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Charles De Lint - Memory and Dream

Here you can read online Charles De Lint - Memory and Dream full text of the book (entire story) in english for free. Download pdf and epub, get meaning, cover and reviews about this ebook. year: 1994, publisher: Tor, genre: Science fiction. Description of the work, (preface) as well as reviews are available. Best literature library LitArk.com created for fans of good reading and offers a wide selection of genres:

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Dreams have magic in them. A few of us have the power to make that magic real. A masterwork by one of fantasys most gifted storytellers: a magnificent tale of love, courage, and the power of imagination to transform our lives. This is the novel Charles de Lints many devoted readers have been waiting for, the compelling odyssey of a young woman whose visionary art frees ancient spirits into the modern world. Isabelle Copleys visionary art frees ancient spirits. As the young student of the cruel, brilliant artist Vincent Rushkin, she discovered she could paint images so vividly real they brought her wildest fantasies to life. But when the forces she unleashed brought tragedy to those she loved, she turned her back on her talentand on her dreams. Now, twenty years later, Isabelle must come to terms with the shattering memories she has long denied, and unlock the slumbering power of her brush. And, in a dark reckoning with her old master, she must find the courage to live out her dreams and bring the magic back to life. Charles de Lints skillful blending of contemporary urban characters and settings with traditional folk magic has made him one of the most popular fantasy authors of his generation. Memory and Dream is the most ambitious work of de Lints extraordinary career, an exciting tale of epic scope that explores the power our dreams have to transform the world-or make it a waking nightmare. It is the story of Isabelle Copley, a young artist who once lived in the bohemian quarter of the northern city of Newford. As a student of Vincent Rushkin, a cruel but gifted painter, she discovered an awesome powerto craft images so real that they came to life. With her paintbrush she called into being the wild spirits of the wood, made her dreams come true with canvas and paint. But when the forces she unleashed brought unexpected tragedy to those she loved, she ran away from Newford, turning her back on her talent-and on her dreams. Now, twenty years later, the power of Newford has reached out to draw her back. To fulfill a promise to a long-dead friend, Isabelle must come to terms with the shattering memories she has long denied, and unlock the slumbering power of her brush. She must accept her true feelings for her newfound lover John Sweetgrass, a handsome young Native American who is the image of her most intense imaginings. And, in a dark reckoning with her old master, she must find the courage to live out her dreams, and bring the magic back to life. Charles de Lint - Novelist, poet, artist, and musician, Charles de Lint is one of the most influential fantasy writers of his generation. With such warmly received works as Spiritwalk, Moonheart, Into the Green, and Dreams Underfoot(also set in the town of Newford), he has earned high praise from readers and critics alike, Booklist has called him one of the most original fantasy writers currently working. And The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction writes: De Lint shows us that, far from being escapism, contemporary fantasy can be the deep, mythic literature of our time. De Lint and his wife MaryAnn Harris, an artist, live in Ottawa, Ontario, Canada, where they are both Celtic musicians in the band Jump At the Sun. For more than a decade, Charles de Lint has enjoyed a reputation as one of the worlds leading fantasists. A superb storyteller. De Lint has a flair for tales that blur the lines between the mundane world and magical reality, and nowhere is this more evident than in his fictional city of Newford. De Lint can feel the beauty of the ancient lore he is evoking. He can well imagine what it would be like to conjure the Other World among ancient standing stones. His characters have a certain fallibility that makes them multidimensional and human, and his settings are gritty. This is no Disneylike Never-Never Land. Life and death in de Lints world are more than a matter of a few words or a magic crystal. There is no better writer now than Charles de Lint at bringing out the magic in contemporary life ... The best of the post-Stephen King contemporary fantasists, the one with the clearest vision of the possibilities of magic in a modern setting. In the fictional city of Newford, replete with the brutal realities of modern urban life, de Lints characters encounter magic in strange and unexpected places ... In de Lints capable hands, modern fantasy becomes something other than escapism. It becomes folk song, the stuff of urban myth.

Charles De Lint: author's other books


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Dedicated to the memory of Ron Nance. Im gonna miss you, pal.

MEMORY AND DREAM

The leaves are coming down, another circle going round

Reminding me of you and brighter times

When I got the news I cried and later realized

Ill carry a part of you for all my life

Kiya Heartwood, from No Goodbyes, No Regrets

Night hovers all day in the boughs of the fir tree.

Ralph Waldo Emerson, from Experience, 1844

Our dreams make us large.

Jack Kirby, from an interview on Prisoners of Gravity, TV Ontario; broadcast January 7, 1993

La Liseuse

The reading woman sits by the window, lamplight falling over her shoulder onto the book. It is the book that glows, a golden bath of lemon yellow faintly touched with orange, surrounded by violet shadows. The glow of the book casts a soft light onto the womans features, a soft light and softer shadows, and sets the tangle of her hennaed hair aflame.

It is possible to see diminutive figures in the shadows, crouching on the arms of the chair to peer at the words in the pages of the womans book, peeping out from in between the curls of her red hair. Tinier shapes still, not quite the size of mosquitoes, hover in the lamplight. Some are silhouetted against the curve of her throat and the shadow of her nose, others against the faint spray offreckles on brow and cheek.

