Charles de Lint

From the preface to A Handful of Coppers:

If you were one of the people who helped make Triskell Tales sell out so quickly [...] then you're to blame for this book you hold in your hand.

Well, I was in fact one of those people. I pre-ordered Triskell Tales. I finally received it. I read it and treasured it and got something out of it. And then I gave it to devafall. (I hope you have enjoyed it as much as I did.) Charles de Lint has this curious quality. I have the feeling I'm going to give away A Handful of Coppers as well, although I have no idea to whom.

I was about to write that it seemed to be related to whether I bought the book new or used, but I don't think that's the case. True, I gave away Triskell Tales (which I bought new) and have the feeling I will do the same for Handful of Coppers, as I just said. The other de Lint books I own are Memory and Dream, Yarrow, Seven Wild Sisters and Jack of Kinrowan. I have no urge to give away the latter three, especially Kinrowan; Yarrow was used, and Sisters and Kinrowan were new. Memory and Dream, however, though also used, now that I've mentioned it, seems to want to wander on to someone else.

Anyway, the point of all this was that it seemed that de Lint was an author whose books begged to be shared, to be passed on...

the green

the leaves of the trees are a language
that rustles softly in my mind

green addendum

the phrase in my previous post occurred to me while i was walking back home today after getting some coffee, specifically when i touched my hand to some leaves on an overhanging branch of a tree.

(for easy reference:
the leaves of the trees are a language
that rustles softly in my mind)

fortunately, i had paper and pen with me and wrote it down. immediately after this, a number of phrases modelled on the same "formula" came to mind, in this order:

the light of the stars is a song
that sparkles gently in my heart

the scent of the night is a caress
that courses lovingly over my skin

the colours of the rainbow are a painting
that vibrates quietly in my soul

While all of these are pretty, I suppose, I noticed something curious about them. The first one, about the leaves of the trees, feels very "pure" somehow, whereas the successive ones get increasingly more "contrived", as though the original essence of inspiration were getting progressively more diluted. (I wonder how many until there would be no recognizable particle of the original substance?)