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"So let me give you the layout. Me sitting at the table, on my left, the newspaper, on my right, the cup of coffee, in the middle of the table, the packet of biscuits." "I see it perfectly." "What you don't see," said Arthur, "because I haven't mentioned him yet, is the guy sitting at the table already. He is sitting there opposite me." "What's he like?" "Perfectly ordinary. Briefcase. Business suit. He didn't look," said Arthur, "as if he was about to do anything weird." "Ah. I know the type. What did he do?" "He did this. He leaned across the table, picked up the packet of biscuits, tore it open, took one out, and . . ." "What?" "Ate it." "What?" "He ate it." Fenchurch looked at him in astonishment. "What on earth did you do?" "Well, in the circumstances I did what any red-blooded Englishman would do. I was compelled," said Arthur, "to ignore it." "What? Why?" "Well, it's not the sort of thing you're trained for, is it? I searched my soul, and discovered that there was nothing anywhere in my upbringing, experience, or even primal instincts to tell me how to react to someone who has quite simply, calmly, sitting right there in front of me, stolen one of my biscuits." "Well, you could . . ." Fenchurch thought about it. "I must say I'm not sure what I would have done either. So what happened?" "I stared furiously at the crossword," said Arthur, "couldn't do a single clue, took a sip of coffee, it was too hot to drink, so there was nothing for it. I braced myself. I took a biscuit, trying very hard not to notice," he added, "that the packet was already mysteriously open. . . ." "But you're fighting back, taking a tough line." "After my fashion, yes. I ate the biscuit. I ate it very deliberately and visibly, so that he would have no doubt as to what it was I was doing. When I eat a biscuit," said Arthur, "it stays eaten." "So what did he do?" "Took another one. Honestly," insisted Arthur, "this is exactly what happened. He took another biscuit, he ate it. Clear as daylight. Certain as we are sitting on the ground." Fenchurch stirred uncomfortably. "And the problem was," said Arthur, "that having not said anything the first time, it was somehow even more difficult to broach the subject the second time around. What do you say? 'Excuse me ...I couldn't help noticing, er...' Doesn't work. No, I ignored it with, if anything, even more vigor than previously." "My man..." "Stared at the crossword again, still couldn't budge a bit of it, so showing some of the spirit that Henry V did on St. Crispin's Day . ." "What?" "I went into the breach again. I took," said Arthur, "an-other biscuit. And for an instant our eyes met." "Like this?" "Yes, well, no, not quite like that. But they met. Just for an instant. And we both looked away. But I am here to tell you," said Arthur, "that there was a little electricity in the air. There was a little tension building up over the table. At about this time." "I can imagine."” "We went through the whole packet like this. Him, me, him, me..." "The whole packet?" "Well, it was only eight biscuits, but it seemed like a lifetime of biscuits we were getting through at this point. Gladiators could hardly have had a tougher time." "Gladiators," said Fenchurch, "would have had to do it in the sun. More physically gruelling." "There is that. So. When the empty packet was lying dead between us the man at last got up, having done his worst, and left. I heaved a sigh of relief, of course. "As it happened, my train was announced a moment or two later, so I finished my coffee, stood up, picked up the newspaper, and underneath the newspaper ..." "Yes?" "Were my biscuits."

— So Long, and Thanks for All the Fish by Douglas Adams, Martin Freeman (Narrator) (The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, #4)

«Hva vil det si å elske mujahedin?» spurte jeg

«Å elske Allah og sharia. Å ikke eie telefoner. Mullaen har sagt at de som har stor telefon, ikke følger sharia.»

Stor telefon var det lokale begrepet på smarttelefon. Smarttelefon var synonymt med å synde. Internett var djevelen som lokket gudfryktige kvinner og menn til et syndig liv.

— Tusen dager med Taliban by Ayesha Wolasmal

Elisabet, som bare ville spise mat av skikkelige råvarer, laget alt fra bunnen av og lærte av Tore Wretman. Hun hadde vært i Paris og spist ekte pommes frites, og kunne for sitt bare liv ikke forstå Ragnars begeistring for halvfabrikata og kunstige pulvere, han som hadde vokst opp med mor Sveas matlaging og baking.

På grunn av sin konkrete legning så hun ikke at Ragnars mani for pulvermat var ideologisk: Det moderne mennesket hadde via teknikken tatt makten over naturen i sitt eget øyemed, oppløst maten i dens bestanddeler og gjenskapt den i en praktisk pulverforpakning. Kontrollerbar, lett å bære hjem, enkel å tilberede, demokratisk.

Ragnar forsøkte å forklare, men Elisabet hørte ikke særlig godt etter, så ikke rekkevidden av tankearbeidet som lå bak ordene hans og avfeide det på sin litt åndsfraværende måte med at man ikke kunne manipulere naturen uten at det straffet seg. Dette betraktet han som en lettkjøpt og innholdsløs frase med utspring i en gammeldags overtroisk tenkemåte.

Ragnar hadde sett mor Sveas tid bli slukt av arbeid i hjemmet. Vasken som tok flere dager, bæringen av kjeler, den omstendelige oppvarmingen av vann, hvordan hun stadig var opptatt med oppvask, borddekking, baking og matlaging. Den uhyggelige meningsløsheten i det. Hun måtte befris fra alt dette som ikke hadde noen annen hensikt enn seg selv.

Derfor satte han sin lit til den nye matlagingen som hadde gjort sitt inntog i landets kjøkkener. Kjemikerne hadde eksperimentert fram all mulig slags god og nærende mat.

Pulveret skulle bli menneskets tjener og kvinnens befrier.

Som ungkar hadde Ragnar prøvd alle de pulvere han kom over og funnet dem fenomenale. Nå kunne selv den som ikke greide å lage potetkaker, brun saus eller crema catalana få spise sånt til hverdags. Pulverformen hadde også den fordel at man kunne sette sammen den perfekte næringsverdien. Folk behøvde ikke lenger å bli tykke, dorske og syke som mor Svea og Gunnar.

Den nye pulvermaten var et systematisert mirakel, uttenkt og skapt av mennesket. Ragnar syntes det så lyst ut for menneskeheten, og særlig for svenskene som kuttet alle bånd bakover.

— Sveas sønn by Lena Andersson, Ingar Kristiansen (Narrator), Bodil Engen (Translator) (Folkhemmet, #1)