A world, in which fused are reality and fiction, magical and quotidien, obscurily and luminousity. Poetic, entrancing, unbelievable story put in most peculiarly diaphanous writing.
For many, this might be too whimsical. For me, this triggered my imagination in so many ways! I loved this. It was like a glass of warm sweet milk on a rainy day, drank in the comfort of my room, while listening to the sounds of the rain and breathing in the ozone smell! I don't know how else to put it, this is a breathtaking book! A complete one-off, a totally standalone fruit of outstanding talent.
This story is interspersed with beautiful names:
Ignatius Lux
Nathaniel Sorrows
Laura Lovelorn
Constance Quakenbush
Wilhelmina Dovewolf
Satin Lush
Levi Blythe
Trace Graves
Q:
TO MANY, I WAS MYTH INCARNATE, the embodiment of a most superb legend, a fairy tale. Some considered me a monster, a mutation. To my great misfortune, I was once mistaken for an angel. To my mother, I was everything. To my father, nothing at all. To my grandmother, I was a daily reminder of loves long lost. But I knew the truth — deep down, I always did.
I was just a girl.
...
“Are you a bird, an angel, or what?” ... “I think I’m just a girl.” (с)
(c)
Q:
It seemed there was no separating the girl from the wings. One could not survive without the other. (c)
Q:
Of the stories and the myths that surrounded my family and my life — some of them thoughtfully scattered by you perhaps — let it be said that, in the end, I found all of them to be strangely, even beautifully, true. (c)
Q:
... making them suspect that Beauregard Roux was perhaps a little more unstable than they might have wished for someone so large. (c)
Q:
Beauregard sold his phrenology practice only one month later. (c) I don't believe it. The value and liquidity of such a business in a small town would be extremely close to zero as the main asset would be the skills and connections of the specialist himself and not the rest of the bells and whistles.
Q:
Aside from Pierette, Emilienne was considered the strangest Roux of them all. It was rumored that she possessed certain unlikely gifts: the ability to read minds, walk through walls, and move things using only the power of her thoughts. But my grandmother hadn’t any powers; she wasn’t clairvoyant or telepathic. Simply put, Emilienne was merely more sensitive to the outside world than other people. As such, she was able to catch on to things that others missed. While to some a dropped spoon might indicate a need to retrieve a clean one, to Emilienne it meant that her mother should put the kettle on for tea — someone was coming to visit. ... And while this gift proved useful at times, it could also make things quite confusing for young Emilienne. She struggled to distinguish between signs she received from the universe and those she conjured up in her head. (c)
Q:
Love can make us such fools... (c)
Q:
... a rather disastrous event where she appeared on the stoop of his apartment building wearing nothing but a few feathers plastered to an indiscreet place — Pierette took the extreme step of turning herself into a canary. ...
The bird-watcher never noticed Pierette’s drastic attempt at gaining his affection and instead moved to Louisiana, drawn by its large population of Pelecanus occidentalis. Which only goes to show, some sacrifices aren’t worth the cost. Even, or perhaps most especially, those made out of love. (c)
Q:
Emilienne was beautiful, mysterious. A tad strange at times, yes. But Margaux? Margaux was only a pale shadow of the art form that was Emilienne. (c)
Q:
She was thinking of the loveliness of such moments, admiring the rain and the graying sky the way one might admire the painting of an up-and-coming artist, one whose celebrity seems presaged by the swirls of his brush marks. It was while she was in the midst of such thoughts that Satin Lush walked out of the café, the clink of his leg disturbing the rhythm of the rain against the awning. Emilienne was immediately transfixed by the circle of light green in one of his eyes, the way it deliciously clashed with the cerulean blue of the other. She found that she did not mind losing the previous moment, for this one was just as lovely. (c)
Q:
Maman continued to grow more transparent, enough so that her children could reach right through her to place a milk bottle in the icebox, often without thinking much about it.
...
soon disappeared completely, leaving behind only a small pile of blue ashes between the sheets of her bed. Emilienne kept them in an empty tin of throat lozenges. (c)
Q:
... promised she’d be good to her husband, as long as he didn’t ask for her heart.
She no longer had one to give. (c)
Q:
“What do you mean, no?”
“I mean, no. I will not live here.”
