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“No matter what I really was, no matter what I really meant, uncritical love was what I needed--and my Helga was the angel who gave it to me.
Copiously.
No young person on earth is so excellent in all respects as to need no uncritical love. Good Lord--as youngsters play their parts in political tragedies with casts of billions, uncritical love is the only real treasure they can look for.”
― Mother Night
Copiously.
No young person on earth is so excellent in all respects as to need no uncritical love. Good Lord--as youngsters play their parts in political tragedies with casts of billions, uncritical love is the only real treasure they can look for.”
― Mother Night
“It’s all I’ve seen, all I’ve been through,” I said, “that makes it damn nearly impossible for me to say anything. I’ve lost the knack of making sense. I speak gibberish to the civilized world, and it replies in kind.”
― Mother Night
― Mother Night
“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.”
―
Christopher’s 2024 Year in Books
Take a look at Christopher’s Year in Books, including some fun facts about their reading.
43 books
|
48 friends
3,875 books
|
131 friends
553 books
|
32 friends
2 books
|
303 friends
1 book
|
33 friends
0 books
|
15 friends
670 books
|
71 friends
46 books
|
47 friends
More friends…
Favorite Genres
Polls voted on by Christopher
Lists liked by Christopher
