The Sleeper and the Spindle - Neil Gaiman

"...Once in the city, the sheer numbers of people made them uncomfortable. There were sleeping riders on sleeping horses; sleeping cabmen up on still carriages that held sleeping passengers; sleeping children clutching their balls and hoops and the whips of their spinning tops; sleeping flower women at their stalls of brown, rotten, dried flowers; even sleeping fishmongers beside their marble slabs. The slabs were covered with the remains of stinking fish, and they were crawling with maggots. The rustle and movement of the maggots was the only movement and noise the queen and the dwarfs encountered..."

"...The sleepers moved towards the dwarfs and the queen. They were easy for the dwarfs to outrun, easy for the queen to outwalk. And yet, and yet, there were so many of them. Each street they came to was filled with sleepers, cobweb-shrouded, eyes tight closed or eyes open and rolled back in their heads showing only the whites, all of them shuffling sleepily forwards..."

"...'We had been led to believe,' said the tallest dwarf, 'that when you woke, the rest of the world would wake with you.'

'Why ever would you think that?' asked the golden-haired girl, all childlike and innocent (ah, but her eyes! Her eyes were so old). 'I like them asleep. They are more... biddable.' She stopped for a moment. Then she grinned. 'Even now they come for you. I have called them here.'..."

"...There are choices, she thought, when she had sat long enough. There are always choices.

She made one.

The queen began to walk, and the dwarfs followed her..."

BLOOMSBURY 2014 

Don't Panic, Ο Μέγας Οδηγός Για να Γυρίσετε το Γαλαξία Με Ωτο-Στοπ - Douglas Adams υπό Neil Gaiman

«ΣΥΝΤΟΜΗ ΙΣΤΟΡΙΑ

"Γραφείο Απωλεσθέντων Αντικειμένων των Αστικών Συγκοινωνιών του Λονδίου - νά 'μαστε" είπε ο κύριος Σμιθ, κοιτάζοντας στο παράθυρο. Καθώς έκανε να μπει μέσα, σκόνταψε στο σκαλάκι και παραλίγο να πέσει με τα μούτρα στη γυάλινη πόρτα.

"Αυτό είναι επικίνδυνο - πρέπει να το θυμηθώ βγαίνοντας", μουρμούρισε.

"Μπορώ να σας βοηθήσω;" ρώτησε ο υπάλληλος του γραφείου.

"Ναι, έχασα κάτι χτες στο λεωφορείο 86".

"Τι χάσατε;" ρώτησε ο υπάλληλος.

"Δεν μπορώ να θυμηθώ", είπε ο κ. Σμιθ.

"Τότε δεν μπορώ να σας βοηθήσω", είπε ο εκνευρισμένος υπάλληλος.

"Βρήκατε τίποτα στο λεωφορείο;" ρώτησε ο κ. Σμιθ.

"Όχι, αλλά μήπως μπορείτε να θυμηθείτε κάτι γι' αυτό το πράγμα;" είπε ο υπάλληλος, προσπαθώντας απελπισμένα να βοηθήσει.

"Ναι, θυμάμαι ότι ήταν κάτι πολύ κακό - ό,τι κι αν ήταν".

"Τίποτε άλλο;"

"Α, ναι, τώρα που το σκέφτομαι, ήταν τρύπιο σαν κόσκινο", είπε ο κ. Σμιθ, έβαλε τους αγκώνες του στον καλογυαλισμένο πάγκο και ακούμπησε εκεί τα χέρια του. Ξαφνικά το σαγόνια του, με έναν δυνατό ήχο, χτύπησε στον πάγκο. Αλλά πριν ο υπάλληλος προλάβει να τον βοηθήσει, ο κ. Σμιθ πετάχτηκε πάνω χαρούμενος.

"Σας ευχαριστώ πάρα πολύ", είπε.

"Για ποιο πράγμα;" ρώτησε ο υπάλληλος.

"Το βρήκα", είπε ο κ. Σμιθ.

"Τι βρήκατε;"

"Τη μνήμη μου!" είπε ο κ. Σμιθ και έκανε μεταβολή, σκόνταψε στο σκαλάκι και έπεσε πάνω στη γυάλινη πόρτα σπάζοντάς τη!

Ν. Ν. Άνταμς (12), Μπρέντγουντ, Έσσεξ.»

