Bokelskere.no

You’re going to die some day without ever having had enough trouble in your life. Not of the right kind anyway.

He wanted to think of words that would make some difference but there were none in any language he knew that were sufficient to the moment or that would change a single thing.

It seems to me nothing man has done or built on this land is an improvement over what was here before.

It was not Death, for I stood up,
And all the Dead, lie down—
It was not Night, for all the Bells
Put out their Tongues, for Noon.

It was not Frost, for on my Flesh
I felt Sirocos—crawl—
Nor Fire—for just my Marble feet
Could keep a Chancel, cool—

And yet, it tasted, like them all,
The Figures I have seen
Set orderly, for Burial,
Reminded me, of mine—

As if my life were shaven,
And fitted to a frame,
And could not breathe without a key,
And ‘twas like Midnight, some—

When everything that ticked—has stopped—
And Space stares all around—
Or Grisly frosts—first Autumn morns,
Repeal the Beating Ground—

Henri Duchemin, groping for matches, knocked over objects he did not recognize.
Weary from searching, he sat in the armchair and closed his eyes so as not to see the darkness.

»Dengang jeg var lille, forestillede jeg mig, at hvis jorden blev betragtet udefra af rumvæsener, så ville de tro, at planetenes herskere er en sær race kaldet biler. De fleste har fire hjul, men der findes også store bæster med op til 12 kæmpehjul og mindre skabninger med bare to. Bilerne betjenes af tobenede små-dyr, der tilbringer livet med at varte dem op; jævnligt skal bilerne fodres med flydende føde og helbredes efter sygdomme og ulykker; selv ved bilernes fødsel og død medvirker de tobenede slavedyr, som anbringes i kasser overalt, hvor bilerne kommer frem, klar til at blive taget med, når en bil vil et nyt sted hen. Slavedyrene bygger og vedligeholder komplekse netværk av veje, der lader bilerne bevæge sig problemfrit fra sted til sted.«

Jeg hadde ingen plan, ikke noe bestemt mål, bare en svært vag følelse av at jeg ville gjøre klokt i å bevege meg mot sørvest; at hvis det skulle bryte ut borgerkrig i Frankrike, ville det ta lang tid før den nådde det sørvestre hjørnet av landet. Jeg visste så godt som ingenting om det sørvestlige Frankrike, bortsett fra at det er en region der man spiser syltet and; og syltet and forekommer meg å være lite forenlig med borgerkrig.

Men nå er vi her. Dette er vårt liv. Og hver morgen når jeg våkner, prøver jeg å ha Bestefar Elmers stemme i hodet: «Du kunne vært mange andre steder, Tarak, men akkurat nå er du her!»

To his son and his daughter he was a loving but bad father. To his own parents he had been an ungrateful child.To his country, an indifferent citizen. To his brothers and his sister, affectionate but remote. With his friends, an egotist. With love, lazy. With brightness, dull. With power, passive. With his own soul, evasive.

So there’s no geography in this story. Generally speaking, it takes place in three settings of national importance: the city, whether that one or another one; the mountains, where you take refuge when you’re attacked or you want to make war; and the village, which is for each and every one of us the ancestral home.

He’s writing about a gunshot, and he makes it sound like poetry!

It sounds trite, but only because words make everything true sound trite. Because words always screw up whatever you’re trying to say.