Zin in boeken #6 september 2019

Geregeld schrijf ik mooie zinnen of zinnen die me aanspreken over in een boekje. Het lijkt me ook leuk om deze met jullie te delen. Dit zijn de zinnen die ik noteerde uit de boeken die ik uitlas in september. Er zijn heel veel zinnetjes uit How to stop time van Matt Haig, maar er stonden ook zoveel mooie wijsheden in.

De feministische leeslijst – Marja Pruis
Dat heeft ook te maken met wat antropoloog David Graeber ‘moral envy’ noemt. Wie goed tracht te doen maar niet perfect is, wordt harder veroordeeld dan degene die helemaal niks doet.

How to stop time – Matt Haig
But I thought you wanted lonely, after your time in Toronto. You said the real loneliness was being surrounded by people. And, besides that’s what we are, Tom. We’re loners.

But this how I remember these things, and all we can ever be is faithful to our memories of reality, rather than the reality itself, which is something closely related but never precisely the same thing.

That, I suppose, is a price we pay for love: the absorbing of another’s pain as if our own.

Other animals don’t have progress, they say. But the human mind itself doesn’t progress. We stay the same glorified chimpanzees, just with even bigger weapons. We have the knowledgde to realise we are just a mass of quanta and particles, like everything else is, and yet we keep trying to seperate ourselves from the universe we live in, to give ourselves a meaning above that of a tree or a rock or a cat or a turtle.

But an ordinary life is not a guarantee of happiness.

All you can do with the past is carry it around, feeling its weight slowly increase, praying it never crushes you completely.

You can love the sights of waterfalls and the smell of old books, but the love of people is off limits. Do you hear me? Don’t attack yourself to people, and try to feel as little as you possibly can for those you do meet. Because otherwise you will slowly lose your mind…

I need ‘closure’ as people say these days. Though you can never close the past. The most you can do with it is accept it. And that is the point I want to reach.

Places don’t matter to people anymore. Places aren’t the point. People are only ever half present where they are these days. They always have at least one foot in the great digital nowhere.

You can’t choose where you are born, you can’t decide who won’t leave you, you can’t choose much. A life has unchangeable tides the same as history does. But there is still room inside it for choice. For decisions.
Just one wrong turn can get you very lost. What you do in the present stays with you. It comes back. You don’t get away with anything.

And yet we had done what so often happened in the proud history of geographic discovery. We had found paradise. And then we had set it of fire.

Think of how detachted we are from nature.

It is a popular modern idea. That the inner us is something different to the outer us. That there is an authentic realer and better and richer version of ourselves which we can only tap into by buying a solution. This is the idea that we are seperate from our nature, as seperate as a bottle of Dior perfume is from the plants of a forest.

I still remember the size of things. No one understands that any more. People don’t feel the enormity of the world or their own smallness within it.

As far as I can see, this is a problem with living in the twenty-first century. Many of us have every material thing we need, so the job of marketing is now to tie the economy to our emotions, to make us feel like we need more by making us want things we never needed before. We are made to feel poor on thirthy thousands pounds a year. To feel poorly travelled if we have been to only ten other countries. To feel old if we have a wrinkle. To feel ugly if we aren’t photoshopped and filtered.

When you die, the last thing you want is for your death to leak out and infect those left behind, for those loved ones to become a kind of living dead. And yet, inevitably, that often happens. It has happened to me.

Lampje – Annet Schaap
In het donker hoort ze geschuifel en iets zwaars springt op haar benen. Met zachte poten loopt een poes over Lampje heen en duwt zijn neus tegen de wang die geen pijn doet. Hij ruikt gelukkig niet naar zeep, gewoon naar poes. Naast haar hoofd gaat hij snorrend liggen, ze voelt zijn warmte en zijn zachte haren tegen haar wang, de hele nacht.
En haar moeder heeft gelijk: de volgende morgen is er weer een dag.

Lampje bijt op haar tanden en probeert haar tranen binnen te houden, maar één ontsnapt er en valt in de kom. Ploep.

De rots ligt er al sinds de zee een grote hap heeft genomen uit het land. Precies midden in die hap, alsof ze een klein stukje niet lustte.

Soms als je iets een hele tijd zo vreselijk graag wilde en je krijgt het uiteindelijk, is er een soort stilte waarin niemand weet wat ie moet doen.

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