https://lithub.com/blue-sunset/
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“Did not have to think about it there, the urn, at the conference, but she did anyway, could not stop thinking about it.”
“She thinks he is enigmatic, such a stupid thing to think, she thinks.”
“There are no authorities in place to check whether the ashes were scattered over the sea.”
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“For instance he could reach out and touch the quite glossy paste on her quite purple lips, but he does not.”
“The Author is facing the sea, his cheeks orange from the lowering sun.”
“Yes, the days are his and at the moment she is in them.”
“Blue Sunset is her first book.”
“Of course the act of not scattering the ashes of the deceased both adds a layer to and suspends the crime, because the absence of a note criminalises the scattering, which Maja has not done, but also the stowing of the ashes, which in theory she should not be able to do in the first place, not without a note.”
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“Some books, including one of his, the having of which he doesn’t seem particularly impressed by, which is a good thing, she thinks, but then had he been smug about it she probably would not be here in the first place, with him here, in his house, by the beach, and with only a few items of clothing, a lip balm that is quite glossy and quite purple, it’s the colour of her lips, only more purple.”
“Article continues after advertisement __________________________________ From Blue Sunset by Denise Rose Hansen .”
“Hansen is a Danish writer who lives in London.”
“There’s Maja, walking towards him, from behind, tentative, yet her right arm is reaching for him, reaching around him.”
“She would have to let herself be absorbed into the days that are his, she is not so foolish as to think that he would be absorbed into hers, no, she is the one who is entering his days, here.”
“It was out of view but not really.”
“Yet this is the glow of hope, she thinks, which is a bit lame to think, she thinks, but still that is what she thinks, that orange glow which in her chest sometimes feels like love, warm and dense yet airy, but she knows it is not love, it is hope, actually.”
“In the case of burying an urn in one’s garden, if your property is large enough, the urn must be made from a material that is soluble in water, such as paper, which her urn, if that is what it is, hers, is not.”
“When the greasy night washed over her, over the urn, and the streetlights turned the windows green, she was afraid of somehow knocking over the urn if she moved, if she so much as flinched, though they were metres apart, the urn and her.”
“She looked away, at the green windows, towards the streetlight she could not see but knew was right there, just off to the side of the window.”
“A tall mound, the Author is, tall and always in that black felt-like coat of his with the wide sleeves.”
“Such a felt-wearing mound, the Author.”
“He is dangerous but not really, he lives a fairly uneventful life, and it is this uneventfulness that makes him enigmatic, Maja thinks, but also the danger, the danger of not knowing, which is a danger more oblique than it is direct, and therefore less threatening, it is a danger she can live with.”
“She was still seeing it, all the time, when she closed her eyes it was there on the insides of her lids, all through the morning sessions and all through her own talk, all through the afternoon sessions and all through the drinks reception it was there, like a tattoo on the insides of her lids.”
“One of those possessions makes her a criminal, she thinks, she has committed a crime and is still committing it now, just by standing here on the beach, just by looking at the Author’s face, she is committing it.”