«...Όμως οτιδήποτε έχει σχέση με τον τρόπο που λειτουργούν οι άνθρωποι είναι παγκοσμίως κατανοητό. (Πώς αυτό επηρεάζεται από τη μετάφραση είναι άλλο θέμα, γιατί η κωμωδία είναι ένα ευαίσθητο φυτό και υποπτεύομαι ότι συχνά η μετάφραση δεν το βοηθάει να σταθεί ορθό. Δεν ξέρω. Το Γυρίστε έχει μεταφραστεί σε ένα σωρό γλώσσες και δεν έχω ιδέα ποιες είναι καλές και ποιες όχι".)»

«...Καθώς συγκεντρώναμε όλο και περισσότερες τέτοιες λέξεις και έννοιες, συνειδητοποιήσαμε πόσο αυθαίρετα επιλεκτική είναι η δουλειά που έχουν κάνει στο Αγγλικό Λεξικό της Οξφόρδης. Απλά παραλείπει τεράστια τμήματα των ανθρώπινων εμπειριών.

Όπως για παράδειγμα, όταν στέκεσαι στην κουζίνα χωρίς να ξέρεις για ποιο λόγο πήγες εκεί. Όλοι το κάνουν, αλλά επειδή δεν υπάρχει - ή δεν υπήρχε - μια λέξη γι' αυτό, ο καθένας πιστεύει ότι είναι κάτι που κάνει μόνο αυτός και γι' αυτό είναι πιο ηλίθιος από τους άλλους. Είναι καθησυχαστικό να ξέρεις ότι και όλοι οι άλλοι είναι εξίσου ηλίθιοι με σένα και το μόνο που κάνουμε όταν βρισκόμαστε στην κουζίνα χωρίς να ξέρουμε γιατί πήγαμε εκεί, είναι "woking".»

«Το χνούδι είναι κάτι ενδιαφέρον: θανατηφόρο δηλητήριο στο Μικρό Καπηλειό, βασική τροφή στον Φράζελον V, νομισματική μονάδα στα φεγγάρια του συστήματος Μπλέρφοιντ και το βασικό μετάλλευμα στον πλανήτη ανεφοδιασμού μπουγάδας, τον Βλαστό 111. Ένας αρχαίος μύθος λέει ότι υπάρχουν τέσσερα κομμάτια χνουδιού σκορπισμένα σε τέσσερα διαφορετικά σημεία του Γαλαξία: το καθένα δημιουργεί το ένα τέταρτο ενός δέντρου με εκπληκτικές ικανότητες, τον μοναδικό επιζώντα του τροπικού πλανήτη Χνουδόμπαλα (Υποσημείωση 8). Η πηγή του χνουδιού παραμένει μυστήριο και έχει διχάσει την πανεπιστημιακή κοινότητα ανάμεσα στις θεωρίες της Μεγάλης Κομπο-Έκρηξης και της Λευκής Κομπο-Τρύπας". (Καλό θα ήταν να κοιτάξεται και την υποσημείωση 8, που σας ενημερώνει ότι δεν είναι και τόσο μύθος").»

«...Όταν γράφεις ένα μυθιστόρημα, συνειδητά σπρώχνεις τους αναγνώστες σου να σκεφτούν με συγκεκριμένο τρόπο. Εδώ ξέρεις πως θα πρέπει να τους κάνεις να σκεφτούν τον τρόπο που περιμένεις εσύ να λειτουργήσουν. Δεν θεωρώ ότι αυτό αποτελεί εγκατάλειψη της δημιουργικής τέχνης. Ναι, στην αρχή είχα τρομοκρατηθεί: υπάρχει η αίσθηση ότι ο συγγραφέας έχει ακόμα περισσότερο έλεγχο στα χέρια του, γιατί ο "αναγνώστης" πρέπει να λύσει περισσότερα προβλήματα. Έχεις ακόμα στη διάθεσή σου όλες τις τεχνικές του μυθιστορήματος, γιατί ένα μυθιστόρημα είναι απλά μια συνέχεια λέξεων και οι λέξεις μπορεί να σημαίνουν ό,τι θες εσύ. Απλά είναι μια καλή ευκαιρία να διασκεδάσεις".

«...κατά τη γνώμη μου, το πιο επικίνδυνο πράγμα που μπορεί να κάνει κάποιος είναι να πιστέψει στη δημοσιότητά του."

Μετάφραση: Βάσω Χούνου

Εκδόσεις: ΠΑΡΑ ΠΕΝΤΕ 1999 

The Ocean at the End of the Lane, by Neil Gaiman

"...Nobody came to my seventh birthday party.

