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“The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy is an indispensable companion to all those who are keen to make sense of life in an infinitely complex and confusing Universe, for though it cannot hope to be useful or informative on all matters, it does at least make the reassuring claim, that where it is inaccurate it is at least definitively inaccurate. In cases of major discrepancy it's always reality that's got it wrong.
This was the gist of the notice. It said "The Guide is definitive. Reality is frequently inaccurate."
This has led to some interesting consequences. For instance, when the Editors of the Guide were sued by the families of those who had died as a result of taking the entry on the planet Tralal literally (it said "Ravenous Bugblatter Beasts often make a very good meal for visiting tourists: instead of "Ravenous Bugblatter Beasts often make a very good meal of visiting tourists"), they claimed that the first version of the sentence was the more aesthetically pleasing, summoned a qualified poet to testify under oath that beauty was truth, truth beauty and hoped thereby to prove that the guilty party in this case was Life itself for failing to be either beautiful or true. The judges concurred, and in a moving speech held that Life itself was in contempt of court, and duly confiscated it from all those there present before going off to enjoy a pleasant evening's ultragolf.”
― The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
This was the gist of the notice. It said "The Guide is definitive. Reality is frequently inaccurate."
This has led to some interesting consequences. For instance, when the Editors of the Guide were sued by the families of those who had died as a result of taking the entry on the planet Tralal literally (it said "Ravenous Bugblatter Beasts often make a very good meal for visiting tourists: instead of "Ravenous Bugblatter Beasts often make a very good meal of visiting tourists"), they claimed that the first version of the sentence was the more aesthetically pleasing, summoned a qualified poet to testify under oath that beauty was truth, truth beauty and hoped thereby to prove that the guilty party in this case was Life itself for failing to be either beautiful or true. The judges concurred, and in a moving speech held that Life itself was in contempt of court, and duly confiscated it from all those there present before going off to enjoy a pleasant evening's ultragolf.”
― The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
“Kako se usuđuješ pomisliti da poznaješ moje srce kad ne razumiješ ni vlastito?”
― The Gargoyle
― The Gargoyle
“Ako ti Indijanac želi nešto pokloniti, on će to učiniti bez velike buke, jednostavno će dar ostaviti negdje gdje zna da ćeš ga pronaći.
Indijanac, objasnio mi je djed, digne ruku i pokaže dlan tako da njegov sugovornik vidi kako on ne nosi oružje. Ta gesta znači „mir“. Djed je to smatrao logičnim, ali bijelim ljudima je to bilo jako smiješno.
Djed mi je rekao da bijeli čovjek svoje miroljubive namjere pokazuje rukovanjem - vjerojatno stoga što se riječima bijelog čovjeka ne smije vjerovati pa prilikom rukovanja jedan drugom protresu ruku da vide je li onaj drugi zaista prijatelj kao što tvrdi ili u rukavu ima skriven nož. Djed se nije rado rukovao. Rekao je da mu se ne sviđa kada mu čovjek pokušava istresti nož iz rukava nakon što se predstavio kao prijatelj. Djed je rukovanje smatrao znakom nepovjerenja i uvredljivim. Što je logično.
Kad bijelci u Americi vide Indijanca, kažu „how!“ i onda se smiju. Djed je rekao da je „how“ tek prije nekoliko stotina godina postala indijanska riječ. „How“ je engleska riječ i znači kako. U ono vrijeme kada su prvi bijelci došli u Ameriku, svaki put kad bi sreli Indijance pitali su: kako si, kako je tvoja obitelj, kako ide, kako ovo, kako ono... Djed je rekao da su Indijanci zato povjerovali da je „how“ omiljena riječ bijelog čovjeka, a Indijanci su uljudan narod, svaki put kad bi sreli bijelog čovjeka rekli bi odmah na početku „how“, a onda bi pustili bijelca da govori.
Kad se ljudi sad tome smiju, rekao je djed, smiju se Indijancu koji pokušava biti uljudan i obziran.”
― Malo drvo
Indijanac, objasnio mi je djed, digne ruku i pokaže dlan tako da njegov sugovornik vidi kako on ne nosi oružje. Ta gesta znači „mir“. Djed je to smatrao logičnim, ali bijelim ljudima je to bilo jako smiješno.
Djed mi je rekao da bijeli čovjek svoje miroljubive namjere pokazuje rukovanjem - vjerojatno stoga što se riječima bijelog čovjeka ne smije vjerovati pa prilikom rukovanja jedan drugom protresu ruku da vide je li onaj drugi zaista prijatelj kao što tvrdi ili u rukavu ima skriven nož. Djed se nije rado rukovao. Rekao je da mu se ne sviđa kada mu čovjek pokušava istresti nož iz rukava nakon što se predstavio kao prijatelj. Djed je rukovanje smatrao znakom nepovjerenja i uvredljivim. Što je logično.
