Lisa Tuttle > Quotes

“In the jumbled, fragmented memories I carry from my childhood there are probably nearly as many dreams as images from waking life. I thought of one which might have been my earliest remembered nightmare. I was probably about four years old - I don't think I'd started school yet - when I woke up screaming. The image I retained of the dream, the thing which had frightened me so, was an ugly, clown-like doll made of soft red and cream-coloured rubber. When you squeezed it, bulbous eyes popped out on stalks and the mouth opened in a gaping scream. As I recall it now, it was disturbingly ugly, not really an appropriate toy for a very young child, but it had been mine when I was younger, at least until I'd bitten its nose off, at which point it had been taken away from me. At the time when I had the dream I hadn't seen it for a year or more - I don't think I consciously remembered it until its sudden looming appearance in a dream had frightened me awake.

When I told my mother about the dream, she was puzzled.

'But what's scary about that? You were never scared of that doll.'

I shook my head, meaning that the doll I'd owned - and barely remembered - had never scared me. 'But it was very scary,' I said, meaning that the reappearance of it in my dream had been terrifying.

My mother looked at me, baffled. 'But it's not scary,' she said gently. I'm sure she was trying to make me feel better, and thought this reasonable statement would help. She was absolutely amazed when it had the opposite result, and I burst into tears.

Of course she had no idea why, and of course I couldn't explain. Now I think - and of course I could be wrong - that what upset me was that I'd just realized that my mother and I were separate people. We didn't share the same dreams or nightmares. I was alone in the universe, like everybody else. In some confused way, that was what the doll had been telling me. Once it had loved me enough to let me eat its nose; now it would make me wake up screaming. ("My Death")”
― Lisa Tuttle, Best New Horror 16

“In the old days, people told their kids stories about the big, bad wolf, and men who were especially cruel and horrible were said to be like animals, maybe werewolves. But the things ordinary men do every day are a million times worse than anything a wolf would do. A wolf would never torture another animal to death, or lock it up. They kill out of instinct, in order to survive, because they have to - not because they just feel like it, not because they're evil. Not like us. Man is the scariest animal on the planet, but from the beginning of time, the wolf has gotten the bad rap. We've tried to pretend that evil is out there, lurking inside animals beyond the campfire, and not where it really is, in here.' He [Cody] tapped his chest.”
― Lisa Tuttle, Songs of Love and Death: All-Original Tales of Star-Crossed Love

“Women are generally responsible for all the cooking and planning of meals in private households, but I have never known any to bother about "proper meals" without a man around. Left to ourselves, we glory in "feasting" - standing at the kitchen table, or wrapped in blankets before the fire - on whatever wild assortment we can forage from the larder, or delight in a "nursery tea" of soft-boiled eggs with bread and butter; or dine on tea and cakes, or apples and cheese, while reading."

The Curious Affair of the Dead Wives”
― Lisa Tuttle, Rogues

“There’s something about a book you find by accident, a book no one else seems to have heard of, a book that thrills and then becomes a part of you, when it’s one you so easily might never have read at all—it seems like it found you.”
― Lisa Tuttle, My Death

“OBJECTS IN DREAMS MAY BE CLOSER THAN THEY APPEAR”
― Lisa Tuttle, House of Fear

“It was the feel of it, the love of it, not the thought: it was instinct and reflex and knowing the wind, and Maris was the wind.”
― Lisa Tuttle, Windhaven

“When I told my mother about the dream, she was puzzled. "But what's scary about that? You were never scared of that doll."
I shook my head, meaning that the doll I'd owned ⎯ and barely remembered ⎯ had never scared me. "But it was very scary," I said, meaning that the reappearance of it in my dream had been terrifying.
My mother looked at me, baffled. "But it's not scary," she said gently. I'm sure she was trying to make me feel better and thought this reasonable statement would help. She was absolutely amazed when it had the opposite result, and I burst into tears.
Of course she had no idea why, and of course I couldn't explain. Now I think ⎯ and of course I could be wrong ⎯ that what upset me was that I'd just realized that my mother and I were separate people. We didn't share the same dreams or nightmares. I was alone in the universe, like everybody else.”
― Lisa Tuttle, My Death

“Spiritualists emphasize the importance of belief—and it is true. Skeptics are rarely, if ever, rewarded with proof of the impossible.”
― Lisa Tuttle, The Curious Affair of the Somnambulist & the Psychic Thief

“Sad when talking about the past is the most excitement you can know.”
― Lisa Tuttle, My Death

