte i mitt ansikts sved
De frukter som din kropp er utstyrt med
For om du bare visste hvor jeg led,
Så lot du meg få tre deg på min pinne!
For denne ene gang.

Shakespeare is dangerous reading for talents in the process of formation: he forces them to reproduce him, and they imagine they are producing themselves.

Although Lord Byron's talent is wild and uncomfortable in its structure, hardly anyone can compare with him in natural truth and grandeur.

Now if he is not inclined to learn from more highly skilled contemporary or earlier artists what he himself lacks in order to be a true artist, he will lag behind his own potential because of a wrong-headed idea that he is safeguarding his own originality; for we own not just what we are born with, but also what we can acquire, and this is what we are.

I strid med den tradisjonelle filosofien utviklet Nietzsche den erkjennelsen, at også det som er blitt til, kan være sant, og dette er aksiomatisk for en ny orientering av estetikken.

Djerve, overhengende, nærmest truende klipper, tordenskyer som tårner seg opp på himmelen og trekker med seg lyn og brak, vulkaner i hele sin destruktive voldsomhet, orkaner som etterlater seg ødeleggelse, det grenseløse oseanet hensatt i opprør, et høyt vannfall fra en mektig elv og lignende ting gjør vår motstand til ubetydelig småtteri sammenlignet med deres makt. Men synet av disse tingene blir desto mer tiltrekkende jo frykteligere det er – forutsatt at vi befinner oss i sikkerhet. Og fordi de forøker den sjelelige styrken utover dens dagligdagse gjennomsnittsnivå og lar oss oppdage en evne til å stå imot av et helt annet slag, en evne som gir oss mot til å måle oss med naturens tilsynelatende allmakt, kaller vi gjerne disse gjenstandene opphøyde.

Dikteren er overalt, alt etter sitt begrep, naturens bevarere. Når de ikke lenger helt ut kan være dette, og allerede i sitt eget indre har erfart den ødeleggende innflytelse av vilkårlige og kunstige former eller i det minste har måttet kjempe mot den, da vil de tre fram som naturens vitner eller hevnere. De vil altså enten være natur, eller søke etter den tapte.

Schiller