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



Monday, May 11, 2009

There is too much on my mind to write about

I mean I have all sorts of topics that I think the internet would like to know about, from what toothpaste I use to My feelings on Mother's Day to my siblings and their adventures... but I have a family now and I don't need to be spending so much time at the computer (Which is actually funny because I was at the computer looking at other people's blogs last night until my eyes hurt and when I went to bed all I saw were the marching ants found on TV...).
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