Nordic Winter Quotes

It’s a sun lamp. I thought you might be tired of your pasty-pale complexion. (Chris) Christopher, I happen to be a Viking in the middle of winter in Minnesota. Lack of a deep tan goes with the whole Nordic territory. Why do you think we raided Europe anyway? (Wulf) Because it was there? (Chris) No, we wanted to thaw out. (Wulf)

She’s not just a nanny. She’s Aurora. She’s my reckoning and saviour all at once. She’s her namesake, those northern lights that brighten the darkest winter skies. She’s my homecoming. And I’m in love with her.

We’re all just broken children covering our guilt with adult clothing. We make peace with our guilt or we don’t but either way, we keep moving on. Please, move on with me. Be with me. I—I can’t do this without you. I have a home in your heart and a love that won’t stop bleeding. I need you in my life, you are my life, you are my sun that I’ve waited too many winters for.

No one would understand the truth. That she’s not just a nanny. She’s Aurora. She’s my reckoning and savior all at once. She’s her namesake, those northern lights that brighten the darkest winter skies. She’s my homecoming. And I’m in love with her.

Do not waste your life wishing to be who you are not. Instead, let us continue to find out what kind of hands you were given. There is a reason for every birth. We will discover yours.

Now the moment had arrived. Birgit took her place beside him in the command car. She pulled up her large striped cotton dirndl skirt made by her fellow national, Katya of Sweden, and looked around with an excited smile. But to onlookers it was more like the strained expression of a Swedish farm woman in a Swedish outhouse in the dead of a Swedish winter. She was trying to restrain her excitement at the sight of all those naked limbs in the amber light. From the shoulders up she had the delicate neckline and face of a Nordic goddess, but below her body was breastless, lumpy with bulging hips and huge round legs like sawed-off telegraph posts. She felt elated, sitting there with her man who was leading these colored people in this march for their rights. She loved colored people. Her eyeblue eyes gleamed with this love. When she looked at the white cops her lips curled with scorn. A number of police cruisers had appeared at the moment the march was to begin. They stared at the white woman and the colored man in the command car. Their lips compressed but they said nothing, did nothing. Marcus had got a police permit. The marchers lined up four abreast on the right side of the street, facing west. The command car was at the lead. Two police cars brought up the rear. Three were parked at intervals down the street as far as the railroad station. Several others cruised slowly in the westbound traffic, turned north at Lenox Avenue, east again on 126th Street, back to 125th Street on Second Avenue and retraced the route. The chief inspector had said he didn’t want any trouble in Harlem. “Squads, MARCH!” Marcus shouted over the amplifier.

ما يفترض أن يفعل المرء بالكلمات وسط عاصفة ثلجية على أي حال، وهو في مرج جبلي تنسفه الرياح، والاتجاهات كلها معدومة؟ وعندما يقول أنه متجمد وملتصق بالحصان، فهو يعني ما يقوله؛ حينها تكون الكلمات في منتهى الشفافية ولا تخفي أي معان، ولا ظلال، كما تميل الكلمات إلى أن تفعل.

pity narrative comes in the form of a music video made in South Africa in 2012 that has over 2 million hits on YouTube. It is a song for a campaign called Radi-Aid and it turns out to be a satire on Live Aid, Band Aid and all the other celebrity-driven “aid-for-starving Africa” campaigns. It features a dozen African musicians asking their fellow Africans to donate money to buy radiators—heaters—to help freezing Norwegians survive the gruesome Nordic winter. The narrator, a concerned pop star, peers through the misted-up windows of a snowbound home where a blond Norwegian family is huddled around a crackling log fire. “Africa, we need to ship our radiators over there, spread some light, spread some warmth, and spread some smiles,” he intones. The joke is clear—stop thinking of Africa as a place of helpless people in need of your pity; it would be ridiculous if we were to do the same to you.

Excellence is an art won by training and habituation” ARISTOTLE Philosopher and scientist

I was fortunate to grow up in a place where snowfall was abundant, exclusion from private property was frowned upon, and outside my door were thousands of acres of forested hills to explore. By the time I was ten my feet were as big as my mother's, and I pinched her leather cross-country ski boots and a set of wooden skis and poles from Finland that had stood neglected in the cellar for years. I never had any instruction in Nordic skiing technique, but as soon as I pushed off it was obvious that this was an easier way to move about in the winter woods. To this day I have a hard time thinking of skiing as a sport and have felt self-conscious the few times I've skied in prepared tracks among the athletic and sleek-suited crowd that frequents Nordic centers. For me skiing is just the way you walk when there's snow on the ground. It's walking in cursive, and I love to walk.