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Max Gladstone

  • Roza Nabiцитирует3 месяца назад
    They bring daughters of earth back down to the land of death—but death does not claim them.
  • Lenore Romeroцитируетв прошлом году
    She holds a corpse that was once a man, her hands gloved in its guts, her fingers clutching its alloy spine. She lets go, and the exoskeleton clatters against rock. Crude technology. Ancient. Bronze to depleted uranium. He never had a chance. That is the point of Red.
  • Lenore Romeroцитируетв прошлом году
    A fugitive becomes a queen or a scientist or, worse, a poet.
  • Lenore Romeroцитируетв прошлом году
    But hunger is a many-splendoured thing; it needn’t be conceived only in limbic terms, in biology. Hunger, Red—to sate a hunger or to stoke it, to feel hunger as a furnace, to trace its edges like teeth—is this a thing you, singly, know? Have you ever had a hunger that whetted itself on what you fed it, sharpened so keen and bright that it might split you open, break a new thing out?

    Sometimes I think that’s what I have instead of friends.
  • Lenore Romeroцитируетв прошлом году
    Memory is tipped and decanted into Garden, life to life to life, always deepening, thickening, growing new roots and efficiencies—but Red’s letters she keeps in her own body, curled beneath her tongue like coins, printed in her fingers’ tips, between the lines of her palms.
  • Lenore Romeroцитируетв прошлом году
    She thinks without thinking, often, of what she will name Red in her next letter—hides her lists in plausibly deniable dreamscapes, on the undersides of milkweed leaves, in shed chrysalis and wingtip. Vermillion Lie. Scarlet Tanager. Parthian Thread. My Red, Red Rose.
  • Lenore Romeroцитируетв прошлом году
    She looks at Red—thirteen, alone, vulnerable, so impossibly fragile and small—and a letter rises in her throat like bile.

    I wanted to be seen.

    She sees her and breaks like a wave.
  • Lenore Romeroцитируетв прошлом году
    Destroy it on your own, in your own way, if you want. I won’t mind. We all have our observers. And this letter is a knife at my neck, if cutting’s what you want.
  • Lenore Romeroцитируетв прошлом году
    I’ve read your last missive and reread it—in memory, as you warned me I would so long ago, preparing myself for a fall. I see you as a wave, as a bird, as a wolf. (My wolf, with the six legs and double-banked eyes.)
  • Lenore Romeroцитируетв прошлом году
    So I change your shape in my thoughts. It’s amazing how much blue there is in the world, if you look. You’re different colors of flame: Bismuth burns blue, and cerium, germanium, and arsenic. See? I pour you into things.
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