When you go down make a good sunset.
Fra diktsamlingen BE ANGRY AT THE SUN av Robinson Jeffers.
This pallid comet announces more than kings' deaths.
To tail it with purer color I add
That the mountains are alive. They crouch like great cats
Our comic and mouse-hole tragedies, or lift high over
Peaks like sacred torches, pale-flaming rock.
The old blue dragon breathes at their feet, the eternal
Burn in the sky. The spirit that flickers and hurts in
Shines brighter from better lamps; but from all shines.
Look to it: prepare for the long winter: spring is fare off.
She got up,
climbed the attic stair in the dark, and stilly opened
the stairhead door. Bruce was hunched over a book, like a hawk
killing a rabbit; the smoky lamp by his shoulder
haloed him with dull light, the long room was cavernous
dark under the ship's-keel roof.
The mountains, those were real persons, head beyond
head, ridge, peak and dome
High dark on the gray sky; and the dark gullies and gorges
and the rock hearts . . . slightly tortured . . .
The raw sore of this road cut in their feet:
The slow anger of the coast mountains: they'll get their
After some time. Things will be better then.
Rock-slides will choke the road, no one will open it.
You dark young mountains are going up in the world, we
the people going down. Why? Because
nobody knows the difference between right and wrong.
So the wolves will come back to Europe. Here, poor
Slower we rot.
Hundrevis av svart-kvitt-foto som ikkje viste anna enn hendene mine. Hendene mine på gitarstrengar, hendene mine rundt mikken, hendene mine langs kroppen, hendene mine som kjærteiknar folkemengda, hendene mine som trykker andre hender i kulissane, hendene mine som held ein sigarett, hendene mine som tar på ansiktet mitt, hendene mine som skriv autografar, dei febrilske hendene mine, dei bønfallande hendene mine, hendene mine som slenger kyss og hendene mine som stikk sprøyter. Store og magre hender med blodårar som små elvar.
I think she cried at my funeral. It's not that I'm conceited or anything, but I'm pretty sure. Sometimes I can actually picture her talking about me to some guy she feels close to. Talking about me dying. About how they lowered me into the grave, kind of shrivelled up and pitiful, like an old chocolate bar. About afterwards the guy fucks her, a fuck that's all about making her feel better.
Det gikk opp for henne at en ikke behøver å elske sine foreldre, selv om det sto i Bibelen. Men en skulle la dem få leve i den verden de var, uten å trå på dem. Og hun bestemte seg for at foreldrene måtte gjøre seg fortjent til kjærlighet, ellers kunne de ingen få. Da fikk de greie seg med den de hadde skaffet seg selv.Hudløs himmel av Herbjørg Wassmo.
Hun hadde vært med Jørgen og noen av de andre ungene bak åsen en gang og sett på hestene som gikk der. Hingsten til presten ble aldeles vill og kom inn i gjerdet til hoppene. Tora kunne ikke forstå at det ikke var bedre skikk på prest-hesten.
She turned then and looked at him with eyes that seemed both to see and not to see him. 'I think there are several aspects of our marriage we're going to have to work on.'
'Babes,' he told her. 'You're dead.'
'That's one of those aspects, obviously.'
He left the drapes open, watched the lights of the cars and of the fast food joints through the window glass, comforted to know there was another world out there, one he could walk to any time he wanted.
he felt his mind
Clutch that clear form, as a man climbing a precipice
Clutches a horn of hard rock, “This will not flow
Out of my hand." He found himself for a lightning
Outside the flux and whirl of things, observing the world
From a fixed point. He saw the small spinning planet,
Spotted with white at the poles and dull red wars
Branding both cheeks, and the sun and the other stars like
herds of wild horses
On the vast field,