The ​Bread We Eat in Dreams 1 csillagozás

Catherynne M. Valente: The Bread We Eat in Dreams

Subterranean ​Press proudly presents a major new collection by one of the brightest stars in the literary firmament. Catherynne M. Valente, the New York Times bestselling author of The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making and other acclaimed novels, now brings readers a treasure trove of stories and poems in The Bread We Eat in Dreams.

In the Locus Award-winning novelette 'White Lines on a Green Field,' an old story plays out against a high school backdrop as Coyote is quarterback and king for a season. A girl named Mallow embarks on an adventure of memorable and magical politicks in 'The Girl Who Ruled Fairyland--For a Little While.' The award-winning, tour de force novella 'Silently and Very Fast' is an ancient epic set in a far-flung future, the intimate autobiography of an evolving A.I. And in the title story, the history of a New England town and that of an outcast demon are irrevocably linked.

The twenty-six pieces collected here… (tovább)

Subterranean, Burton, Michigan, 2013
ISBN: 9781596065826

Kedvencelte 1

Várólistára tette 2

Kívánságlistára tette 1

Kölcsönkérné 1

Kiemelt értékelések

Catherynne M. Valente: The Bread We Eat in Dreams

Annyi mindent írtam már karcokban ezekről a novellákról, és annyi mindent tudnék és szeretnék még. De nem fogok, mert már így is éppen eleget ömlengtem. Így más fórumon fogok még elemezgetni, mitologizálni és rejtvényeket fejteni, de nem itt és most. Mert kevés a hely, az idő, és nekem rengeteg kutatnivalóm támadt most a novellák által felvetett témákban. És már ez a tény maga a csillagozást alátámasztó dícséret és indok. Ebben a kötetben nincs egyetlen olyan írás sem, ami gyengébb volna, mint a többi. Vannak, amelyeket kevésbé értek, mert nem vagyok elég művelt és olvasott ahhoz, hogy minden utalását megértsem. Vannak, amelyek közelebb állnak a szívemhez, mint mások. De mindegyik tökéletes gyöngyszem.

Népszerű idézetek


Santa Claus is real. However, your parents are folkloric constructs meant to protect and fortify children against the darknesses of the real world. They are symbols representing the return of the sun and the end of winter, the sacrifice of the king and the eternal fecundity of the queen. They wear traditional vestments and are associated with certain seasonal plants, animals, and foods. After a certain age, no intelligent child continues believing in their parents, and it is embarrassing when one professes such faith after puberty. Santa Claus, however, will never fail us.

25 facts About Santa Claus

1 hozzászólás

Something pretty to think about when you’re cold and hungry. It’s nice to think someone beautiful is protecting you. It’s nice to think there’s a place you can go if you want it bad enough. A place where everything you ever read about is real.
And of course it went away. Of course it did. I mean, that’s like the job of magical places, to vanish. Atlantis, Avalon. Middle Earth.


In fact, your minotaur will love to read, will devour, quite literally, whole libraries in an insatiable passion for books. She will need glasses by the time she is five, so fervent will her reading be. Of course this is not a generally accepted method of learning, but when your minotaur pipes up at breakfast and lists the attributes of cephalopods in alphabetical order, you will have no doubt of its efficacy. Unfortunately, third grade teachers are rarely so enlightened. When she is discovered with Tolkien halfway down her throat, weeping Elvish declensions, she will be put aside with the other difficult children, in a classroom with no sharp edges.

9 hozzászólás

Santa Claus actually met Jesus once, when they were both very young. Santa wasn’t even called Claus yet, and he didn’t wear red. He was just thin and tired and alone, and so was Jesus, and they shared some wine and talked about what it was like to be folklorically dense nexus points.


Step right up; show me your life. I’ll show you the story you’re in. Nothing more important in this world, kid. Figure that out and you’re halfway out of the dark.
Call them fairy tales, if that makes you feel better. If you call them fairy tales, then you don’t have to believe you’re in one.
It’s all about seeing the pattern—and the pattern is always there. It’s a vicious circle: the story gets told because the pattern repeats, and the pattern repeats because the story gets told.

2. oldal

1 hozzászólás

My national resources sat in a green backpack wedged between my knees: an all-in-one Lord of the Rings, the Complete Keats, a thrashed orange and white Edith Hamilton, a black skirt that hardly warranted the title, little more than a piece of fabric and a safety pin, two shirts, also black, $10.16, and a corn muffin. Yes, this represented the sum total of what I believed necessary for survival on Planet Earth.
I forgot my toothbrush.


They all think I don’t get it, that I’m just a dumb kid who thinks vampires are cool because they all grew up reading those stupid books where some girl goes swooning over a boy vampire because he’s so deep and dreamy and he lived through centuries waiting for her. Gag. I guess that’s why that crap is banned now. No one wants their daughters getting the idea that all this could ever be hot. But guess what? They don’t have body fluids. They only have blood. You do the math.


I was born at Burnt Corn Ranch on the summer solstice and I came out of a pinto mare just as human as you like. …
And that’s who raised me up. No idea what they thought when that mare lay down to foal. But they named her Almagest, so maybe they knew the score after all. When they pulled me out of her nethers, Tincup scratched his head and picked me up, full grown and covered in horse. He put me in the house by the stove like any other foal born sickly.

1 hozzászólás

“Art thee a witch, then?” he whispered.
“No,” said the demon.
“But not a Christian lady, neither,” said he.
“No,” said the demon.
“How came you to grow such bounty on your land without the help of God?”
The demon closed her hands in her lap. Her long hair hung around her like an animal’s skin.
“My dear Goodman Mather, there is not a demon in Hell who was not once something quite other, and more interesting. In the land where the Euphrates runs green and sweet, I was a grain-god with the head of a bull. In the rough valley of the Tyne I was a god of fertility and war, with the head of a crow. I was a fish-headed lord of plenty in the depths of the Tigris. Before language I was she-who-makes-the-harvest-come, and I rode a red boar. The earth answers when I call it by name. I know its name because we are family.”

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