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



Wednesday, December 10, 2008

At the races... c'omon Dover!... c'omon Dover!!!


We went to the races for dollar days. Entry was a dollar, food was a dollar, hot chocolate was a dollar and even though we did not utilize them, beer and betting books were a dollar.

But the best part were the boots! Everywhere! The demographics of the crowd were like this: Mexicans were short and in matching boots and belts (some had matching hats) and were very serious about their bets. All other person's were drunk and loud. Unless they had kids with them, there was a large group of those people. The building was a smoking facility and it was stinky!

We found a friend among all the weirdness. There was another couple pregnant with their first baby. She didn't drink either, and we watched the races and wrinkled our noses at the stinky building and chatted. It was a very fun time.
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1 comment:

Janika said...

Horses speed up. I have never been so keyed up.

December 13, 2008 at 9:29 PM

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