I like big books and I cannot lie
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64% complete! Eivind (like the Terrible) has read 64 of 100 books.
Herzog is a man seeking balance, trying to regain a foothold on his life. Thrown out of his ex-wife’s house, …
Piranesi lives in the House. Perhaps he always has.
In his notebooks, day after …
Perhaps (I hypothesised freely) the Prophet believed that the fifteen people who inhabited my Halls should be counted as one set of People, while in the Far Distant Halls there lived another set and he ought to be counted as one of them. Perhaps among his own People he was the Third Person or the Tenth. Perhaps he was even some dizzyingly high number like the Seventy-Fifth Person!
But I digress into what is surely fantasy.
Piranesi lives in the House. Perhaps he always has.
In his notebooks, day after …
I owe so much to the Other’s generosity. Without him I would not sleep snug and warm in my sleeping bag in Winter. I would not have notebooks in which to record my thoughts.
That being said, it occurs to me to wonder why it is that the House gives a greater variety of objects to the Other than to me, providing him with sleeping bags, shoes, plastic bowls, cheese sandwiches, notebooks, slices of Christmas cake etc., etc., whereas me it mostly gives fish.
Piranesi lives in the House. Perhaps he always has.
In his notebooks, day after …
Birds are not difficult to understand. Their behaviour tells me what they are thinking. Generally it runs along the lines of: Is this food? Is this? What about this? This might be food. I am almost certain that this is. Or occasionally: It is raining. I do not like it.
@BEZORP@books.theunseen.city Thank you. I really am so far :)
Piranesi lives in the House. Perhaps he always has.
In his notebooks, day after …
Får meg til å tenke på Mads Rages "Og skipet siglar vidare".
Piranesi lives in the House. Perhaps he always has.
In his notebooks, day after …
Since the World began it is certain that there have existed fifteen people. Possibly there have been more; but I am a scientist and must proceed according to the evidence. Of the fifteen people whose existence is verifiable, only Myself and the Other are now living.
Piranesi lives in the House. Perhaps he always has.
In his notebooks, day after day, he makes a clear …
Was it more honourable to starve than to steal? Many people would say yes, though rarely those who’d actually experienced an empty belly, or a child whimpering with its own hunger. Was it more honourable to starve than to steal when others had the means to feed you but chose not to, unless you paid with money you did not have? He thought not. By choosing to starve you became your own oppressor, keeping yourself in line, harming yourself for having the temerity to be poor, when by rights that ought to be a constable’s job. Show any initiative or imagination and you were called lazy, shifty, crafty, incorrigible. So he’d dismissed talk of honour; it was just a way of making the rich and powerful feel better about themselves and the powerless and poverty-stricken feel worse.
— Matter by Iain M. Banks
There’s a kind of magic in masks. Masks conceal one face, but they reveal another. The one that only comes …
There’s a kind of magic in masks. Masks conceal one face, but they reveal another. …
He looked up. Standing in the air, at eye-level, was a robed figure about six inches high. A bony nose, with bent grey whiskers, protruded from the hood. Tiny skeletal fingers gripped a very small scythe. Mr Pounder nodded thoughtfully to himself. You didn't rise to membership of the Inner Circle of the Guild of Rat catchers without hearing a few whispered rumours. Rats had their own Death, they said, as well as their own kings, parliaments and nations. No human had ever seen it, though. Up until now. He felt honoured. He'd won the Golden Mallet for most rats caught every year for the past five years, but he respected them, as a soldier might respect a cunning and valiant enemy. 'Er. . . I'm dead, aren't I. . . ?' SQUEAK. Mr Pounder felt that many eyes were watching him. Many small, shining eyes. 'And. . . what happens now?' SQUEAK. The soul of Mr Pounder looked at his hands. They seemed to be elongating, and getting hairier. He could feel his ears growing, and a certain rather embarrassing elongation happening at the base of his spine. He'd spent most of his life in a single-minded activity in dark places, yet even so. . .
'But I don't believe in reincarnation!' he protested. SQUEAK. And this, Mr Pounder understood with absolute rodent clarity, meant: reincarnation believes in you.
— Maskerade by Terry Pratchett, Peter Serafinowicz, Indira Varma (Narrator), and 1 other
Dette er historien om Hanne. Hun bestemte seg for å ta en master i idéhistorie …
Ingen ville bli gamle og ta farvel med verden, heller ikke Hanne. Hun fant seg ikke i sånt, det kom bare ikke til å skje. De siste skulle bli de første. Hun skulle komme de idiotisk selvopptatte venninnene i forkjøpet og bli professor, og mer enn det, hun skulle vise verden, hun skulle vise hvor inn i helvete mye alle gikk glipp av når de gikk glipp av henne. Hun skulle lage sitt eget tankesystem. Sånn var det. Hun var ridd av hybris, og det var kanskje like greit, for da fikk hun noe til å skje. Ja, Hanne var gudskjelov høy på pæra, og dette, i kombinasjon med en serie nattlige drømmer om sin rolle som fortolker av Romerriket fikk henne til å skride til handling og søke opptak som masterstudent.
