Before she came ill, David's mother would often tell him that stories were alive. They weren't alive in the way that people were alive, or even dogs and cats... Stories were different: they came alive in the telling. Without a human voice to read them out loud, or a pair of wide eyes following them by flashlight beneath the blanket, they had no real existence in our world. They were like seeds in the beak of a bird, waiting to fall to earth, or the notes of a song laid out on a sheet, yearning for an instrument to bring their music to being. They lay dormant, hoping for the chance to emerge.This is one of the funnest books I have read all year. It is well written and fastastically whimsical. Review upon completion! Have a great weekend.
Stories Were Alive...
Reading Now: The Book of Lost Things - John Connolly