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I’m always so ashamed when I discover how well-read other people are and how ignorant I am in comparison. If you saw the long list of famous books and authors I’ve never read you wouldn’t believe it. My problem is that while other people are reading fifty books I’m reading one book fifty times. I only stop when at the bottom of page 20, say, I realize I can recite pages 21 and 22 from memory. Then I put the book away for a few years.

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She sets her alarm for six every morning and reads in bed till seven; she said if she hadn’t formed that habit, she’d never find time to read anything. As it is, it seems to me she’s read everything.

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Hun vasset utover til det plutselig ble dypt og hun kjente gyset av slimete sjøgress mot lårene. Da vannet nådde henne til brystkassen, trakk hun pusten, la seg på rygg og svømte utover. Nå, sa hun til seg selv, i dette øyeblikket, var hun akkurat det hun skulle være i livet. Hun så på horisonten og tok seg i å sende en takk til noe hun egentlig ikke trodde på.

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Sometimes the people you loved left you halfway through a story.
Sometimes they left you without a goodbye.
And, sometimes, they stayed around in little ways. In the memory of a musical. In the smell of their perfume. In the sound of the rain, and the itch for adventure, and the yearning for that liminal space between one airport terminal and the next.

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Change wasn’t always a bad thing, like my aunt had convinced herself to believe. It wasn’t always a good thing, either. It could be neutral—it could be okay.
Things changed, people changed.
I changed, too. I was allowed to. I wanted to. I was.

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And, in turn, that monster didn’t let her see all the things she would miss. The birthdays. The anniversaries. The sunsets. The bodega on the corner that had turned into that shiplap furniture store. The monster closed her eyes to all the pain she would give the people she left—the terrible weight of missing her and trying not to blame her all in the same breath. And then you started blaming yourself. Could you have done something, been that voice that finally broke through? If you loved them more, if you paid more attention, if you were better, if you only asked, if you even knew to ask, if you could just read between the lines and—
If, if, if.
There is no easy way to talk about suicide.
Sometimes the people you love don’t leave you with goodbyes—they just leave.

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It still smelled the same as I remembered. Of old books and weathered leather and crinkly paperbacks with broken spines, romances and adventures and fantasies and travel guides, paperweights to picture books. When she wasn’t traveling, my aunt read. She pored over stories, drowned herself in words. In the summers between our adventures, she’d build a pillow fort and crawl underneath it, lit with fairy lights and lavender-scented candles in mason jars, and we’d read together. Sometimes I spent entire weekends adventuring with Eloise or solving mysteries with Harriet.
There was something just so reassuring about books. They had beginnings and middles and ends, and if you didn’t like a part, you could skip to the next chapter. If someone died, you could stop on the last page before, and they’d live on forever. Happy endings were definite, evils defeated, and the good lasted forever.

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I didn’t want to write books myself, but I loved the idea of some long-dead or long-forgotten travel guide waxing about cathedrals of old and shrines of forgotten gods. I loved how a book, a story, a set of words in a sentence organized in the exact right order, made you miss places you’ve never visited, and people you’ve never met

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She couldn’t resist picking up an Austen. It was a copy of Pride and Prejudice with a floral cover she had never seen before. She held it lovingly. There was something about seeing an old friend in a place where she had thought she knew no one. It sent a little happy ringing through her body.

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This was clearly a wonderful, well-loved bookstore. Bookshop She had to get it in her mind that it was a bookshop. Before her were the books. On display tables, squeezed into bookcases along the wall, and stacked in a sturdy pile in the corner. It was a place that she would love visiting, if she lived here.

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She looked around and was transfixed by the bookish room. The place wasn’t big enough for aisles. Instead, solid wooden bookshelves lined all the walls of the bookstore and cheerful overhead lights lit the back of the store. Resting her hands on the table in front of her, she breathed in deeply. Like she anticipated, the room did smell deliciously rich with the scent of paper, which delighted her.

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The sun shone through the window and painted a stripe of sunlight onto the armchair just inside. She could almost smell the special scent of fresh new books and anticipate the feeling of the smooth covers in her hands.

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Lucy wandered back into the bookshop. She longed to grab a book from the shelves, settle into the armchair, and just read the day away.

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While she waited for Sam, her eyes rested on the satisfying order of the books stacked on the shelves. In each book was a possibility of joy: a magical place to visit, a hero or heroine to meet, or a new friend to make. With grief, books allowed a chance to revisit a story you once shared with the person you had lost.

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The comfort she had felt in the pages of books had become so important in the past few years that she liked to have books around her. She had become a permanent resident of several mythical towns in the many mystery series she liked to read.

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Jeg har lest noen bøker av Shari Lapena og lurer på om denne blir min siste.

Grunnen er at bøkene hennes minner meg veldig på bøkene av Ruth Ware. De kommer opp med noen gode konsepter, men fortellerstemmene blir noe flatt og forutsigbart. Ingen lykkelig familie hadde et godt konsept og mistenker at jeg ville ha likt den bedre hvis den var skrevet av noen andre.

En spesiell familie
Ingen lykkelig familie er uansett om en rikmannsfamilie som aldri har vært lykkelig, stort sett på grunn av den kravstore faren i familien. Han har alltid vært kravstor til de voksne barna hans, og aldri hatt noe nært forhold til dem. Rikmannskfamilier er kjent for å overlate barna til de andre bare fordi de kan. Hans kone er den som ikke tør å gå i mot ham.

Etter en påskemiddag, blir foreldrene deres funnet myrdet på en brutal måte i deres eget hjem. Det går rykter om at det må være en av barna deres, eller elsker bare naboene deres sladder?

Ikke en forfatter for alle
Jeg har lest tre bøker av Lapena i skrivende stund: Ingen lykkelig familie, Naboparet og A Stranger in the House. Så har prøvd bøkene hennes på norsk og engelsk. Det har ikke noe med oversettelsene å gjøre at jeg ikke er helt begeistret for bøkene hennes. Det er nok fortellerevnen som ikke engasjerer helt og bøkene hennes blir fort for lette. Det krever ikke mye å lese dem og fungerer best som grei underholdning der og da. Det samme gjelder Ingen lykkelig familie. Syntes mange av karakterene var interessante å lese om, spesielt Dan, men det var ikke nok.

Fascinerende familiedynamikk og harde bud som var underholdende og engasjerende å lese om, men ellers var Ingen lykkelig familie noe langdryg og masete. Tror nok dette blir min siste bok av Lapena siden jeg ikke får mye connection til bøkene hennes.

Fra min blogg: I Bokhylla

Eksemplar fra Gyldendal, mot en ærlig anmeldelse.

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Tradisjonell krim, hvor en podcaster er etterforskeren (litt gøy det da)

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Fantastisk inspirerende bok, skrevet og lest på en morsom måte. Anbefales til alle som vil bli sporty og uredd, men ikke får det helt til

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Sist sett

Kirsten LundMarit HøvdeIreneleserFiolingar hAnette Christin MjøsJ FHarald KTine SundalPer LundKaramasov11RufsetufsaInge KnoffAkima MontgomeryJane Foss HaugenJulie StensethSigrid NygaardHarald AndersenBjørg L.Synnøve H HoelAgneslillianerKarin BergIngunn STom-Erik FallaSigrid Blytt TøsdalGroMads Leonard Holvikmay britt FagertveitNorahMcHempettEvaStig TThereseMarit HeimstadLailaHannesomniferumTonje-Elisabeth StørkersenTralte