“I am, perhaps, too intellectual, too modern, for my own comfort! How lovely it would be to sink into the warm comfort of established religion.”
― Lisa Tuttle

“Now I think—and of course I could be wrong—that what upset me was that I’d just realized that my mother and I were separate people. We didn’t share the same dreams or nightmares. I was alone in the universe, like everybody else. In some confused way, that was what the doll had been telling me. Once it had loved me enough to let me eat its nose; now it would make me wake up screaming.”
― Lisa Tuttle, My Death

“What was it?” she whispered. “The sluagh,” he said in his normal voice. “What?” “They’re some sort of spirits—some people call them the host of the unforgiven dead. They were believed to go flying about above the world in great clouds, doing evil when they could, and constantly fighting with each other. In the morning you’d see their blood splashed on the rocks. The blood of the hosts—fuil nan sluagh—is another name for red crotal, that’s the lichen used for dyeing Harris tweed.”
― Lisa Tuttle, The Silver Bough: A Novel

“since you love the color black, I will give you plenty of it. I will lock you in a cell without windows or lamps, where it is black day and night, and you will stay there until you forget what sunlight feels like. Do you like these conditions, flier? Do you like them?”
― Lisa Tuttle, Windhaven

“They were supposed to be immortal,” he said. “Once the island was grounded, though, they lost that magical protection and became more like ordinary folks. They began to age, and suffer from ordinary infirmities. They intermarried with the incomers. According to the stories, some of them became Christians and were happy to exchange their pagan immortality for life everlasting. As for the others—well, they didn’t die, but they kept getting older, and after a hundred or a hundred and fifty years they began to shrink and shrivel, getting smaller and smaller until they were no bigger than newborn babies. Their children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren had to look after them as they aged, but since they ate less and slept more, like the babies they began to resemble, they weren’t much trouble to keep. Even so, as the years went by their descendants tended to forget about them, and instead of recognizing them as their ancestors, they thought these tiny little people living in cupboards and odd corners of the house and garden were some sort of supernatural beings, elves and fairies, to be treated with great caution—”
― Lisa Tuttle, The Silver Bough: A Novel

“Nell had been fascinated by the stories of wonderful new apples discovered growing out of garbage heaps, behind chicken houses, or in old, abandoned gardens: Mannington’s Pearmain had come from cider residue tipped beneath a blacksmith’s hedge in the eighteenth century; Granny Smith sprouted from a heap of apples dumped into an Australian creek in the 1860s; Bloody Ploughman grew in the 1880s from a rubbish heap where a bag of stolen apples was thrown after the thief was shot…”
― Lisa Tuttle, The Silver Bough: A Novel

“In fact, this was exactly how I felt about my own first childhood home, which remained more clear in my memory, more real, than anywhere I had lived since. Those first ten years of life, in which I had so exhaustively explored my surroundings, had given me a depth of useless knowledge, made me an expert in the geography and furnishings of the house at 4534 Waring Street, Houston, Texas, between the years 1952 and 1963. I supposed that other people—unless, like my first husband, they’d moved house every year or two—carried around with them a similarly useless mental floorplan and inventory—but until now I’d never heard anyone else talk about it.”
― Lisa Tuttle, My Death

“And yet, said he, legend had it that once in a lifetime one single golden apple would appear among the usual heavy crop of reds. This golden apple could not be treated as part of the common crop. It must be picked at its moment of perfect ripeness, to be shared by two lovers who would thereby be granted their hearts’ desire, and peace and prosperity would reign over the land. If, however, the golden apple was selfishly consumed by any one person—or sold—or, worst of all, left to rot, untasted, then, alas, some terrible fate would befall the whole community.”
― Lisa Tuttle, The Silver Bough: A Novel

“At that age, and in my impressionable state of mind, a suggestion from W. E. Logan had the force of a command.”
― Lisa Tuttle, My Death

“apple trees could live more than a hundred years, although they usually stopped bearing fruit after fifty.”
― Lisa Tuttle, The Silver Bough: A Novel

“Cerridwen – white goddess of death and creation.”
― Lisa Tuttle, A Nest of Nightmares

