Stories have a way of changing faces. They are unruly things, undisciplined, given to delinquency and the throwing of erasers. This is why we must close them up into thick, solid books, so they cannot get out and cause trouble.
Kids always think they’re coming into a story at the beginning, when usually they’re coming in at the end.
Their memories crowd the edges of my mind, the weight of them almost too much to bear. I want everything they want. I feel their aches and am made timid by their fears. I’m no longer a man, I’m a chorus.
My insane love for anthologies can be easily explained by the fact that I love the short story form, and by the fact that I love various accounts on a certain topic, in this case fairies.
Ethel took her hand. ‘You’re a good friend Alvie. Even without all the magic.’ Alvie squeezed back. ’You are too, Ethel. Even without the arm.’ The older woman’s eyes watered just a bit. ‘I think that, today that’s something I needed to hear’.
Jane, as we mentioned earlier, loved books. There was nothing she relished more than the weight of a hefty tome in her hands, each beautiful volume of knowledge as rare and wonderful and fascinating as the last.
I’ve loved fairy tales and folktales since childhood, so I’ve read most of these stories, both the best and the worst, and the most known ones in their original, gruesome versions. Having so many to choose from, it’s obviously not an easy task to pick them through and chose ‘the best ones’.