last shor in 2010

This slideshow requires JavaScript.


The Lovely Bones reading reflection

In a month, I finished reading “The lovely bones” by Alice Sebold. The first encounter was actually Peter Jackson’s movie on this novel. It became one of my favourites. I wept over the sadness and cruelty and sweetness. It felt like a new journey for me to visualize and imagine with her rhetorics the rape, murder, and death can link into the wide and broad sense of grief, love and changing.


When was it all right to let go not only of the dead but of the living—to learn to accept? Page 318

These were the lovely bones that had grown around my absence: the connections—sometimes tenuous, sometimes made at great cost, but often magnificent—that happened after I was gone. And I began to see things in a way that let me hold the world without me in it. The events that my death wrought were merely the bones of a body that would become whole at some unpredictable time in the future. The price of what I came to see as this miraculous body had been my life. Page 320

You don’t notice the dead leaving when they really choose to leave you. You’re not meant to. At most you feel them as a whisper or the wave of a whisper undulating down. I would compare it to a woman in the back of a lecture hall or theatre whom no one notices until she slips out. Then only those near the door themselves, like Grandma Lynn, notice; to the rest it is like an unexplained breeze in a closed room. Page 323

I would like to tell you that it is beautiful here, that I am, and you will one day be, forever safe. But this heaven is not about safety just as, in its graciousness, it isn’t about gritty reality. We have fun. Page 324

Usually, it was one needing the other but not both needing each other, and so there had been a way, by touching, to borrow from the stronger one’s strength. Page 21

Something so divine that no one up in heaven could have made it up; the care a child took with an adult. Page 47 

The truth was that the line between the living and the dead could be, it seemed, murky and blurred. Page 48

What did dead mean, Ray wondered. It meant lost, it meant frozen, it meant gone. Page 112

To find a doorway out of her ruined heart in merciful adultery. Page 197 (it might be true. )

Sex was an act of wilful forgetting. (It definitely spoke into my heart. I’ve seemed never really stop tracking what are the reasons behind all my rebelliousness. It is said maybe fairly indeed. )

In heaven, “How to Commit the Perfect Murder” was an old game. I always chose the icicle: the weapon melts away. (10.139)