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



Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Another not-trip post

Jaedyn is getting into my purse. She is fascinated with my clear lip gloss, the cheap kind with a wand to spread the sticky goop onto your mouth. She was playing with it today, opening it and closing it. Then she came over to where I was computer-ing and offered to put some on me. She did up my lips purdy and when I told her I was all done, she gooped up her own lips. Then she closed the container and gave it back to me and hauled off to get some gum (her other new favorite thing).
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