There was a table laid with jellies and trifles, with a party hat beside each place and a birthday cake with seven candles on it in the centre of the table. The cake had a book drawn on it, in icing. My mother, who had organised the party, told me that the lady at the bakery said that they had never put a book on a birthday cake before, and that mostly for boys it was footballs and spaceships. I was their first book..."

"...I sat on my bed and stared out of the window. My bed was pushed up hard against the wall just below the window. I loved to sleep with the window open. Rainy nights where the best of all: I would open the window and put my head on my pillow and close my eyes and feel the wind on my face and listen to the trees sway and creak. There would be raindrops blown on to my face, too, if I was lucky, and I would imagine that I was in my boat on the ocean and that it was swaying with the swell of the sea. I did not imagine that I was a pirate, or that I was going anywhere. I was just on my boat..."

"...She shook her head, and together we walked up the winding flinty lane that led to my house and to the thing who called herself Ursula Monkton. I carried the brown paper bag with my nightwear in it, and Lettie carried her too-big-for-her raffia shopping bag, filled with broken toys which she had obtained in exchange for a mandrake that screamed, and shadows dissolved in vinegar..."

"...The currents of the ocean pulled at my hair and my clothes like summer breezes. I was no longer cold and I knew everything and I was not hungry and the whole big, complicated world was simple and graspable and easy to unlock. I would stay here for the rest of time in the ocean which was the universe which was the soul which was all that mattered. I would stay here forever..."

"...At night she would wait beneath the bed until the lights were turned out, then she would accommodate herself on the pillow beside me, grooming my hair and purring, so quietly as never to disturb my sister.

I would fall asleep with my face pressed into her fur, while her deep electrical purr vibrated softly against my cheek.

She had such unusual eyes. They made me think of the seaside, and so I called her Ocean, and could not have told you why..."

"...There's a Terry Pratchett poem that he wrote in an anthology that I co-edited a long time ago which begins 'They don't teach you the facts of death, your Mum and Dad. They give you pets.' And, actually, it's true. For many of us, pets are the way we initially discover death and the heartbreak of death. And we have to discover it. We encounter it, learn how to live with it, learn how to survive it. And that, in some horrible way, is what pets are for.

headline 2013

M is for Magic, by Neil Gaiman

From: "October in the Chair"

"...They squeezed through a huge iron gateway, rusted part open, part closed, and the were in the little meadow at the bottom of the slope.

'This place is cool,' said the Runt.

There were dozens of stones of all sizes in the small meadow. Tall stones, bigger than either of the boys, and small ones, just the right size for sitting on. There were some broken stones. The Runt knew what sort of place this was, but it did not scare him. It was a loved place..."

"...'How did you die?' asked the Runt.

'I got sick,' said Dearly. 'My maw cried and carried on something fierce. Then I died.'

'If I stayed here with you,' said the Runt, 'would I have to be dead, too?'

'Maybe,' said Dearly. 'Well, yeah. I guess.'

'What's it like? Being dead?'

'I don't mind it,' admitted Dearly. 'Worst thing is not having anyone to play with.'

'But there must be lots of people up in that meadow,' said the Runt. 'Don't they ever play with you?'

'Nope,' said Dearly. Mostly, they sleep. And even when they walk, they can't be bothered to just go and see stuff and do things. They can't be bothered with me. You see that tree?'

It was a beech tree, its smooth gray bark cracked with age. It sat in what once must have been the town square, ninety years before.

'Yeah,' said the Runt.

'You want to climb it?'

'It looks kind of high.'

'It is. Real high. But it's easy to climb. I'll show you.'

It was easy to climb. There were handholds in the bark, and the boys went up the big beech like a couple of monkeys or pirates or warriors. From the top of the tree one could see the whole world. The sky was starting to lighten, just a hair, in the east.

Everything waited. The night was ending. The world was holding its breath, preparing to begin again.

'This was the best day I ever had,' said the Runt.

'Me, too," said Dearly..."

I N S T R U C T I O N S

"Touch the wooden gate in the wall you never saw before,

Say 'please' before you open the latch,

go through,

walk down the path.

A red metal imp hangs from the green painted front door,

as a knocker,

do not touch it; it will bite your fingers.

Walk through the house. Take nothing. Eat nothing.

However,

if any creature tells you that it hungers,

feed it.

If it tells you that it is dirty,

clean it.

If it cries to you that it hurts,

if you can,

ease its pain.

From the back garden you will be able to see the wild wood.

