God søndag og velkommen til nye smakebiter!
I dag er barnebarnet mitt her og vi skal prøve å få sett noe av den delvise solformørkelsen i dag. Jeg var akkurat ute og tittet og da var det skyer foran solen, så vi får følge med om skyene flytter litt på seg.
Jeg leser fremdeles serien om Clara Wahl. I Norge kaller vi slike bøker serieromaner, kiosklitteratur og husmorporno. Ikke så vakre navn, og den type litteratur har svært lav status. Hva kaller man dem i Sverige?
Tidligere fant en ingen slike serier på biblioteket, men det har endret seg. Hos oss har vi en 10-15 serier, og nabobibliotekene våre omtrent det samme antall, bare andre serier. Så sender vi serier oss imellom etter behov. Jeg har tidligere lest Margit Sandemo, som også kommer inn under dette begrepet, og en annen serie av Natalie Normann som har skrevet Clara Wahl. Men det er alt, så jeg tenkte at dette var et område jeg trengte å sette meg bedre inn i.
Men jeg leser andre bøker innimellom, og nå er jeg nettopp ferdig med The Cat Who Saved Books av Sosuke Natsukawa. Så den skal du få smakebit fra:
Books can’t live your life for you. The reader who forgets to walk on his own two feet is like an old encyclopaedia, his head stuffed with out-of-date information. Unless someone else opens it up, it’s nothing but a useless antique.
I think the power of books is that – that they teach us to care about others. It’s a power that gives people courage and also supports them in turn. [. . .] Empathy – that’s the power of books
Inaction in the face of such hard knowledge is at best cowardice; at worst, it’s a rejection of the value of truth, an admission that you prefer a life of lies in spite of the horrors that metastasize from the compounding deceits.
“I can believe things that are true and things that aren’t true and I can believe things where nobody knows if they’re true or not.
It’s never enough, is it? Time. We always think we have so much of it, but when it really counts, we don’t have enough at all.
Witch. The word slithers from the mouth like a serpent, drips from the tongue as thick and black as tar. We never thought of ourselves as witches, my mother and I. For this was a word invented by men, a word that brings power to those that speak it, not those that it describes. A word that builds gallows and pyres, turns breathing women into corpses.
Ver observante når de nyttar dei sterkaste verkemidla i språket. Det sa eg alltid til elevane mine. Nyttar de dei for mykje, då mister dei krafta si. Men, la eg til, ver heller ikkje så tørre at de aldri nyttar dei.
There were not enough pages in all the books Elm had read, in all the libraries he’d wandered, in all the notebooks he’d scrawled, that could measure—denote or describe—just how beautiful she was.
First, there was trust. Then, there was betrayal. You cannot have one without the other. You cannot be betrayed by someone you do not trust … what you have learned is the same heart-wrenching journey of every woman to whom I have sold a poison. And it is, indeed, the same path for me.
We take your bags and send them in all directions – Dansk flyselskap