And with that began a conversation that would repeat for several hundred more miles... (с)
Q:
Ellensburg, a town that had once famously burned to the ground completely. Emilienne took one look outside and said, “Whatever made them want to rebuild it?” (c)
Q:
The neighbors regarded Emilienne the way most do when confronted with the odd. Of course, this was a tad more complex than an aversion of the eyes from an unseemly mole or a severely scarred finger. Everything about Emilienne Lavender was strange. To Emilienne, pointing at the moon was an invitation for disaster, a falling broom the same. ... Soon the quiet whispers of witch began following Emilienne wherever she went. And to associate with the neighborhood witch, well, that would be an invitation for a disaster much more dangerous than anything the moon might bring. So her neighbors did the only thing that seemed appropriate — they avoided Emilienne Lavender completely. (c)
Q:
Wives who did not begin their married lives as empty vases. (c)
Q:
But neither Emilienne nor Connor ever once stopped to ponder the miracles love might bring into their lives. Connor because he didn’t know such things existed, and Emilienne because she did. (c)
Q:
As an adult, she carried with her the air of someone forever displaced — not quite part of the white race, yet no longer fitting in with the members of her tribe. In other words, Wilhelmina was a very old soul in a young body. The people of Pinnacle Lane regarded her in much the same way they regarded Emilienne, meaning, of course, that they didn’t regard her at all. (c)
Q:
So they danced as Jack counted out the beat — T-A-N-G-O! — until Viviane could move in his arms as naturally as an Argentinean prostituta. (c)
Q:
The house on the hill became a carousel of everchanging men, women, children, and animals, all needing a place to rest, sometimes for the night, sometimes longer. The longest to stay was a family of black cats. ...The longest-staying resident of the human variety, however, was Gabe. (c)
Q:
On the nights she went out, she would remind Gabe to chain the door, then leave him to his empty dreams amid a fog of her velvety black perfume. ...
“Just remember, inima˘ mea, my heart,” she would say, “royal blood flows from our wounds.” (c)
Q:
Emilienne welcomed him in because, upon opening the door, she heard a birdsong rising from the east, announcing good love’s arrival. (c)
Q:
This was hardly a surprise. Emilienne was always getting strange messages from equally strange places. If she dreamed of keys, a change was on its way. Dreaming of tea implied an unforeseen visitor. A birdcall from the north meant tragedy; from the west, good luck; and from the east, it announced the arrival of good love. As a child, Viviane wondered if her mother’s gifts stretched further into the supernatural realm — perhaps she could communicate with the dead. But Emilienne had dismissed Viviane’s theory with a wave of her hand.
“Ghosts don’t exist,” she’d said, glancing furtively into the far corner of the room. (c)
Q:
Jack had to leave in order to come back, didn’t he? And she knew he would be back, just as she knew that some of the stars that shone bright in the sky were already dead and that she was beautiful, if only to Jack. And that’s just the way it was. (c)
Q:
“I met someone.” And the leaves fell from the trees, landing to float in the calm black waters. ...
The music stopped. The moon disappeared from the sky. The couple in the white house had gone to bed, taking the warm light with them. (c) A beautiful allegory of love lost.
Q:
Viviane answered her with a soda fountain smile and a declaration: “I’m going to fly.” (c)
Q:
John Griffith was an angry, prideful man who believed he deserved much more than life had given him.
...
That night he dreamed he could fly. He dreamed of the whispery kiss of clouds, cold and wet on his cheek, as he soared into the night sky, the streets below fading into darkness.
But this wasn’t his dream. It was his wife’s.
...
weight. No one on Pinnacle Lane ever saw Beatrix Griffith again, not even John, but he knew she was still out there, that she had not simply faded into a small pile of blue ashes he would someday find between the sheets of their bed. He knew because every night after she left, he shared her dreams. Dreams of giant flocks of pelicans, mugs of hot chocolate, and foreign men’s strong hands.
...
John Griffith shared his estranged wife’s dreams for the rest of his life — nightly reveries of polar bears on black sand beaches, spiny pieces of exotic fruit, and tiny porcelain teacups. He feared sleep, dreaded nightfall like a child afraid of what might be lurking in the shadows. (c)
Q:
Fate. As a child, that word was often my only companion. It whispered to me from dark corners during lonely nights. It was the song of the birds in spring and the call of the wind through bare branches on a cold winter afternoon. Fate. Both my anguish and my solace. My escort and my cage. (c)
Q:
Dangers lurk around every corner for the strange. And with my feathered appendages, Henry’s mute tongue, and my mother’s broken heart, what else were we but strange? (c)
Q:
HENRY WAS FREED from our mother’s protective rule on the hill just a few months after we turned thirteen. Thirteen years. I often wondered if my mother truly had our best interests or hers at heart when she imposed this way of life on us. (c)
Q:
THOSE BORN UNDER Pacific Northwest skies are like daffodils: they can achieve beauty only after a long, cold sulk in the rain. Henry, our mother, and I were Pacific Northwest babies. At the first patter of raindrops on the roof, a comfortable melancholy settled over the house. The three of us spent dark, wet days wrapped in old quilts, sitting and sighing at the watery sky. (c) Yes! I can relate to this! Love rain, adore the thunderstorms!
Q:
Helpful, capable, but hardly known for being personable, she objected to interfaith marriage, coffee stains on white gloves, and any form of appetite, food-related or otherwise. Fellow parishioners used to joke that Marigold slept in a position that vaguely emulated the Crucifixion. And they were right.
The night before her wedding night, a young Marigold painstakingly embroidered the nuptial sheets with tiny indecipherable doves and lambs, hoping to evoke Ines del Campo, Catholic saint of betrothed couples, bodily purity, and rape victims. She was intimate with her husband only while using that sheet, revealing to him only the parts of her body necessary for such an act. They never had any children. (c)
Q:
Gabe was unusually tall, so had to be careful where he stood, for if he blocked the sun, his shadow could cause flowers to wither and old women to send their grandchildren inside to fetch their sweaters.