The deep well you walk past leads down to Winter's realm;

there is another land at the bottom of it.

If you turn around here,

you can walk back, safely;

you will lose no face. I will think no less of you.

Once through the garden you will be in the wood.

The trees are old. Eyes peer from the undergrowth.

Beneath the twisted oak sits an old woman.

She may ask for something;

give it to her.

She will point the way to the castle.

Inside it are three princesses.

Do not trust the youngest. Walk on.

In the clearing beyond the castle

the twelve months sit about a fire,

warming their feet, exchanging tales.

They may do favors for you, if you are polite.

You may pick strawberries in December's frost.

Trust the wolves, but do not tell them 

where you are going.

The river can be crossed by the ferry. 

The ferryman will take you

(The answer to his question is this:

If he hands the oar to his passenger, 

he will be free to leave the boat.

Only tell him this from a safe distance.)

If an eagle gives you a feather, keep it safe.

Remember: that giants sleep too soundly;

that witches are often betrayed by their appetites;

dragons have one soft spot, somewhere, always;

hearts can be well hidden,

and you betray them with your tongue.

Do not be jealous of your sister:

know that diamonds and roses

are as uncomfortable when they tumble 

from ones lips as toads and frogs:

colder, too, and sharper, and they cut.

Remember your name.

Do not lose hope - what you seek will be found.

Trust ghosts. Trust those that you have

helped to help you in their turn.

Trust dreams.

Trust your heart, and trust your story.

When you come back, return the way you came.

Favors will be returned, debts be repaid.

Do not forget your manners.

Do not look back.

Ride the wise eagle (you shall not fall)

Ride the silver fish (you will not drown)

Ride the gray wolf (hold tightly to his fur)

There is a worm at the heart of the tower;

that is why it will not stand.

When you reach the little house, 

the place your journey started,

you will recognize it,

although it will seem

much smaller than you remember.

Walk up the path, and through the garden gate

you never say before but once.

And then go home. Or make a home.

Or rest."

The Graveyard Book - Neil Gaiman

"’…And there are always people who find their lives have become so unsupportable they believe the best thing they could do would be to hasten their transition to another plane of existence.’

‘They kill themselves, you mean?’ said Bod. He was about eight years old, wide-eyed and inquisitive, and he was not stupid.

‘Indeed.’

‘Does it work? Are they happier dead?’

‘Sometimes. Mostly, no. It’s like the people who believe they’ll be happy if they go and live somewhere else, but who learn it doesn’t work that way. Wherever you go, you take yourself with you. If you see what I mean.’"

“Rich man, poor man, come away.

Come to dance the Macabray.”

"‘Now the Lady on the Grey leads us in the Macabray,’ sang Liza Hempstock, before the whirl of the dance took her off and away from Bod. They stomped to the music and stepped and spun and kicked, and the lady danced with them, stepping and spinning and kicking with enthusiasm. Even the white horse swayed its head and stepped and shifted to the music.

The dance sped up, and the dancers with it. Bod was breathless, but he could not imagine the dance ever stopping: the Macabray, the dance of the living and the dead, the dance with Death. Bod was smiling and everyone was smiling."

    "The boy was a model pupil, forgettable and easily forgotten, and he spent much of his spare time in the back of the English class where there were shelves of old paperbacks, and in the school library, a large room filled with books and old armchairs, where he read stories as enthusiastically as some children ate.

    Even the other kids forgot about him. Not when he was sitting in front of them: they remembered him then. But when that Owens kid was out of sight he was out of mind. They didn’t think about him. They didn’t need to. If someone asked all the kids in Eight B to close their eyes and list the twenty-five boys and girls in the class, that Owens kid wouldn’t have been on the list. His presence was almost ghostly."

"We know… we remember things that most people have forgotten. The Old Knowledge.

    Bod said, ‘Magic, you know a little magic.’

    The man nodded agreeably. ‘If you want to call it that. But it’s a very specific sort of magic. There’s a magic you take from death. Something leaves the world, something else comes into it.’

    ‘You killed my family for - for what? For magic powers? That’s ridiculous.’

    ‘No. We killed you for protection. Long time ago, one of our people – this was back in Egypt, in pyramid days - he foresaw that one day, there would be a child born who would walk the borderland between the living and the dead. That if this child lived to adulthood it would mean the end of our Order and all we stand for.’"

"’There’s not much happens here to make one day unlike the next. The seasons change. The ivy grows. Stones fall over. But you coming here… well, I’m glad you did, that’s all.’"