A song she heard Of cold that gathers Like winter's tongue Among the shadows It rose like blackness In the sky That on volcano's Vomit rise A Stone of ruin From burn to chill Like black moonrise Her voice fell still...
All those poor elves I haven't set free yet, having to stay over during Christmas because there aren't enough hats!
I would rather live than die. I would rather die than survive as a monster.
We do not want merely to see beauty... we want something else which can hardly be put into words- to be united with the beauty we see, to pass into it, to receive it into ourselves, to bathe in it, to become part of it. That is why we have peopled air and earth and water with gods and goddesses, and nymphs and elves.
At the hill
The stories that unfold in the space of a writer's study, the objects chosen to watch over a desk, the books selected to sit on the shelves, all weave a web of echoes and reflections of meanings and affections, that lend a visitor the illusion that something of the owner of this space lives on between these walls, even if the owner is no more.
Aiya Earendil Elenion Ancalima!
As an opener, I'd like to state that elves are certainly NOT cliche. It doesn't matter if they all have pointy ears, or they all live a long time, or even if they all like forests. It doesn't matter if they're short or tall or both. It doesn't matter if they're related to forest spirits or even angels. Regardless of how many elves are like one another or how many elves appear in how many books, elves are NOT cliche. Why? Well, for one, an elf is a creature. How can a creature be a cliche? Is a human cliche? They certainly do appear in a lot of books! How about dragons? Now there's a popular subject! Are dragons cliche as well? Well what about vampires too? Or werewolves? Or bats? Or rabbits? Or mice? Or owls? Or crows? Cats??
He sighed.
Elvish singing is not a thing to miss, in June under the stars, not if you care for such things.
My brother and I were able to fantasize far more extravagantly about our parents' tastes and desires, their aspirations and their vices, by scanning their bookcases than by snooping in their closest. Their selves were on their shelves.
The love of liberty is the love of others; the love of power is the love of ourselves. (1778 - 1830)
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