Weaveworld

by Clive Barker

That which is imagined need never be lost,

Nothing ever begins. There is no first moment; no single word or place from which this or any other story springs.

Nothing is fixed. In and out the shuttle goes fact and fiction, mind and matter, woven into patterns that may have only this in common: that hidden amongst them is a filigree which will with time become a world.

Somewhere between a past half forgotten and a future as yet only glimpsed.

“One part of love is innocence, One part of love is guilt, One part the milk, that in a sense Is soured as soon as spilt, One part of love is sentiment, One part of love is lust, One part is the presentiment Of our return to dust.”

“Who can call a man dead whose words still hush us and whose sentiments move?”

Let the void come, and bring an end to the tyranny of hope.

For nothing ever begins. And this story, having no beginning, will have no end.