Memory and Dream

Memory and Dream by Charles de Lint
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I am not sure how I feel about this book. I love the idea that is the essence of this novel: that Isabelle's paintings can bring ancient spirits into this world. And yet... There were some really good parts but there were also way too many -and, a lot of the times, unnecessary- detailed descriptions that I feel slowed down the pace of the story too much. It took me a while to get into it (maybe after page 100) and, even then, I never really cared much about most of the characters, which is a problem, because if you don't care about the characters, you won't care about what happens to them. One of the few exceptions was John Sweetgrass. I fell in love with that character. He saved the book for me and was probably the reason I kept reading until the end.

Now, don't get me wrong: the book wasn't bad. It just wasn't great for me, either. It didn't grab me, not until almost the very end, when the story finally starts to pick up. But it's a 400 pages book so I felt that most of it was a slow building up to a climax that took too long to arrive.

Overall, the book was alright for me. It had some moments that truly enchanted me -and that's the reason I'm giving it 3 stars instead of 2- but there weren't enough of them in a novel that is this long.


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Of loss and love... Chapter 8 is up.

Here's a little teaser:

 “Anders.” 

He raised his head, surprised, and looked at her, the lines of concentration on his face dissolving as his eyes focused on her face; she could see a barely contained hunger in them. 

“Hawke…” he said softly and let her name hang in the air between them; the multiple undercurrents in his voice made it hard for Hawke to guess what he was thinking.

“Hi.”

“You come alone?” he asked her, his eyes searching behind her for someone else.

“Uh… yes,” she replied, puzzled by his question. “I just came by to see if you want to help me out with a job. If you’re not busy, that is-”

“I’ll help,” he answered almost before she finished talking.

“A…alright, then. Great! Varric and Aveline are already waiting for us.”

He raised an eyebrow, “…Not Sebastian?”

Her heart winced at the mention of his name and even though there was nothing in Anders’s clinic that could possibly remind her of Sebastian, his face seemed to shape itself out of the walls, out of the very air, to haunt her. 

(Read more...) 

 To read the story from the beginning, click here.

The Cygnet and the Firebird...

I finished reading this book (by Patricia A. McKillip) a few days ago and I’m having a hard time letting it go. I can tell because days have passed and I still don’t have the heart to start a new book; I find myself holding on to the remnants of the story, of the characters that found a secret way into my bones when I wasn’t looking and now refuse to let me move on. Not yet, they seem to whisper, Let us settle down between your cells before you begin filling them with new worlds…

So I’m going to let them. I owe them that much.

Do you know the feeling when you start reading a new book before the membrane of the last one has had time to close behind you? You leave the previous book with ideas and themes—characters even—caught in the fibers of your clothes, and when you open the new book, they are still with you.

—	The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield

Of loss and love... Chapter 7 is up.

Here's a little teaser:

 [...] He stopped moving completely, except for a raised eyebrow, when his gaze landed on the letter again; he had noticed on the envelope the name of the head of a noble family from one the northern Free Marches cities, the last one he had been able to visit in his ongoing campaign to retake Starkhaven. This family in particular had pledged to support him but had made no offer to help him with troops, like many other of the allies he had recruited. So Sebastian had allies, but no actual army with which to retake his city. 

Intrigued, he opened the letter and read the elegant writing arranged neatly all over the parchment, reminding him of the troops he so desperately needed. A troubled scowl painted his forehead when he finished reading it, and it took all his will not to crumble the parchment with his fingers. [...]

Rage and loathing crashed against him so hard they took all the air out of his lungs. With a shaking hand, Sebastian left the letter back on the desk and made a decision right there. He only had time to grab his shirt before he left his room, and, putting it on on his way out, went to look for the grand cleric.

(Read more...) 

 To read the story from the beginning, click here.

Of loss and love... Chapter 6 is up!

Here's a little teaser:

“Child, something is bothering you,” Elthina said as soon as Sebastian closed the Chantry’s massive doors behind them. Her clear eyes were looking at him with concern. 

Sebastian closed his eyes, his hands still resting on the carved door. Elthina knew. Of course she knew. 

