Das dritte Quartal des Jahres geht nun auch langsam dem Ende entgegen und ich habe so ein bißchen das Gefühl, schon wieder vergessen zu haben, was ich in den letzten Monaten eigentlich so alles gelesen habe. Ich erinnere mich auf jeden Fall, dass ich immernoch 2 oder 3 Bücher herum liegen habe, die ich noch nicht zu Ende gelesen habe und es möglicherweise auch dabei belassen werde, weil sie mich einfach überhaupt nicht ansprechen oder bewegen und mir beim Lesen auch kein bißchen Freude machen. Sowas passiert mir glücklicherweise nicht oft, ganz im Gegenteil, es gibt so viele Bücher, die ich immer wieder gerne lese und die mich jedes Mal wieder aufs Neue verzaubern oder bewegen, ein paar davon habe ich in den vergangenen Wochen dann auch tatsächlich mal wieder aus dem Schrank geholt. Für den Blog habe ich mir dann gedacht, ich teile einfach wieder ein paar Zitate mit euch, dieses Mal jedoch nicht ausschließlich die Anfangssequenz, sondern jeweils eine andere Stelle aus jedem Buch – Ausschnitte aus Widmungen, Dialogen, romantischen und heroischen Szenen, dem Anfang, dem Ende und dem Nachwort. Viel Spass beim Lesen!
from Anansi Boys by Neil Gaiman
„You know how it is. You pick up a book, flip to the dedication, and find that, once again, the author has dedicated a book to someone else and not you. Not this time.
Because we haven’t met yet/ have only a glancing acquaintance/ are just crazy about each other/ haven’t seen each other in much too long/ are in some way related/ will never meet, but will, I trust, despite that, always think fondly of each other…
This one’s for you. With you know what, and you probably know why.“
from The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman
„There was a hand in the darkness, and it held a knife. The knife had a handle of polished black bone, and a blade finer and sharper than any razor. If it sliced you, you might not even know you had been cut, not immediately.
The knife had done almost everything it was brought to that house to do, and both blade and handle were wet. The street door was still open, just a little, where the knife and the man who held it had slipped in, and wisps of night-time mist slithered and twined into the house through the open door.“
A Dialogue (about Art)
from Skinny legs and all by Tom Robbins
„Ellen Cherry had commenced to unbutton his fly when, staring at the ceiling, he asked: ‚How do you people go about making pieces of art?‘
‚What do you mean?‘
‚Just what I said. How do you make art?‘
‚You ought to know. Didn’t you make that ’significant‘ turkey some famous museum bought and hasn’t paid for yet?‘
‚You know as well as me that I didn’t start out to make anything significant.‘
‚Artists hardly ever start out to make significant art. And if they do, it’s usually a flop. Help me with these buttons, hon.‘
‚I don’t get it.‘
‚And you’re not going to get it if we don’t take your pants off.‘
‚If artists don’t set out to make significant art, what do they do?‘
‚Oh, Boomer.‘ She sighed, and abandoned his fly. ‚Maybe they do set out to make something significant, in a roundabout sort of way, but it’s not like setting out to make something practical or useful. For one thing, it’s more like play than work. On the other hand, they don’t have a whole lot of choice in the matter. The good ones make art because they have to make it – even though they probably won’t understand why until after it’s already made.‘
‚But how do they know what to make?‘
‚That’s dedicated by their vision.‘
‚You mean it comes to ‚em like in a dream?‘
‚No, no, it’s seldom that dramatic. Listen, it’s really pretty simple. If there’s a thing, a scene, maybe, an image that you want to see real bad, that you need to see but it doesn’t exist in the world around you, at least not in the form that you envision, then you create it so that you can look at it and have it around, or show it to other people who wouldn’t have imagined it because they perceive reaility in a more narrow, predictable way. That’s all an artist does.’…“
A Small Moment of Intimacy between Lovers-to-be
from Fallen by Karin Slaughter
„Will didn’t look up. Instead he took her hand. His fingers laced through hers. His skin was warm, almost hot. He traced his thumb along the inside of her palm, the webbing between her fingers. Sara closed her eyes as he slowly explored every inch of her hand, caressing the lines and indentations, pressing his thumb gently against the pulse beating in her wrist. His touch was palliative. She felt her body starting to relax. Her breath took on an easy cadence that matched his.“
The Unusual Heroes
from The World’s Most Handsome Man by Edwin Heaven
„She cries again for help. Then hears a yelp. Then feels a tug. A pug. A little pugboat tugging. Get up, it seems to say with every lick of its tongue. And she does.
‚Oh, Charleston! Get me the fuck outta here, baby!‘
She grabs a hold of what looks like a belt wrapped around its little belly. Wayne’s belt, thank God: an extra large size- long enough so she doesn’t have to walk in a Groucho crouch. And so, on little, stubby legs, Charleston leads her though the flames. But Charleston knows no other way out and after lifting his leg and piddling on some flames, he guides her daringly through the billowing blackness. As he does, Judy’s thinking this whole mess is all her fault and that maybe she deserves to die, but not this precious little pup. And as Charleston escorts her safely through a dark column of smoke and past a brilliant explosion of fire, she sees the stairway, finally, and, lifting the dog, runs, then trips and tumbles, down the stairs, through the smoke and fire – fire she can feel all the way to her eyelashes.
Then she feels something else. A mighty weight. A mighty sweaty weight. Wayne! He has thrown himself on top of her and is smoothering the flames. Her dress, or what’s left of it, is scorched. So’s her hair; so’s her little Brazilian waxed landing patch. (That’s what she gets for not wearing undies.)“
from The Book of Lost Things by John Connolly
„The door of the cottage opened, and a woman appeared. She had dark hair and green eyes. In her arms she held a baby boy, barely out of the womb, who clutched at her blouse as she walked, for a lifetime was but a moment in that place, and each man dreams his own heaven. And in the darkness, David closed his eyes, as all that was lost was found again.“
from Every Dead Thing by John Connolly
„And I will sit on my porch as the wind takes the evergreens in hand, pressing and molding their branches into new shapes, creating a song from their leaves. And I will listen for the sound of a dog barking, its paws scraping on the worn boards, its tail moving lazily in the cool evening air; or the tap-tap-tap on the rail as my grandfather prepares to tamb the tobacco into his pipe, a glass of whiskey beside him warm and tender as a familiar kiss; or the rustle of my mother’s dress against a kitchen table as she lays out plates for the evening meal, blue on white, older than she is, old as a house.
Or the sound of plastic-soled shoes fading into the distance, disappearing into the darkness, embracing the peace that comes at last to every death thing.“