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,
Please don't encourage me to do any thing more than I am already doing.
Ha! yeah, too many hobbies and too little time and then there is yucky things like laundry and dishes that need to be done. AND I still need to finish Christmas presents for a few people. I'm nothing if not a little behind. :) AND I'm in a choir and I don't know how to teach myself the music. Ack!
2 comments:
Too many activities, I take it?
Ha! yeah, too many hobbies and too little time and then there is yucky things like laundry and dishes that need to be done.
AND I still need to finish Christmas presents for a few people. I'm nothing if not a little behind. :)
AND I'm in a choir and I don't know how to teach myself the music. Ack!
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