“Is it that obvious, Your Grace?” he asked when he finally faced the grand cleric. 

Her smile was gentle when she replied, “Sebastian, I’ve known you for a very long time; do not think I haven’t noticed how troubled your heart has been lately.” 

He lowered his head. “You see much...” 

Hawke’s expression when he had told her he needed to accompany Elthina back to the Chantry came back to haunt him. She had seemed strangely reluctant to part from his company, and even though she hadn’t attempted to stop him with words, the way she had last looked at him had made the walk to the Chantry feel unreal, for his thoughts had strayed from his mind, following Hawke as a ship would follow the blaze coming from a lighthouse in the middle of a storm...

(Read more...) 

 To read the whole story, click here.

Where I can become who I’m supposed to be...

All my life I’ve wanted to be the kid who gets to cross over into the magical kingdom. I devoured those books by C.S. Lewis and William Dunthorn, Ellen Wentworth, Susan Cooper, and Alan Garner. When I could get them from the library, I read them out of order as I found them, and then in order, and then reread them all again, many times over. Because even when I was a child I knew it wasn’t simply escape that lay on the far side of the borders of fairyland. Instinctively I knew crossing over would mean more than fleeing the constant terror and shame that was mine at that time of my life. There was a knowledge – an understanding hidden in the marrow of my bones that only I can access ― telling me that by crossing over, I’d be coming home. That’s the reason I’ve yearned so desperately to experience the wonder, the mystery, the beauty of that world beyond the World As It Is. It’s because I know that somewhere across the border there’s a place for me. A place of safety and strength and learning, where I can become who I’m supposed to be. 

I’ve tried forever to be that person here, but whatever I manage to accomplish in the World As It Is only seems to be an echo of what I could be in that other place that lies hidden somewhere beyond the borders.

- Charles de Lint (Why, this is me.)

My muse...

I finally finished reading “The Bards of Bone Plain” by Patricia A. McKillip. Seriously, this woman… I kept having to stop reading at one or other line or paragraph and just marvel at her skill and how she masters the art of painting pictures with her words that touch the soul. And she never failed to inspire me, my muse, and make me write.

So, I decided that even though I have books by Charles de Lint and Diana Wynne Jones waiting for me to read them, I will read yet another of her books because I need the inspiration.

This time it’s the turn of “Cygnet”, a compilation of two of her novels: The Sorceress and the Cygnet and The Cygnet and the Firebird. I have only read the first sentence of the book and I’m already trapped: He was a child of the horned moon.

 Anyway, more writing and less blogging.

Of loss and love...

Gamlen walked out of the room, leaving Hawke staring at the fireplace. She wished she could burn away the last images of her mother... that she could unsee, could go back in time and save her from the gruesome fate that stole her life. Her whole family was gone. Dead or taken. What had she done to bring all this loss and pain to her family? All gone...

“Oh, Maker...” a pained sob threatened to break her spirit right there but she hold it back. Anger was easier to handle. It gave her something to hold on to. But even she knew that hating the mage who had done this would not bring her mother back. He was dead, as was her mother, and that was it.

Hawke got up and went upstairs, moving as if the weight of the world was resting on her shoulders. Her eyes avoided her mother’s room altogether. She just kept them glued to the floor on the way to her bedroom and didn’t even bother to close the door behind her.

The bed welcomed her as she sat down and leaned forward to rest her elbows on her legs. She didn’t move after that. It felt like time had stopped outside her door out of respect for her loss and went on flowing as usual, touching everything except the space she inhabited. She didn’t hear Bodahn opening the estate’s door for someone. Didn’t hear the hushed voices, whispering at the entrance as if they were too scared to speak louder because they didn’t want to upset the air inside the house... even Howl was silent, no welcoming barks for the visitor. Not even the footsteps she had come to know so well coming up the stairs and approaching her bedroom touched her ears. But when he entered the room, Hawke didn’t need to turn around to know it was Sebastian who was walking towards her. He had always possessed a radiance that brought light even to the darkest emotions.

“Marion...” he whispered, unsure.

