Jeg skrudde på radiatoren fordi jeg frøs, jeg visste ikke om det virket. Sist jeg skrudde på bryteren skjedde det ingenting. Jeg tenkte på at jeg ikke kjenner denne leiligheten i kulda ennå, at jeg aldri har bodd her når det har vært kaldt. Jeg la meg under dyna, og jeg det var ikke nok så jeg trakk den dyna jeg hadde funnet fram til deg over meg, som et lag av jord. Jeg fortsatte å fryse og jeg lurte et øyeblikk på om jeg kanskje hadde skrudd feil vei på bryteren, så det ble kaldere. At den trakk varmen ut, i stedet for inn. Jeg sto opp om morgenen og lagde varm kaffe.
Thursday, October 24, 2013
Tuesday, October 01, 2013
Sunday, August 25, 2013
Mamma sender meg ned i plommehagen for å rake gress, det ligger i tørre bunker etter gressklipperen. Sola er varm i nakken, en dagpåfugløye flyr høyt, jeg får øye på en frosk. Frosken får øye på meg og stikker. Jeg lener hodet mot raken og observerer katten, den kommer snikende under trærne. Katten observerer meg tilbake. Mamma vanner tomatplantene, snart skal vi høste plommer.
Posted by Frøydis at 11:28 AM
Monday, July 22, 2013
The story goes that Thamus said many things to Theuth in praise or blame of the various arts, which it would take too long to repeat; but when they came to the letters, «This invention, O king,» said Theuth, «will make the Egyptians wiser and will improve their memories; for it is an elixir of memory and wisdom that I have discovered.» But Thamus replied, «Most ingenious Theuth, one man has the ability to beget arts, but the ability to judge of their usefulness or harmfulness to their users belongs to another; and now you, who are the father of letters, have been led by your affection to ascribe to them a power the opposite of that which they really possess. For this invention will produce forgetfullness in the minds of those who learn to use it, because they will not practise their memory. Their trust in writing, produced by external characters which are no part of themselves, will discourage the use of their own memory within them. You have invented an elixir not of memory, but of reminding; and you offer your pupils the appearance of wisdom, not true wisdom, for they will read many things without instruction and will therefore seem to know many things, when they are for the most part ignorant and hard to get along with, since they are not wise, but only appear wise.”
PHAEDRUS. Socrates, you easily make up stories of Egypt or any country you please.
SOCRATES. He who thinks, then, that he has left behind him any art in writing, and he who receives it in the belief that anything in writing will be clear and certain, would be an utterly simple person, and in truth ignorant of the prophecy of Ammon, if he thinks written words are of any use except to remind him who knows the matter about which they are written.
PHAEDRUS. Very true.
SOCRATES. Writing, Phaedrus, has this strange quality and is very like painting; for the creatures of painting stand like living beings, but if one asks them a question, they preserve a solemn silence. And so it is with written words; you might think they spoke as if they had intelligence, but if you question them, wishing to know about their sayings, they always say only one and the same thing. And every word, when once it is written, is bandied about, alike among those who understand and those who have no interest in it, and it knows not to whom to speak or not to speak; when ill-treated or unjustly reviled it always needs its father to help it; for it has no power to protect and help itself.