His Dark Materials is one of the series many of you had read as kids, but I didn’t have access to, thanks to my lovely country, same as Narnia, A Series of Unfortunate Events, etc. So I’m compensating now, as an adult, and I was wondering if I’d still like it. Turns out I love it!
It was a power play, a signal of ubiquity. I am both nowhere and everywhere. You may not think you have something in common with your neighbor, but you do: me. I’m the barely spotted presence, the dark-haired, blond-haired, stocky, slight, seen from the back, glimpsed in half-light thread that will continue to connect you even as you fail to look out for each other.
Their father was murdered. They don’t know one of their closest friends is really their enemy… And he’ll stop at nothing to get the key to the black door. The other keys have the power to save them. This is where they’ll make their stand.
All our land was enriched with my treasures buried in it, thickly inhabited just below the surface with my marbles and my teeth and my colored stones, all perhaps turned to jewels by now, held together under the ground in a powerful taut web which never loosened, but held fast to guard us.
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.