From Diane Setterfield's The Thirteenth Tale

People disappear when they die. Their voices, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. All living mempry of them ceases. This is both dreadful and natural. Yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation. For in the books they write they continut to exist. We can rediscover them. Their humour, their tone of voice, their moods. Through the written word they can anger you or make you happy. They can comfort you. They can perplex you. They can alter you. All this, even though they are dead. Like flies in amber, like corpses frozen in ice, that which according to the laws of nature should pass away is, by the miracle of ink on paper, preserved. It is a kind of magic.

--Diane Setterfield



Thursday, August 16, 2007

Stuffs that have happened in the interm


James got a piano. It's a upright grand. It is very heavy.

We were up until 4:30 moving this thing into his apartment. After our lever system failed us, we left it sitting in the stairwell while we ran to Walmart and purchased a pulley.

It was also very dirty.

I had fun... but then again I was not supporting it like Scott did.
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