I finished “The Fairy Tale Museum” by Susannah M. Smith, and I have no words for it. As I said on the bird hellsite, that wasn’t a book, that was an experience. I can’t explain it to anyone; you’ll have to experience it for yourself. So have some words from it, instead, to tempt you to do so:
“What are you doing, little fox?
With a sideways glance and a flick of its tail, the fox might answer, I am in the thicket, now and always. I am the jewel in the obscurity.”
“People say it’s about the journey, not the destination. Dialectical thinking has its limitations.”
“Same moon. Different birds. How is it that libraries are so beautiful? The square at night. Narrow streets behind the cathedral. Books in different languages. You get lost. You find your way.”
“I felt the whispers of thousands of stories pushing up against me.”
“Things are not as you have been taught.
What you thought was blood was a metaphor for vital energy.
What you thought was scary was simply important.
What felt haunting only wanted you to be present.
Your instincts have brought you here.
Nothing is broken that cannot be repaired.
Remember who you are.”
“I don’t want to live without the sparklers, the brightness. Without that feeling of lying flat on the ground, pressed down with barely any blood or breathing and barely even any bones. What good is living without that? Only TV and TV and TV.”
“She can feel the future with all its colours.”
“Use your imagination. Wear your crown on the inside.”
“As if there had never been any reason for unhappiness.
As if all you had to do was believe in what you wanted
and it would happen.”
“Is the castle off in the distance,
or is it just behind your sternum?”
“When I’m awake during the night I use whatever scrap of paper is nearby. I write words, scribble, and jot. I burn holes. I take whatever comes. I trust my unconscious. There are always coloured pencils and pens and boxes of matches in the cupboard beside my bed. I am never without my supplies.”
“Is surrealism unfashionable? Is psychological inquiry embarrassing? I don’t care. I don’t pay attention to trends. I do exactly as I please.”
“He sees the bushes at the edge of the field and senses the blue fox in the underbrush. Its silken body glitters with jewels, hidden at the edge of the park.”
“A voice in his head tells him: You’re building a city. Each poem is a spire. The spires cluster together. Soon bells will ring. He smiles. Knowing that the blue fox is out there winking in the dark brings him happiness.”
“…all those damn rock stars with their dreamy poet eyes and tattoos.”
“Sometimes when you live by yourself, you need a bit of company; you need to make something out of nothing to know you exist.”
“Listen here. Yes, you. Don’t sleep with a clock radio beside your bed. It isn’t good for your electrical field. Same goes for the cellphone. You may scoff, but I still dream my own dreams. Do you?”
“A diamond. His heart was that hard. And yet, it shines in him. He can feel it.”
“If a star shines in the forest and no one is there to see it, is there any coruscation?”
“She was everything good about me that I hadn’t yet become.”
“She drew lingering looks from men and women she passed in the streets. She was like that. A rare thing from another world.”
“I’m almost who I want to be.”
“You’d been let go for dreaminess and are out on a mid-afternoon lark. Sometimes a person’s got to put the stars back in her eyes.”
“You stand in the doorway on the edge of the night. The edge of your excursion. You wait until the pathway is deserted and then, with a sudden decisive movement, you turn up your collar and move forward into the glow.”
“This is where everything happens. This is where worlds unfold. You settle in, turn your face to the screen, and close your eyes.”
“I’ve held you in my mind as I’ve skated through multitudes, as I’ve gathered all these specimens and turned them slowly in the light.”