Fantasia (TinyLetter Archive)
Dears,
In the middle of the night, I am talking to a man about The Neverending Story. He tells me that in high school in Austin, he would look through the rare and collectors' books sometimes and that he once found a first printing English edition. We've been talking about all the books we loved as children. Choose your own adventures, Scary Stories. We somehow got on this from an offhand comment about eating glass, and I am transported back to Christopher Pike's The Immortal, where someone, this immortal, crushes up glass and puts it in a hamburger which shreds the insides of the person eating it. With the life being taken, an effigy of the goddess fills with blood. He tells me a story from the third book of Scary Stories, which I never read, about a scarecrow which comes to life. It's about two brothers who are living in an old house while they do farm work. The scarecrow moves around, and they eventually decide to leave, each having a bad feeling. But one brother forgets something and goes back for it against his brother's wishes. When he still hasn't returned hours later, the other brother heads back toward the house only to find the scarecrow laying out his brother's skin to dry on the roof of the house. We both lament the sterilization of children's books in reprinted editions, when pictures are toned down, covers made happier or more cartoonish. And somehow in our conversation, we have both separately thought of The Neverending Story when he begins to tell me about the book.
It had different colors of ink, he says, for the different worlds. The real world was in red ink, and the other world, the story world, existed in green. At the beginning of each chapter, there was a whole page taken up by the first letter of the first word. He tells me he's going to send me pictures, and I ask if he got them online. No, I found another copy! Not too long ago. When we finally hang up, my phone starts dinging as the pictures come through.
And as I go through them, I am completely overcome. Because this man sending them to me is a thousand miles away, practically another world. And we lived in the same one for almost a decade without meeting. It's 5 am, and it's at least our 6th or 7th night talking until almost dawn in less than two weeks, though we've never met in person. I tell him the book is beautiful, and he tells me he's glad I appreciate it. And I am in awe of him, this man that I haven't met. Because he's hilarious and silly, artistic and musical, he reads, is fucking sharp as a tack, and he seems to not be afraid of whatever this is that's happening between us. And I don't know if either of our believing is enough to make it work, but I know I have to try. Because not believing is what makes the world crumble, right?
Your friend,
Childlike
In the middle of the night, I am talking to a man about The Neverending Story. He tells me that in high school in Austin, he would look through the rare and collectors' books sometimes and that he once found a first printing English edition. We've been talking about all the books we loved as children. Choose your own adventures, Scary Stories. We somehow got on this from an offhand comment about eating glass, and I am transported back to Christopher Pike's The Immortal, where someone, this immortal, crushes up glass and puts it in a hamburger which shreds the insides of the person eating it. With the life being taken, an effigy of the goddess fills with blood. He tells me a story from the third book of Scary Stories, which I never read, about a scarecrow which comes to life. It's about two brothers who are living in an old house while they do farm work. The scarecrow moves around, and they eventually decide to leave, each having a bad feeling. But one brother forgets something and goes back for it against his brother's wishes. When he still hasn't returned hours later, the other brother heads back toward the house only to find the scarecrow laying out his brother's skin to dry on the roof of the house. We both lament the sterilization of children's books in reprinted editions, when pictures are toned down, covers made happier or more cartoonish. And somehow in our conversation, we have both separately thought of The Neverending Story when he begins to tell me about the book.
It had different colors of ink, he says, for the different worlds. The real world was in red ink, and the other world, the story world, existed in green. At the beginning of each chapter, there was a whole page taken up by the first letter of the first word. He tells me he's going to send me pictures, and I ask if he got them online. No, I found another copy! Not too long ago. When we finally hang up, my phone starts dinging as the pictures come through.
And as I go through them, I am completely overcome. Because this man sending them to me is a thousand miles away, practically another world. And we lived in the same one for almost a decade without meeting. It's 5 am, and it's at least our 6th or 7th night talking until almost dawn in less than two weeks, though we've never met in person. I tell him the book is beautiful, and he tells me he's glad I appreciate it. And I am in awe of him, this man that I haven't met. Because he's hilarious and silly, artistic and musical, he reads, is fucking sharp as a tack, and he seems to not be afraid of whatever this is that's happening between us. And I don't know if either of our believing is enough to make it work, but I know I have to try. Because not believing is what makes the world crumble, right?
Your friend,
Childlike
