Myths ​of Origin 2 csillagozás

Four Short Novels
Catherynne M. Valente: Myths of Origin

Live ​the Myth! New York Times best-seller Catherynne M. Valente is the single most compelling voice to emerge in fantasy fiction in decades. Collected here for the first time, her early short novels explore, deconstruct, and ultimately explode the seminal myths of both East and West, casting them in ways you”ve never read before and may never read again. The Labyrinth – a woman wanderer, a Maze like no other, a Monkey and a Minotaur and a world full of secrets leading down to the Center of it All. Yume No Hon: The Book of Dreams – an aged woman named Ayako lives in medieval Japan, but dreams in mythical worlds that beggar the imagination . . . including our own modern world. The Grass-Cutting Sword – when a hero challenges a great and evil serpent, who speaks for the snake? In this version of a myth from the ancient chronicle Kojiki, the serpent speaks for himself. Under in the Mere – Arthur and Lancelot, Mordred and le Fay. The saga has been told a thousand times, but never in… (tovább)

384 oldal · ISBN: 9781890464141

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Kiemelt értékelések

Catherynne M. Valente: Myths of Origin

Elhatároztam, hogy nem fogom százezredszer is leírni, hogy mennyire elragadott Valente mítikus álomvilága. Úgyhogy csak egy megjegyzést tennék: ha férfinak születtem volna, megvívnék a nő kezéért a többi lovaggal. És a mi mesénk akkor nem is olymódon lenne befejezett, hogy boldogan éltek, amíg… satöbbi. Emellett az ember mellett nem lehet olyan egyszerű sem élni, sem boldogan halni, de hogy egy percig nem unatkoznánk, az biztos.

A kötet 4 regényéből az első hármat külön olvastam, de azután itt másodszor is. A negyedik darab tetszett a legkevésbé, de az is magasan jobb, mint más írók sikeres fantasy-regényei. Ráadásul Arthur-mondakörbéli alapszituációból indulhatunk ki.

Száz szónak is egy a vége, olvassatok Valentét, mert fantasztikus!

Népszerű idézetek

Bori_L P>!

I am too weak to be the wife of alone.

Yume No Hon: The Book of Dreams (The Shrike Calls)


I eat light, vomit scripture. Eat maiden; retch hymn. Eat hero; hawk meadhall. The natural reptilian digestion is alchemical: eight chambered stomachs bubbling like beakers, intestines looping between, above and below, logos-calligraphy whispering recipes between celestial spheres swollen with bile and flesh. Our body is proto-Ptolemaic, constructed all of hoops and circles, perfect circles, without beginning or end—mouth, eye, neck-elongate, poison-sac, egg. We swim in ourselves, we chew our tails, we exude diamond-slime and drink it from puddles in the pocked cavefloor, our every process is filthy with beatitude, we are exalted by excrement, transfigured by mucus-mandala. We have to eat, after all.
You will, no doubt, see us and cry: It is a snake, and horrible to see.


But we are witch-doctors, we are medicine, and all around us the maidens waver like ghosts chained to a lakefloor, coronal, illuminate, perfected into daughters of my flesh (greenblackgreengreenblack) breech-angled, nestled in the sandy soil of our tapering body. We carry them like daughters-strapped-to-the-back, we drag them along like sacks of corn, corn-women, gone down into darkness and up again, down again and up again, and there is no asphodel like the cilia of our viscera, there is no pomegranate like our colossal heart, sixteen-chambered, ventricles lines in white fiber, seeded in bloody rubies, slowly erupting, slowly retreating.


You dream of the cave’s moss-veiled crevice, and the girl vanishing into it, and the snake vanishing into her, around and around and around, and you do not know why it reminds you of your mother.


Then came the moon, sick-silver, oozing from Father’s other eye like a wet and shell-less snail.


What a relief I must have been—the rush of cold water and darkness, the mere and the gloam, the wind drying stray drops of effluvia on his open mouth. Out of his nose I came, and from whence should I have come but the curved nostril, in my sharp air and exhalation—I came up from the crystalline lungs like a waft of smoke and curled from my Father with a grace sun and moon could not begin to imitate.


When I was a girl I gutted the fish my father caught, and their intestines slithered over my fingers, over and under, like weaving silver—their eyes went into our soup, for which the we were modestly famous, and rest of the village came to our stall in the marketplace at festival time, to slurp up the murky broth with all those sightless eyes floating in it, eaten staring at eater.


If I kill a dragon for you, as heroes are wont to do, if I damp the soil with blood, will the stain become a gate, a hole, a passage into Mother, into the dreamed-of hell?


The sun slaps my back as if it loathed me specially—which, of course, it does. What sister misses an opportunity to annoy her brother when he is least eager to be annoyed?


“Of course, Storm-Lord! But why would a god marry a poor farm girl?” asked one of the bound novices, his voice thin and chirping as an insect.

“All things must eventually mate,” I shrugged, “having been cast into a man’s flesh I must do as flesh does. And it hardly matters whether one mates with a woman or a rock or a river—the end result is the same. Once all the world wed stones and trees—but this is a degenerate age, and no one keeps to tradition.”

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