... a very pious young man. As a boy, Nathaniel’s simple “hello” prompted neighbors to blurt out long-hidden sins or to donate new clothing to the local homeless shelter. Just the sight of him crossing the street with his mother led adulterous men to become celibate and avid hunters to develop appetites satisfied only by vegetarian recipes. (c) I love how the author strings her hyperboles so organically into this story! Can't help thinking of the Rammstein's 'Er ist fromm und sehr sensibel...
Q:
To put it simply, my mother worried. She worried about our neighbors’ reactions. Would they break me with their disparaging glances, their cruel intolerance? She worried I was just like every other teenage girl, all tender heart and fragile ego. She worried I was more myth and figment than flesh and blood. She worried about my calcium levels, my protein levels, even my reading levels. She worried she couldn’t protect me from all of the things that had hurt her: loss and fear, pain and love.
Most especially from love. (c)
Q:
Instead, there was a window where I spent my nights looking out at Salmon Bay and watching the ships drift by. And there were piles of feathers, which gathered mysteriously in my room’s lonely corners. (c)
Q:
“I wonder why I haven’t seen that before.”
“Maybe you just needed someone to help you see the parts that aren’t so obvious.” (c)
Q:
And that might just be the root of the problem: we’re all afraid of each other, wings or no wings. (c)
Q:
She had a soft, wispy sort of voice that made me think of dandelion clocks. (c)
Q:
But I’d been protected my whole life, forced to watch the world through the lonely window of my bedroom while the night called to me, like a siren luring forlorn sailors onto a rocky shoal. I didn’t want to be protected from the world anymore. (c)
Q:
The more my infatuation grew, the more deeply I mourned the potential loss of the life I dreamed of. It was all too precious, too thoroughly imagined and yearned for to lose. (c)
Q:
I stopped sleeping. I stopped eating. My wings lost feathers. (c)
Q:
I thought of the life I’d created for us in my head: the cocktail parties, the dog named Noodle. But it was an illusion, a prefabricated dream, while Rowe was real. I could touch him. And he could touch me. (c)
Q:
“I just don’t think you should let other people d-define you,” ... “I think you could be anything you wanted.” (c)
Q:
And with that, the love I thought I had for Marigold Pie’s nephew ran off me like water from melting ice. Like so many others, Nathaniel Sorrows was interested only in my wings. Unlike Rowe... (c)
Q:
There would be no flowers for the women to wear in their hair at the summer solstice celebration, which made them weep. Well, either that or the wind had blown specks of dirt in their eyes. (c)
Q:
Falling out of love was much harder than Gabe would have liked. Normally led through life by the heart attached to his sleeve, finding logic in love proved to be a bit like getting vaccinated for some dread disease: a good idea in the end, but the initial pain certainly wasn’t any fun. He came to appreciate that there were worse ways to live than to live without love. For instance, if he didn’t have arms, Gabe wouldn’t be able to hide in his work. Yes, a life without arms would be quite tragic, indeed.
In Gabe’s view, the whole world had given up on love anyway and clung instead to its malformed cousins: lust, narcissism, self-interest. (c0
Q:
Until Trouver arrived, we thought that Henry couldn’t talk. Turned out, he could; he just didn’t like to. He made himself a rule to say only things that were important. No one — not even his own family — knew about this rule. No one needed to. (c)
Q:
I’d spent so many years imagining the event, placing myself in the crowd, that I wondered if maybe, in the end, it wouldn’t matter if I actually felt the flames of the bonfire on my face. I often wondered the same thing about being kissed. Or falling in love. Did I need to experience them if I could imagine them? A part of me feared that Pinnacle Lane’s solstice celebration couldn’t possibly live up to la fête in my head. (c)
Q:
Could the strange survive on their own? (c)
Q:
I may be a bit strange, but that doesn’t mean I’m afraid of the dark. (c)
Q:
The woman at the booth had told me that chocolate came from the Mayans, an ancient people who believed that drinking hot chocolate could bring them wisdom and power. They considered it the food of their gods. (c)
Q:
And sometimes when I’m feeling extra down, when I’m missing my grandmother, I have to remind myself that love comes in all sorts of packages.
...
Just because love don’t look the way you think it should don’t mean you don’t have it. (c)
Q:
But while the thought of being dead seemed appealing, the actual act of dying did not. Dying required too much action. And if recent events proved anything, my body wasn’t going to give over to death without a fierce fight; so if I were to kill myself, I’d have to make sure I could do it. That I’d be good and dead once it was all over and not mutilated or half deranged but still dreadfully alive. (c)
Q:
I smiled then in spite of myself. I smiled past all of my misgivings and reservations, past all previous heartbreak and any future heartbreak, because Rowe had come back. It was true, what he had written to me. Suddenly the weary burden of my attack didn’t seem quite so heavy as I remembered something else he wrote.You don’t have to carry it by yourself. (c)
Q:
But, mostly, I like to think that Jack Griffith, my father, smiled as I let go of the railing behind me and, stretching my wings to that star-studded sky, soared into the night. (c)