The Faces

Peace meant not existing in other people’s consciousness.

Nogle, især piger, havde måttet leve deres mors barndom, mens deres egen lå gemt hen i en hemmelig skuffe. For sådanne piger var det vanskeligst. Deres stemmer brød ud af dem som materien af et sår, og lyden af den forskrækkede dem, som når de opdagede, at nogen havde læst i deres dagbog, skønt den var låst inde mellem skrammel og gammelt legetøj fra den tid, hvor de bar en firårigs udsatte ansigt. Det stirrede op på dem mellem snurretoppene og de invalide dukker med det uskyldige, forbavsede glasblik. Deres søvn var let og lugtede af angst. Hver aften når de ryddede op på deres værelse, måtte de samle deres tanker sammen for natten som fugle, der skal lokkes ind i deres bur. Det hændte, at en af dem ikke var deres egen, og så vidste de ikke, hvor de skulle gøre af den. I farten, for de var altid trætte, proppede de den om bag et skab eller ind mellem to bøger i reolen. Men når de vågnede, disse piger, passede tankerne ikke mere til deres ansigt, som havde opløst sig under søvnen ligesom en fastelavnsmaske, hvis stive pap er revnet og gennemvædet af den varme ånde. Med besvær tog de det nye ansigt på sig som en skæbne, og de blev svimle af at se ned på deres fødder, så stor var afstanden blevet i nattens løb.

She no longer belonged to herself. No matter where she sought refuge, people had unashamedly formed an image of her over which she had no control.

But you know what — it takes more bravery to worry about your neighbor's calluses than about the blacks in the Congo.

Gitte almost never took baths. She had a black line under her chin because she would just rub the sponge across her face. Dirt was part of her view of life. You have to remember, she said, that penicillin is made from mold.

She stared at her friend as a feeling of total desolation slipped through her, as if she were drifting away on an ice floe without a single living person hearing her cries for help.

...and the fear came back like a faithful friend who doesn't care whether return his feelings or not.

this was the only place where she found that fragile sense of security which is nothing more than the absence of change.

But what was real in this world, and what was not real? Wasn’t it a kind of sickness that people could walk around holding onto their own ego? – that whole chaos of voices, faces, and memories that they only dared to let slip from themselves drop by drop, and never could be certain of retrieving again.