“A few minutes later Jade crept close to Ashley, and whispered, “Don’t be scared of them. They’re nice, really. I don’t think they mind if we talk about them.” “I’m not scared,” she said, rather haughtily. What she felt primarily was confusion. It had been one thing to listen to Graeme arguing the reality of magical beings; it was something else to find out Shona believed it, too. “Anyway,” Jade went on, no longer whispering, but still speaking quietly, “I don’t think they’re listening to us. I think they sleep most of the time. I know what happened to them: They stopped having babies and got older and older, and littler and littler, and they moved their houses underground, and they don’t come out much. They don’t mind if people come here and visit, just so long as nobody builds their house up here, because the reul is theirs and always will be.”
― Lisa Tuttle, The Silver Bough: A Novel

“Would that be so bad?” she asked softly. “To have your talents recognized, and use them for good? Isn’t that what you want? Would it be so hard to take a more usual route, like everyone else, to put up with restrictions and being told what to do by people who aren’t as clever as you—only for a year or two”
― Lisa Tuttle, The Curious Affair of the Somnambulist & the Psychic Thief

“That was one of my fancies . . . my dreams and my fancies, now, I remember some of them as clearly as the things that were real. Perhaps my earliest memory was a dream.”
― Lisa Tuttle, My Death

“Of course she had no idea why, and of course I couldn’t explain. Now I think—and of course I could be wrong—that what upset me was that I’d just realized that my mother and I were separate people. We didn’t share the same dreams or nightmares. I was alone in the universe, like everybody else. In some confused way, that was what the doll had been telling me. Once it had loved me enough to let me eat its nose; now it would make me wake up screaming.”
― Lisa Tuttle, My Death

“What the dream had shown me was the familiar become strange, how frightening the ordinary can be.”
― Lisa Tuttle, My Death

“According to Irish tradition,” says Professor Watson, “Arran was the home of Manannan, the sea-god, and another name for it was Emain Ablach, Emain of the Apples. This is, I suppose, equivalent to making Arran the same as Avalon, the Happy Otherworld.”… To enter this Otherworld before the appointed hour of death, a passport was necessary. This was a silver branch of the mystic apple-tree, laden with blossom or fruit—though sometimes a single apple sufficed—and it was given by the Queen of Elfhame or Fairy Woman to that mortal whose companionship she desired. It served not only as a passport, but also as food; and it had the property of making music so entrancing that those who heard it forgot all their cares and sorrows.”
― Lisa Tuttle, The Silver Bough: A Novel

“Their potential variety was practically infinite, because apples don’t breed true from seed. Each apple seed is different from all others, and, if planted, may produce a type never known before. If the new apple was special enough, it could be preserved and reproduced either through a root sprout, or by grafting a twig from the new tree onto the trunk of another; they would then fuse together and grow into a tree identical to the one from which the twig was taken.”
― Lisa Tuttle, The Silver Bough: A Novel

“I had no idea how the queen of the annual fair was chosen; this was a “women’s matter” and too frivolous for me to question, until my daughter was involved. By tradition, she would be crowned by a stranger, an unknown man who would step out of the Fair-day crowd at the appropriate moment. This, at any rate, was the story, but it was no more to be uncritically believed than any other bit of folklore. Young ladies of an age to be chosen for this role often had sweethearts, whether or not they were recognized by possibly disapproving parents, and even I had noticed how very often, and swiftly, past queens ended up married to the “strangers” who had crowned them!”
― Lisa Tuttle, The Silver Bough: A Novel

“From Mythology of the Celts
by F. X. Robinson
(Hale, 1902) AVALON, the idyllic “Island of Apples” where King Arthur was taken after receiving his fatal wound, is that same Land of Youth, always located on an island on the western horizon, to which Celtic heroes were summoned to dwell in eternity. Bran, as we have seen already, was beckoned by a beautiful woman bearing an apple-branch silver-white with blossom to Emain, described as an island in the west where apple trees are perpetually in flower and fruit at the same time. The connection between apples and immortality is of course very ancient, and found throughout Europe. In Scandinavian legend, the gods owed their eternal youth to a diet of magic apples, guarded by Idun, the goddess of Spring and renewal. The Greeks, too, had their magical apples of the Hesperides—those Western Isles again. From Ireland comes the tale of how Cu Roi hid his soul in an apple, that he might not be slain in battle, only to be destroyed when Cu Chulain split the fruit with his mighty sword. For a suggestion of why this should be, we have only to look at the language of symbolism and its reflection in the natural world. When an apple is halved crosswise, each half reveals the image of a five-pointed star. This, of course, is one of the most ancient and universally recognized emblems of immortality; a sacred sign, like the apple itself, of the Great Goddess and her supernatural realm.”
― Lisa Tuttle, The Silver Bough: A Novel

“Home is the sailor, home from sea,”
― Lisa Tuttle, My Death