I loved him, but love isn't enough. All the fairy tales, the romance novels, the soap operas; they're all lies. Love does not conquer all.

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A spider brings good luck before midnight and bad luck after.

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Everything comes home, my mother used to say; every word spoken, every shadow cast, every footprint in the sand. It can't be helped; it's part of what makes us who we are.

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Children are knives, my mother once said. They don’t mean to, but they cut. And yet we cling to them, don’t we, we clasp them until the blood flows.

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Bring it on, fur-ass!

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This was an unpleasant trend. I didn’t want a lot of guys popping in and out of my bedroom. I wanted one who would stay.

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I trudged back to my bedroom and pushed the door open, intending to wash my face or brush my teeth or make some stab at smoothing my hair, because I thought it might make me feel a little less trampled. Eric was sitting on my bed, his face buried in his hands. He looked up at me as I entered, and he looked shocked. Well, no wonder, what with the very thorough takeover and traumatic changing of the guard. Sitting here on your bed, smelling your scent,” he said in a voice so low I had to strain to hear it. Sookie . . . I remember everything.” Oh, hell,” I said, and went in the bathroom and shut the door. I brushed my hair and my teeth and scrubbed my face, but I had to come out. I was being as cowardly as Quinn if I didn’t face the vampire. Eric started talking the minute I emerged. “I can’t believe I—” Yeah, yeah, I know, loved a mere human, made all those promises, was as sweet as pie and wanted to stay with me forever,” I muttered. Surely there was a shortcut we could take through this scene. I can’t believe I felt something so strongly and was so happy for the first time in hundreds of years,” Eric said with some dignity. “Give me some credit for that, too.

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It was beautiful Eric, who desired me, who was hungry for me, in a world that often let me know it could do very well without me.

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Because he sounded so lost-the Eric I knew had never been one to do anything other than assume others should serve him-I patted around under the covers for his hand. When I found it, I slid my own over it. His palm was turned up to meet my palm, and his fingers clasped mine. And though I would not have thought it possible to go to sleep holding hands with a vampire, that's exactly what I did.

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Come on," I said, taking his hand. Clutching the afghan with the other hand, he trailed down the hall after me, a snow white giant in tiny red underwear.

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Food that walked and talked, that was us. McPeople.

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Should I just bite you, and end it all?", he whispered. "I would never have to think about you again. Thinking about you is an annoying habit and one I want to be rid of.

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Sookie, Sookie. My bullshit meter is reading that as 'false'.

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Did we have sex?" he asked directly. For about two minutes, this might actually be fun. "Eric," I said, "we had sex in every position I could imagine, and some I couldn’t. We had sex in every room in my house, and we had sex outdoors. You told me it was the best you’d ever had." (At the time he couldn’t recall all the sex he’d ever had. But he’d paid me a compliment.) "Too bad you can’t remember it," I concluded with a modest smile. Eric looked like I’d hit him in the forehead with a mallet. For all of thirty seconds his reaction was completely gratifying.

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This was an unpleasant trend. I didn’t want a lot of guys popping in and out of my bedroom. I wanted one who would stay.

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And then there are the rare ones who know love, who understand it. Who freely give of themselves, demanding only a return of that love,that trust.

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har akkurat begynt, har lest meg inn i den spanske borgerkrigen. Herregud så godt han skriver. For en fortelling og for en forteller. Det litterære nivået til en styrmann født i 1905 overgår det meste om ikke alt av de seinere krigshistorikernes skrifter. Roy Jacobsens Bratteli biografi er det eneste jeg kan tenke meg som er like godt skrevet som det jeg har lest til nå.

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"However", Norry said, raising a slender finger. "I have reason to belive that Duhara Sedai may have had a hand in the document you seem to be treating with... um... unusual reverence." He glanced at the pages Elayne had tossed to the floor. One bore the distinct outline of her shoe.

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The air smelled good - of ale, smoke, and of the washcloth that had recently wiped the counter. He liked that. There was something calming about a good, rowdy tavern that was also kept clean. Well, clean as was reasonable, anyway. Nobody liked a tavern that was too clean. That made a place feel new. Like a coat that had never been worn or a pipe that had never been smoked.

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Tja, eg tvilar på at det finnes mange mennesker som kan seiast å ha den "dannelsen" som det her er snakk om..

Sjølv såg eg på dette sitatet, som ein slags "litteraturteoretikarens trøyst" - det er berre eit fåtall som leser tekstene det her er snakk om, men teoretikarane kan trøyste seg med at dei er heva over resten av oss og har "de dannedes dannelse".

Leo Löventhal hevder at Hamsun (og Ibsen) høyrer til høgdepunktene i den ideologikritiske tradisjonen, så det er nok godkjent å lese desse for å oppnå "dannelse". Om du ynskjer å verte endå meir "danna", skal du vissnok lese Balzac og Thomas Mann.

Lukke til på vegen mot "de dannedes dannelse".

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