Det här är nog i särklass det sorgligaste jag någonsin läst. Bird är berättarens (Almas) lillebror.

"My brother and I used to play a game. I'd point to a chair. 'THIS IS NOT A CHAIR,' I'd say. Bird would point to the table. 'THIS IS NOT A TABLE.' 'THIS IS NOT A WALL,' I'd say. 'THAT IS NOT A CEILING.' We'd go on like that. 'IT IS NOT RAINING OUT.' 'MY SHOE IS NOT UNTIED!' Bird would yell. I'd point at my elbow. 'THIS IS NOT A SCRAPE.' Bird would lift his knee. 'THIS IS ALSO NOT A SCRAPE!' 'THAT IS NOT A KETTLE!' 'NOT A CUP!' 'NOT A SPOON!' 'NOT DIRTY DISHES!' We denied whole rooms, years, weathers. Once, at the peak of our shouting, Bird took a deep breath. At the top of his lungs, he shrieked: 'I! HAVE NOT! BEEN! UNHAPPY! MY WHOLE! LIFE!' 'But you're only seven,' I said."

- History of Love, Nicole Krauss

På något jävla snett vänster så relaterar jag och det gör ont. Lillebror ska vara glad.