Weaveworld is the stuff of which classics are made. It begins with a carpet – a wondrous, magnificent carpet – into which a world has been woven. But as the carpet begins to unravel, Clive Barker takes us to places where we have seldom been in fiction – places terrifying and miraculous.
Weaveworld 6 csillagozás
Eredeti megjelenés éve: 1987
Az anyja szemit, de jó volt ez a könyv! A rettenetestől a csodálatosig minden megvan benne. Megmozgatott a történet: izgultam, nevettem, undorodtam, elfacsarodott a szívem, dühöngtem, szóval az érzelmek elég széles skáláján végigtornáztatott engem Mr Barker. Közel 25 éves a regény, de nem avult el, ennél sokkal fantáziadúsabbat nemigen írtak azóta sem. Olvassátok el, van hozzá jövő évi kihívás. :)
Naiv kérdéseim: a magyar változatnak (http://moly.hu/konyvek/clive-barker-korbacs) miért a Korbács címet adták, ami messze nem a könyv lényege, és miért olyan rusnyák a borítók?
I recently finished a six-week publicity tour for a new novel, and at book-signings across the country found readers bringing me battered but much-beloved copies of Weaveworld to be inscribed; several times I heard people say the book had helped them through dark times in their personal lives.
There is nothing more gratifying to this author than to sign and personalize a book which has seen some action: passed between friends, dropped in the bath, coffee-stained and sun-yellowed. I have in my library copies of certain works – Melville, Poe, Blake – that I’ve treasured over the years, all much the worse for wear. I know how close you can get to a book whose stains and creases are part of your shared history.
He had lunacy in his blood. His father’s father, Mad Mooney, ended his life crazy as a coot. The man had been a poet, according to Brendan, though tales of his life and times had been forbidden in Chariot Street. Hush your nonsense, Eileen had always said, whenever Brendan mentioned the man, though whether this taboo was against Poetry, Delirium or the Irish Cal had never decided.
Yes, fantastic fiction can be intricately woven into the texture of our daily lives, addressing important issues in fabulist form. But it also serves to release us for a time from the definitions that confine our daily selves; to unplug us from a world that wounds and disappoints us, allowing us to venture into places of magic and transformation. Though of late my writing has concerned itself more and more with detailing that wounded, disappointing reality, as a reader I have rediscovered the pleasures of unrepentant escapism: the short fiction of Lord Dunsany, early Yeats poems, the paintings of Samuel Palmer and Ernst Fuchs.
The name brought an exclamation of horror from both Frederick and Jerichau. Apolline, ever the lady, simply spat on the floor.
'Have they not hanged that bitch yet?' she said.
'Twice to my certain knowledge,' Jerichau replied.
'She takes it as flattery,' Lilia remarked.
Fontana/Collins 1988, 135. o.
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