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, November 14, 2011
The weekend
's post will have to wait, I can't do it justice on the sleep deprivation I am currently suffering.
It was AMAZING!
In other news, I ordered my first Bountiful Basket in Texas. I am SOOO excited for my fresh fruits and vegetables on Saturday.
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