Their heads are like those of fledgling birds: noses sharp and long, features pinched, brows high and smooth. Their figureswhen in silhouetteare not unlike a tadpoles. They have limbs like small crooked twigs, birds-nest hair that stands up in surprise and is ungovernably wild.

Some have wings with the gossamer iridescence of a dragonflys.

The reading woman gives no indication that she is aware of their presence. The book captures herfull attention. But surely she can feel the press of miniature bodies as they move against her arm, or the furtive movement as they slip in and about the curls of her hair? Surely she can see the tiny shapes flitting in the dusky air that lies between her grey-green eyes and the page?

Or perhaps they are only shadows, nothing more. And the summers night that lies outside her window belongs not to memory, but to dream.

La Liseuse, 1977, oil on canvas, 40 X 30 in. Collection The Newford Childrens Foundation.

Footprints In The Dust

Put your hand .

Here.

Listen to my heart beat.

Ingrid Karidins, from the liner notes of A Darker Passion

I

September 1992

Katharine Mully had been dead for five years and two months, the morning Isabelle received the letter from her.

Standing by the roadside, Isabelle had to lean against her mailbox to keep her balance. Her knees went watery. A wave of dizziness started up in the pit of her stomach and rushed up between her temples. She no longer heard the world around hernot the birdsong from the cedars that courted the verge in a row of yellow-green and shadow, nor the sporadic traffic from the highway. All she could do was stare down in numbed incomprehension at the letter that lay on top of the bundle of mail shed taken out of the box. The envelope was smudged and dirtied, one corner crinkled. The address was handwritten in a script that was oh so familiar.

It had to be a joke, she thought. Someones sick, twisted idea of a joke.

But the postmark was still legible and it was dated July 12, 1987two days before Kathys death.

She must have had one of the nurses mail the letter and it had gone astray to spend more than five years in postal limbo, falling into a crack of the Post Offices regular service, tucked away behind a conveyor belt or between someones desk and a wall until it was finally discovered and put back into the system.

Or perhaps it was the incomplete address that had caused postal clerks to scratch their heads for so many years: Isabelle Copley, Adjani Farm, Wren Island. That, and nothing more, so that the letter sat undelivered until it was noticed by someone who knew the archipelago of summer homes and ice-fishing huts of which Isabelles island was but one. Wherever the letter had been, now, half a decade later, when it finally finished its journey, when it finally lay in the hands of its intended recipient, Isabelle couldnt open it. She couldnt bear to open it.

She stuffed the envelope in among the rest of her mail and returned to her Jeep. She leaned her head against the steering wheel and closed her eyes, trying to still the rapid drum of her pulse. Instead, Kathys features floated up behind her eyelids: the solemn-grey eyes and pouting lower lip, nose a touch too large, ears that stood out a bit too far but were usually hidden under a mass of red-gold hair, gilded with a fire of henna.

Isabelle wanted to pretend that the letter had never come, just as Kathy, lying there so pale and frail in the hospital, had wanted them all to pretend that she wasnt dying. Isabelle wanted it to be 1972 again, the year she left the island to attend Butler University; the year her whole life changed, from farm to city, from everything she knew so well to a place where the simplest act was an adventure; the year she first met Kathy; the year before shed fallen under Rush-kins spell.

But that had never been Isabelles gift, reinventing the world as she needed it; that gift had been Kathys.

Whats the world for if you cant make it up the way you want it? Kathy had once asked her.

What do you mean, make it up?

Make it something other than what it is. Make it something more than what it is.

Isabelle had shaken her head. Thats not something we can do. We cant just imagine things to be different. I mean we can, but it wont really change anythingnot in the real world.

If we dont change the world to suit us, Kathy had said, then itll change us to suit it.

Whats so bad about that?

I dont like who it can make me become.

No, Isabelle had never mastered the knack of it. And in the very end, neither had Kathy.

Pushing the bundle of mail from her lap onto the passengers seat beside her, Isabelle sat up. Her vision was blurred and all she could see of the windshield in front of her was a haze. She gripped the steering wheel to keep her hands from shaking. The engine idled, a low throaty drone that played a counterpoint to the hollow rhythm of her own accelerating heartbeat. The ache in her chest was as familiar as the handwriting on the envelope that had reawoken the pain.

If she could have it all to do over once more, there was so much she would change. She would have listened to Kathys warnings. She wouldnt have let herself fall prey to Rushkin and his promises. But most of all, she wouldnt have let Kathy die. Given another chance, shed give up her own life first. But malignant diseases paid no attention to anyones wants or wishes, and neither the world nor the past could be changed simply by wishing.

It was a long time before Isabelle finally put the Jeep into gear and returned to her landing. She tossed the bundle of mail into the bow of her rowboat, got in and cast off from the dock. She rowed with the steady strokes of a long familiarity with the task at hand, back to the island, her gaze on the receding shore but her thoughts circling around the memories of her friend. Shed become unusually adept at hiding them, even from herself, but the letter had drawn them up from out of the shadows and there was no putting them back now. They swept about her like a flock of noisy gulls, each clamoring for special attention, not one concerned with the pain their presence woke in her. They rose up from their secret places, pushing through the cobwebs, churning up a fine cloud that had lain undisturbed for years.

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