Hawke closed her eyes. “Is it my fault?” she asked, the pain and guilt in her voice crushing Sebastian’s heart.

“It is not your fault, Marion. Not even the Maker would have been able to stop this.” Sebastian’s doubts disappeared and he sat down beside her, gently, not caring about anything else but being there for her, the woman who had stood by his side and supported him when no one else had.

The warm weight of his body next to hers made her look up, her eyes looking for his. She meant to say something different but the expression in his blue eyes erased those words and put his name on her lips.

“Sebastian...”

“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.” He placed his hand on her back in an attempt to comfort her. Hawke relaxed a little and looked down again. They remained in silence, their heads full of unspoken questions and what if’s both thought inappropriate to voice in that moment.

“Say something. Anything,” she begged when she couldn’t stand the silence anymore.

Sebastian hesitated for a second and then chose a safe answer. “Your mother is with the Maker now. She’s not suffering anymore. I will put her name on the chantry’s memorial wall tomorrow.” His voice was soft but confident, like a mother caressing a child after a fall.

For some reason, Hawke found comfort in his words. She needed to believe that it was true, that maybe mother was with father and Bethany right then, laughing and hugging and free of pain. A small smile crawled into Hawke’s face.

“Thank you, Sebastian.”


She leaned on him, needing to feel someone holding her, forgetting that maybe his vows didn’t even allow him that small freedom. Sebastian’s body tensed. It was the first time she was that close to him and strange desires he hadn’t felt in years began to stir in his heart. But he held her anyway. It would have been more wrong to not give her the comfort she needed, the support he knew she craved. He was sure the Maker would understand...

Hawke sighed when his arms surrounded her. She felt safe.

Sebastian rested his cheek on Hawke’s hair and allowed himself to close his eyes. He realized he had been dreaming about doing this for a long time now and it felt more right than he had imagined. He breathed her in and knew in that moment, deep in his soul, that his heart had finally made a choice.

We never talk about my brother...

I'm currently reading We never talk about my brother by Peter S. Beagle (author of The Last Unicorn). It's a fantasy collection of nine stories, all written by this wondrous author who never ceases to amaze me.

I wasn't planning on writing anything about this book but after the last two stories I read, I thought I really needed to say something about it.

And I'm going to start with the one I just finished, which is called The Unicorn Tapestries. It's a poem cycle based on, you probably guessed, the Unicorn Tapestries, seven hangings made around the end of the 15th century, that tell the tale of, as Beagle himself puts it, "a brutal unicorn hunt". It's hard to find the exact words to describe what these poems made me feel... They moved me almost to tears (nothing to do with the fact that I'm pretty sensitive today :p ). Beagle managed to bring the tapestries to life with the magic of his words and recreate the unicorn hunt from the point of view of a small boy, who tells this story with eyes that still see everything with the innocence of one that recognizes something sacred when he sees it and wonders "What must we look like to a unicorn?"

I have to say that if The Unicorn Tapestries would have been the only good thing about this book, I would have bought it anyway just to have the privilege to read those poems.

Fortunately, they weren't the only good things about the book. All the stories I've read so far have been good (like The Stickball Witch), some more than others. But there is one in particular that also stands out, called By Moonlight. That's the other story that made this book worth every penny. This one is about a fugitive that stumbles into a campfire in the middle of the night and there he meets a strange old man. They start talking and, when the fugitive realizes that this man claims to have visited the Faery, that other world Under the hill, he asks to listen to his story. And so the old man starts to weave the tale of his past and a life he lost so many years ago in that other land where he loved and was loved. Beautiful, I say. Haunting and beautiful.

I still have one more story to read before I finish the book but even if it happens to suck, I will still love the book and treasure it because of those two brilliant jewels that I found inside.

You are a Master of your craft, Peter S. Beagle. Yes, you are.

This moved me in ways only a few people will understand...

Do not let your fire go out, spark by irreplaceable spark in the hopeless swaps of the not-quite, the not-yet and the not-at-all. Do not let the hero in your soul perish in lonely frustration for the life you deserved and have never been able to reach. The world you desire can be won. It exists... it is real... it is possible... it's yours.

-Ayn Rand-