Bokelskere.no

"Have a drink!?"
"I don't need it," said Halloway. "But someone inside me does."
"Who?"
The boy I once was, thought Halloway, who runs like the leaves down the sidewalk autumn nights.

Like all boys, they never walked anywhere, but named a goal and lit for it, scissors and elbows. Nobody won. Nobody wanted to win. It was in their friendship they just wanted to run forever, shadow and shadow. Their hands slapped library door handles together, their chests broke track tapes together, their tennis shoes beat parallel pony tracks over lawns, trimmed bushes, squirreled trees, no one losing, both winning, thus saving their friendship for other times of loss.

People love to hate themselves, avoiding the
necessary recalibrations. Shame comes from vanity.
Shame means you're guilty, like the rest of us,
but you think you're better than we are. Maybe you
are.

To hide somewhere is not surrender,
it is trickery.

I mine dager regnet man det som godt nok når kvinnestrømpene så vidt rakk opp til buksekanten. og kvinnfolka ble ikke regnet som mindre dårlig parti av den grunn, men så var det da også mindre ufred blant kvinnfolkene, og kanskje ikke skikk å løfte skjørtene så høyt som nå for tiden.

What is alive and what isn't and what should we do
about it? Theories: about the nature of the thing. And
of the soul. Because people die. The fear: that nothing
survives. The greater fear: that something does.

The night sky is vast and wide.

....en gul bikkje følger ham, en arbeidsmannsbikkje med smal snute og yrende av lus, for den kaster seg stadig ned og biter seg iherdig, velter seg mellom tuene og denne særegne og urolige ulingen som kjennetegner lusete hunder. Og dette er ei bikkje som er sulten på vitaminer, for den spiser gress. Det er også tydelig at den har mark.

Nonfiction has crept closer to fiction in our time in ways that are not flattering to fiction, in part because too many writers cannot come to terms with the ways in which the past, like the future, is dark. There is so much we don't know, and to write truthfully about a life, your own or your mother's, or a celebrated figure's, an event, a crisis, another culture is to engage repeatedly with those patches of darkness, those nights of history, those places of unknowing. They tell us that there are limits to knowledge, that there are essential mysteries, starting with the notion that we know just what someone thought or felt in the absence of exact information.

Often enough, we don't know such things even when it comes to ourselves, let alone someone who perished in an epoch whose very textures and reflexes were unlike ours. Filling in the blanks replaces the truth that we don't entirely know with the false sense that we do. We know less when we erroneously think we know than when we recognize that we don't. Sometimes I think these pretenses at authoritative knowledge are failures of language: the language of bold assertion is simpler, less taxing, than the language of nuance and ambiguity and speculation.

I think a lot about that obliteration. Or rather that obliteration keeps showing up. I have a friend whose family tree has been traced back a thousand years, but no women exist on it. She just discovered that she herself did not exist, but her brothers did. Her mother did not exist, and nor did her father's mother. Or her mother's father. There were no grandmothers. Fathers have sons and grandsons and so the lineage goes, with the name passed on; the tree branches, and the longer it goes on the more people are missing: sisters, aunts, mothers, grandmothers, great-grandmothers, a vast population made to disappear on paper and in history. Her family is from India, but this version of lineage is familiar to those of us in the West from the Bible where long lists of begats link fathers to sons. The crazy fourteen-generation genealogy given in the New Testament's Gospel According to Matthew goes from Abraham to Joseph (without noting that God and not Joseph is supposed to be the father of Jesus). The Tree of Jesse—a sort of totem pole of Jesus's patrilineage as given in Matthew—was represented in stained glass and other medieval art and is said to be the ancestor of the family tree. Thus coherence—of patriarchy, of ancestry, of narrative—is made by erasure and exclusion.

Løitnantene Prackle og Tonder var unge spirrevipper,
studenter, løitnanter, inneksersert i dagens politikk ;

de trodde at det store nye system var oppfunnet av et
så overveldende geni at de ikke et øieblikk bekymret seg
med å undersøke dets resultater.

I oss alle finnes det en skremmende høytidelighet knyttet til det å «bryte» stillheten (eller det andre språket), unntatt hos disse snakkesalige som lik en naiv og tåpelig figur kaster seg hodestups ut i talen, og «tar» ordet med makt, uansett hvor det skulle være. Dette er hva man kaller «spontanitet».