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, January 3, 2011

Dear Life,
I thought we agreed no more new projects. Why did you trick me into knitting again today?!? There is no way I can finish socks in the time I have available. None whatsoever. Even if it's a "simple" pattern.
Ugh. But thanks for the reminder to take some time for myself. It was nice to catch up with a firend and not stress about everything I'm not doing while I remembered how to knit and purl. The Zumba class was a nice finish, so thanks for that too.
I guess I kinda forgive you, until I remember that I have another project to finish (good thing I left it at my friend's house, huh?)
-me
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1 comment:

Janika said...

HA! Ha ha ha ha ha. After I wrote my blog, I figured I would come check in on you. Warning, if you read my blog, you might come to the conclusion that your agreement with life was just a little misunderstanding.

sh sh sh sh shhh.

January 9, 2011 at 3:02 PM

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