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



Sunday, August 9, 2009

I come to my blog when I'm bored and in need of some snooping into other people's lives. SO I look at the post that is weeks and weeks old.. and turn to the links at the sidebar.
But recently I added Reader and now I can go to one place and see what updates have been made to every blog I sometimes run across. It's super convenient. But now when I come to my blog in boredom... I'm forced to post something, because I've just come from Reader and there is nothing new.

Ah, the irony.
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1 comment:

Janika said...

Sorry I haven't been able to feed you little need to tidbits of info lately. My computer is not getting online very well. I am using Mike's laptop during one of the precious moments when he is home.

August 19, 2009 at 7:29 PM

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