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, July 27, 2009

I purchased these Bergismanias from the local community college at the beginning of the summer. They were flowering and have come around for a second flowering this season. They smell wonderful, I wish I could capture the smell on camera. One day though, right?

 

 

 

 
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The flowers ares o heavy on one branch that they have made it bow down. Scott was noticing how they have opened more and are even more beautiful than when I took pictures the other day. So I ran outside and took pictures of them at night. I think they look stunning.
 

 

 

 
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