Digt af bonnen der måske er skrevet forkert af.

Uden hjemmet, hvad er vi så,
flintrende begær, der forsvinder i kroppens dunkle rum, hidsige bevæ-
gelser bag øjnene. Streger af negle og lagnernes folder,
uden begæret, hvad er vi så,
fint forgrede programmer, den skabende kærligheds centre,
arbejdsmennesker, et nemt beskriveligt stykke arkitektur.
Alle disse dele, som samles i et hjem : hjemmet er rammen
for kærligheden. Hjemmet er det rum,
som du ikek blot skaber for familliens skyld, hjemmet er den skal,
som er endnu en del af dit jeg. Det er det sted hvor kærligheden
er sat til at vogte, og hjernen bog i et skab.
Kærligheden har huse på samvittigheden. Den bygger glade hjem
og huse til sine guder af frygt for, at vi skal miste hinanden.
Kærligheden skyder op mellem mennesker, resultatet er huse,
som vi må ofre til og til stadighed må udvikle sammen.

Begæret bygger mange sære kontruktioner,
begæret bygger flygtigere konstruktioner end husenes.
Begæret er sprækkerne i isen og tasterne på telefonen.
Det er flygtig arkitektur.

Shirley Jackson og wikipedia.

Dette er et plot summary fra Wikipedia af bogen 'we have always lived in castles', tror jeg. Der er vist en diskusion, en akademisk diskusion (i den dobbelte betydning af både virkelig at være akademisk og ligegyldig.) der handler om wikipedias unøjagtighed og måske mere generelt om nettets tendenser til at udflade, bl.a. fakta. Som sagt er diskusionen ligegyldig. Der sker hvad der sker og hvis man vil have noget at sige der til, må man skabe noget. Man skaber noget ved at være bagrstræberisk, men det har visse tendser til at afmontere sig selv igen, det man har skabt.
Nå men der er i hvert fald et punkt hvor Wikipedia nogen gange er mange gange mere suverænt end et hvilket som helst opslagsværk, det være et leksikon, eller mere specefikke bøger om forskellige emner og det er i plot opsurmeringer. Wikipedia er den perfekte blanding af saglighed og lidenskab. Der er i nogle af dem en sjælden evne til at kondensere ikke bare handlingens ydre træk, men også handlingens kondeseren af sig selv. Denne opsumering(nedenfor) er et eksempel. Den formår på ret godt tid, at skrue de forskellige elementer ind i hinanden, på en måde så den faktisk også opsurmere historiens bevægelse og ikke bare dens elementer. Det lyder fint, er sikkert ret ligegyldigt, men en vældig nydelse at læse ikke desto mindre.

Plot summary

The people in the village have always hated us.

The novel, narrated in first-person by 18-year-old Mary Katherine "Merricat" Blackwood, tells the story of the Blackwood family. A careful reading of the opening paragraphs reveals that the majority of this novel is a flashback.

Merricat, her elder sister Constance, and their ailing uncle Julian live in isolation from the nearby village. Constance has not left their home in six years, going no farther than her large garden and seeing only a select few family friends. Uncle Julian, slightly demented and confined to a wheelchair, obsessively writes and re-writes notes for an autobiography, while Constance cares for him. Through Uncle Julian's ramblings the reader begins to understand what has happened to the remainder of the Blackwood family: six years ago, both the Blackwood parents, an aunt (Julian's wife), and a younger brother were murdered — poisoned with arsenic, mixed into the family sugar and sprinkled onto blackberries at dinner. Julian, though poisoned, survived; Merricat, having been sent to bed without dinner as a punishment for an unspecified misdeed, avoided the arsenic, and Constance, who did not put sugar on her berries, was arrested for and eventually acquitted of the crime. The people of the village believe that Constance has gotten away with murder (her first action on learning of the family's illnesses was to scrub the sugar bowl), and the family is ostracized, leading Constance to become something of an agoraphobe. Nevertheless, the three Blackwoods have grown accustomed to their isolation, and lead a quiet, happy existence. Merricat is the family's sole contact with the outside world, walking into the village twice a week and carrying home groceries and library books, often followed by groups of the village children, who taunt her with a singsong chant:

Merricat, said Connie, would you like a cup of tea?
Oh no, said Merricat, you'll poison me.
Merricat, said Connie, would you like to go to sleep?
Down in the boneyard ten feet deep!

Merricat is a strange young woman, fiercely protective of her sister, prone to daydreaming and a fierce believer in sympathetic magic. As the major action unfolds, she begins to feel that a dangerous change is approaching; her response is to reassure herself of the various magical safeguards she has placed around their home, including a box of silver dollars buried near the creek and a book nailed to a tree. After discovering that the book has fallen down, Merricat becomes convinced that danger is imminent. Before she can warn Constance, a long-absent cousin, Charles, appears for a visit.

