Bookmarker is a personal project by @dellsystem to help with retaining reading material. Source on GitHub.

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1 year, 11 months ago

so happy they didn’t buy anything for ages

[...] Who profited from dead letters being turned into living ones? Financially it made no sense. Then again not everything can be measured in money. And what if profit was the most important criterion? What if people who got their once-dead-now- living letters became so happy they didn’t buy anyth…

—p.85 Long Live the Post Horn! by Vigdis Hjorth
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1 year, 11 months ago

I really am coming down with something

[...] My guilty conscience hadn’t eased despite the Kosta Boda vase. Should I buy a new diary and write something else? Invent substance and key events or write an entry about the Kosta Boda vase, I really am coming down with something, I thought, so I drove home and went to bed to sleep it off.

—p.4 by Vigdis Hjorth
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1 year, 11 months ago

this Tor who I didn’t know if I liked

[...] January’s entries were about the winter sales and some guy named Per I thought might be interested in me. In February it was a guy called Tor and a Mulberry bag I’d managed to get half-price and a pair of shoes I should have bought half a size bigger. I appeared to have seen a lot of films I …

—p.1 by Vigdis Hjorth
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1 year, 11 months ago

childhood goes by so fast

When I couldn't get him to come with me, I'd go to the police to file a report. It was my lawyer who told me to do that, even though after doing it ten times I couldn't really see the point. I'd wait for hours. I'd waste my whole Saturday. The police were no strangers to this kind of situation. Oft…

—p.162 Love Me Tender by Constance Debré
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1 year, 11 months ago

everyone crosses paths with the devil at least once

The train leaves from Montparnasse in an hour. I've actually bought tickets, for once. It's May, the weather isn't great. I went swimming early, when the pool opened, to help me stay calm if anything goes wrong. I've been very careful not to get too excited. It was Paul who asked to go to Montlouis…

—p.107 by Constance Debré