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
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Flickr
This is a test post from , a fancy photo sharing thing.
SO I have a flickr page... and I am figuring out how to use the blogger/ flicker relationship to my own devious purpose.
but so far, I can only upload one picture at a time...
, a fancy photo sharing thing.
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