If only one could clear out one's mind and heart as ruthlessly as one did one's wardrobe...

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...how can any real connection be established between two persons when one is eating and the other merely watching?

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But surely liking the same things for dinner is one of the deepest and most lasting thigs you could possibly have in common with anyone.

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... there was a certain pleasure in not doing something; it was impossible that one's high expectations should be disappointed by the reality.

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There's nothing so lonely as unemployment, even if you're on a queue with a thousand others.

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The waiter invited them to choose between the coq au vin and navarin of lamb, either of which, in other circumstances, would have been called stew.

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Decision is tormet for anyone with imagination. When you decide, you multiply the things you might have done and now never can.

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Tilda cared nothing for the future, and had, as a result, a great cpacity for happiness.

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She had a kind heart, though that is not of much use when it comes to matters of self-preservation.

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Søstre som hovedpersoner


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Like many other well-meaning people, they worried not so much about the dreadful things themselves as about their own inability to worry about them.

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Perhaps I really enjoyed other people’s lives more than I did my own.

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... why it is that we can never stop trying to analyse the motives of people who have no personal interest in us, in the vein hope of finding that perhaps they may have just a little after all

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Monica Kristensen skriver godt, hun dokumenterer godt og dette er en av de beste dokumentarbøkene jeg har lest fra etterkrigstiden i Norge. Alf R. Jacobsen må finne seg i å ligge en divisjon under. Men Kristensen/redaktør snubler på målstreken: Boken slutter med å spekulere i sekundene mot selve ulykken og da skjer en ekte slurvefeil, for siste setning i selve boka er: "Det er mandag 5. november 1963 og klokken har blitt 22:45.". Kings Bayulykken skjedde 5. november 1962, noe som er helt riktig skrevet i resten av boka.
Og Kristensen skriver i etterord at hun takker for hjelpen med romanen? Hvorfor i all verden er dette plutselig en roman nå, når både ingress, bakside og boka er en dokumentar? Et forsøk på knebling?

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If I ever wrote a novel it would be of the ‘stream of consciousness’ type and deal with an hour in the life of a woman at the sink.

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I heard myself murmuring politely that I had arrived too early, as if it were actually my fault that she was late.

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Aren't we all colleagues, in a sense, in this grim business of getting through life as best we can.

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Sytten av Juha Itkonen

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