Kad bijelci u Americi vide Indijanca, kažu „how!“ i onda se smiju. Djed je rekao da je „how“ tek prije nekoliko stotina godina postala indijanska riječ. „How“ je engleska riječ i znači kako. U ono vrijeme kada su prvi bijelci došli u Ameriku, svaki put kad bi sreli Indijance pitali su: kako si, kako je tvoja obitelj, kako ide, kako ovo, kako ono... Djed je rekao da su Indijanci zato povjerovali da je „how“ omiljena riječ bijelog čovjeka, a Indijanci su uljudan narod, svaki put kad bi sreli bijelog čovjeka rekli bi odmah na početku „how“, a onda bi pustili bijelca da govori.
Kad se ljudi sad tome smiju, rekao je djed, smiju se Indijancu koji pokušava biti uljudan i obziran.”
― Malo drvo
“The morgue was the name the human workers gave to this room in the facility. They were careful not to utter it in front of the androids, for fear of offending them.”
― The Girl with the Porcelain Lips
― The Girl with the Porcelain Lips
“I walked past Malison, up Lower Main to Main and across the road. I didn’t need to look to know he was behind me. I entered Royal Wood, went a short way along a path and waited. It was cool and dim beneath the trees. When Malison entered the Wood, I continued eastward.
I wanted to place his body in hallowed ground. He was born a Mearan. The least I could do was send him to Loric. The distance between us closed until he was on my heels. He chose to come, I told myself, as if that lessened the crime I planned. He chose what I have to offer.
We were almost to the cemetery before he asked where we were going. I answered with another question. “Do you like living in the High Lord’s kitchens?”
He, of course, replied, “No.”
“Well, we’re going to a better place.”
When we reached the edge of the Wood, I pushed aside a branch to see the Temple of Loric and Calec’s cottage. No smoke was coming from the chimney, and I assumed the old man was yet abed. His pony was grazing in the field of graves. The sun hid behind a bank of clouds.
Malison moved beside me. “It’s a graveyard.”
“Are you afraid of ghosts?” I asked.
“My father’s a ghost,” he whispered.
I asked if he wanted to learn how to throw a knife. He said, “Yes,” as I knew he would. He untucked his shirt, withdrew the knife he had stolen and gave it to me. It was a thick-bladed, single-edged knife, better suited for dicing celery than slitting a young throat. But it would serve my purpose. That I also knew. I’d spent all night projecting how the morning would unfold and, except for indulging in the tea, it had happened as I had imagined.
Damut kissed her son farewell. Malison followed me of his own free will. Without fear, he placed the instrument of his death into my hand. We were at the appointed place, at the appointed time. The stolen knife was warm from the heat of his body. I had only to use it. Yet I hesitated, and again prayed for Sythene to show me a different path.
“Aren’t you going to show me?” Malison prompted, as if to echo my prayer.”
― Sheever's Journal, Diary of a Poison Master
I wanted to place his body in hallowed ground. He was born a Mearan. The least I could do was send him to Loric. The distance between us closed until he was on my heels. He chose to come, I told myself, as if that lessened the crime I planned. He chose what I have to offer.
We were almost to the cemetery before he asked where we were going. I answered with another question. “Do you like living in the High Lord’s kitchens?”
He, of course, replied, “No.”
“Well, we’re going to a better place.”
When we reached the edge of the Wood, I pushed aside a branch to see the Temple of Loric and Calec’s cottage. No smoke was coming from the chimney, and I assumed the old man was yet abed. His pony was grazing in the field of graves. The sun hid behind a bank of clouds.
Malison moved beside me. “It’s a graveyard.”
“Are you afraid of ghosts?” I asked.
“My father’s a ghost,” he whispered.
I asked if he wanted to learn how to throw a knife. He said, “Yes,” as I knew he would. He untucked his shirt, withdrew the knife he had stolen and gave it to me. It was a thick-bladed, single-edged knife, better suited for dicing celery than slitting a young throat. But it would serve my purpose. That I also knew. I’d spent all night projecting how the morning would unfold and, except for indulging in the tea, it had happened as I had imagined.
Damut kissed her son farewell. Malison followed me of his own free will. Without fear, he placed the instrument of his death into my hand. We were at the appointed place, at the appointed time. The stolen knife was warm from the heat of his body. I had only to use it. Yet I hesitated, and again prayed for Sythene to show me a different path.
“Aren’t you going to show me?” Malison prompted, as if to echo my prayer.”
― Sheever's Journal, Diary of a Poison Master
Abram’s 2024 Year in Books
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