Latest ten days of posting

Weblog | I don't like the word blog, it's ugly. Anyway, new content happens here. (Swedish dito)

About me and the site | Twenty-something male who likes text. Obsessed with things such as books, reality, communication, and one or two tv-shows.

Archives | Things written here since... well, 2001. Some of it is good, some is utter shait.

Books | Books read, not books written. So far I've struggled to maintain unpublished.

Photo | I like my camera and it likes me.

Links | Outwards, away, flee.

e-mail | J. Nicklas Andersson

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2003-02-21

“Dear Lord!” was the first thing that sprung to my mind. It was also the second and third thing I could think of, it kept going like a mantra in a maze. I couldn’t turn it off and no other thoughts were available. On the fiftieth take the world was spinning so fast that I instinctively bellowed out a “what the hell kind of sick person is it that keeps doing this?” Horror, utter mind numbingly horror. I didn’t think it was possible to sink this low but apparently there is no bottom to the inhumanities of humanity. It is as if we’re devolving into barbarians with no regard for art and culture.

Papers thorn out and discarded. Papers that used to have words on them. Papers that one time belonged to books. Books now destroyed, never to be read again. And what for? To be turned into... a bookshelf? I cringe. But then again, I cringe when I see people underline things in their own books. I cringe when they fold the corners in order to remember where they were. I don’t just cringe, I want to go back to the blue room when I hear a book spine crack — soundlessly — as they place the book open with the word down towards the table. This is... I suffer a loss of words.

At first, I thought it was fake books. Wood made to look like it was real, perhaps with a bit of leather to create a classy look. But no. Real books. Real live books where hurt — killed even. Hunted down like sheep. And the worst part? Just as John, I think they look rather nice and cool, even though it is murder of some sort. I just don’t think I would be able to be in the same room as shelf as this. Ever.