Elisa E. Enzo
Goodreads Author
Born
in Venice, Italy
Twitter
Genre
Member Since
August 2015
URL
https://www.goodreads.com/elisa-e-enzo
To ask
Elisa E. Enzo
questions,
please sign up.
Popular Answered Questions
|
Court of Asphodels
—
published
2015
|
|
* Note: these are all the books on Goodreads for this author. To add more, click here.
Elisa’s Recent Updates
|
Elisa Enzo
wants to read
|
|
|
Elisa Enzo
wants to read
|
|
|
Elisa Enzo
wants to read
|
|
|
Elisa Enzo
wants to read
|
|
|
Elisa Enzo
wants to read
|
|
|
Elisa Enzo
wants to read
|
|
|
Elisa Enzo
wants to read
|
|
|
Elisa Enzo
wants to read
|
|
|
Elisa Enzo
wants to read
|
|
|
Elisa Enzo
wants to read
|
|
“Once, poets were magicians. Poets were strong, stronger than warriors or kings — stronger than old hapless gods. And they will be strong once again.”
―
―
“The best fantasy is written in the language of dreams. It is alive as dreams are alive, more real than real ... for a moment at least ... that long magic moment before we wake.
Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli. Reality is plywood and plastic, done up in mud brown and olive drab. Fantasy tastes of habaneros and honey, cinnamon and cloves, rare red meat and wines as sweet as summer. Reality is beans and tofu, and ashes at the end. Reality is the strip malls of Burbank, the smokestacks of Cleveland, a parking garage in Newark. Fantasy is the towers of Minas Tirith, the ancient stones of Gormenghast, the halls of Camelot. Fantasy flies on the wings of Icarus, reality on Southwest Airlines. Why do our dreams become so much smaller when they finally come true?
We read fantasy to find the colors again, I think. To taste strong spices and hear the songs the sirens sang. There is something old and true in fantasy that speaks to something deep within us, to the child who dreamt that one day he would hunt the forests of the night, and feast beneath the hollow hills, and find a love to last forever somewhere south of Oz and north of Shangri-La.
They can keep their heaven. When I die, I'd sooner go to middle Earth.”
―
Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli. Reality is plywood and plastic, done up in mud brown and olive drab. Fantasy tastes of habaneros and honey, cinnamon and cloves, rare red meat and wines as sweet as summer. Reality is beans and tofu, and ashes at the end. Reality is the strip malls of Burbank, the smokestacks of Cleveland, a parking garage in Newark. Fantasy is the towers of Minas Tirith, the ancient stones of Gormenghast, the halls of Camelot. Fantasy flies on the wings of Icarus, reality on Southwest Airlines. Why do our dreams become so much smaller when they finally come true?
We read fantasy to find the colors again, I think. To taste strong spices and hear the songs the sirens sang. There is something old and true in fantasy that speaks to something deep within us, to the child who dreamt that one day he would hunt the forests of the night, and feast beneath the hollow hills, and find a love to last forever somewhere south of Oz and north of Shangri-La.
They can keep their heaven. When I die, I'd sooner go to middle Earth.”
―
“We all have our time machines, don't we. Those that take us back are memories...And those that carry us forward, are dreams.”
―
―
“Sometimes, you have to step outside of the person you've been and remember the person you were meant to be. The person you want to be. The person you are.”
―
―
“Losing your way on a journey is unfortunate. But, losing your reason for the journey is a fate more cruel.”
―
―








