It is immediately apparent to the reader that Charles is pursuing the Blackwood fortune, which is locked in a safe in the house. Charles quickly befriends the vulnerable Constance. Merricat perceives Charles as a demon, and tries various magical means to exorcise him from their lives. Tension grows as Charles is increasingly rude to Merricat and impatient of Julian's foibles, ignoring or dismissing the old man rather than treating him with the gentle courtesy Constance has always shown. In an angry outburst between Charles and Julian, the level of the old man's dementia is revealed when he claims he has only one living niece: Mary Katherine, he believes, "died in an orphanage, of neglect" during Constance's trial.

In the course of her efforts to drive Charles away, Merricat breaks things and fills his bed with dirt and dead leaves. When Charles insists she be punished, Merricat demands, "Punish me?... You mean, send me to bed without my dinner?" She flees to an abandoned summerhouse on the property and loses herself in a fantasy in which all her deceased family members obey her every whim. She returns for dinner, but when Constance sends her upstairs to wash her hands, Merricat pushes Charles' still-lit pipe into a wastebasket filled with newspapers. The pipe sets fire to the family home, destroying much of the upper portion of the house. The villagers arrive to put out the fire, but, in a wave of long-repressed hatred for the Blackwoods, break into the remaining rooms and destroy them, chanting their children's taunting rhyme. In the course of the fire, Julian dies of what is implied to be a heart attack, and Charles shows his true colors, attempting to take the family safe (unsuccessfully, as is revealed later). Merricat and Constance flee for safety into the woods. Constance confesses for the first time that she always knew Merricat poisoned the family; Merricat readily admits to the deed, saying that she put the poison in the sugar bowl because she knew Constance would not take sugar.

Upon returning to their ruined home, Constance and Merricat proceed to salvage what is left of their belongings, close off those rooms too damaged to use, and start their lives anew in the little space left to them: hardly more than the kitchen and cellar. The house, now without a roof, resembles a castle "turreted and open to the sky". Merricat tells Constance they are now living "on the moon." The villagers, awakening at last to a sense of guilt, begin to treat the two sisters as mysterious creatures to be placated with offerings of food left on their doorstep. The story ends with Merricat observing, "Oh, Constance...we are so happy."

NABOKOV

Ja jeg har kun læst Lolita, eller havde... for nu er jeg kommet igang med Nabokov. Det startede med Look at the Harle1quins og det startede med det her citat. An extraordinary grandaunt, Baroness Bredow, born Tolstoy, amply replaced closer blood. As a child of seven og eight, already harboring the secrets of a confirmed madman, I seemed even to her (who also was far from normal) undully sulky and indolent; actually, of course, I kept daydreaming in a most outrageous fashion.
'Stop moping!' she would cry: ' Look at the Harlequins!'
'What harlequins? Where?'
'Oh, everywhere. All around you. Trees are harlequins, words are harlequins. So are situations and sums. Put two things together - jokes, images - and you get a tripple harlequin. Come on! Play! Invent the world! Invent reality!'.
I did. By jove, I did. 'Look at the harlequins', s. 13.
Bogen i sig selv er ikke meget værd, ikke meget værd i forhold til hvad Nabokov virkelig kan. Jeg har en hvis fornemmelse af at han leger med sit eget rygte, eller det er sgu ikke en fornemmelse, men jeg har en fornemmelse af at han leger med mere end jeg kan se, for jeg kender ikke hans rygte særlig godt. Uanset hvad er det lidt for selvsmagende til min smag, hvis man må sige sådan noget. Det skal siges, at selve skriften, stilen, hvad fanden man end kalder det, stadig er en fornøjelse, at bogen er læseværdig, at jeg faktisk slugte den.

Men derudover er han ganske enkelt for vild... der er ikke meget andet at sige, han har på sin helt egen måde det hele. Og så skriver han på indekskort og der kan jeg følge ham. Det skal være i hånden, en computer hvor man ikke kan finde det fysisk det holder ikke rigtig for mig. Det er klart, at Nabokov går lige ind i min kilde. Han har som sagt det hele. En nørdet hobby, som, viser det sig, slet ikke er en hobby. Niks han ved noget som sine sommerfugle og er 'Videnskabsmand', som alle de glade litterære mennesker er så glade for at påpege og man må grine ha ha ha ha. For de er så fucking dumme... det lyser ud af dem at de her siger... ja ja, vi har skam en, en der virkelig ved noget... og i samme øjeblik afslører de sig selv, at de virkelig ikke har et fucking clue... for hvad er det dog virkelig at vide noget. Han har et Clue, Nabokov, Han formår sgu noget med den viden. Han har en på en gang nær og distanceret stil. Han har humor i lange baner. Han er skarp og der er ingen slinger i valsen... han fucker dig i røven og det kan stadig og samtidigt betyde ganske meget andet, men han gør det. Det er virkelighed. Ligesom hans diskusioner af denne verdens ontologiske status... han benægter vist nok eksistensen af mulige verdner, dvs. forestillingen om, at der en uendelighed af mulige verdner, hvor alle de andre muligheder vi kunne have valgt udspiller sig med lige så høj grad af ontologisk eksistens som denne - vores verden. Det bliver man jo på sin hvis meget glad for, at han gør.








http://htmlgiant.com/word-spaces/classic-word-spaces-5-vladimir-nabokov/