There are only bits and pieces of magic in this book—a talking fish, a witch who carries a cat’s bone—but somehow the entire book is magical, a tale of a Tale, which doesn’t exactly end or ever begin, but seems to carry you on, nonetheless. Every sentence is so perfect it’s like a handblown glass you’re afraid to handle. Indescribably delightful.
A book takes place in time, not just in space. It is not information, but relation.
It is right that the murder of many people be mourned and lamented.
Even the best weapon is an unhappy tool.
What do they do, the singers, tale-writers, dancers, painters, shapers, makers?
Where to give all your precious fucks.
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