Charles De Lint - Memory and Dream

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Memory and Dream: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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Dreams have magic in them. A few of us have the power to make that magic real. A masterwork by one of fantasy’s most gifted storytellers: a magnificent tale of love, courage, and the power of imagination to transform our lives.
This is the novel Charles de Lint’s many devoted readers have been waiting for, the compelling odyssey of a young woman whose visionary art frees ancient spirits into the modern world.
Isabelle Copley’s visionary art frees ancient spirits. As the young student of the cruel, brilliant artist Vincent Rushkin, she discovered she could paint images so vividly real they brought her wildest fantasies to life. But when the forces she unleashed brought tragedy to those she loved, she turned her back on her talent—and on her dreams.
Now, twenty years later, Isabelle must come to terms with the shattering memories she has long denied, and unlock the slumbering power of her brush. And, in a dark reckoning with her old master, she must find the courage to live out her dreams and bring the magic back to life.
Charles de Lint’s skillful blending of contemporary urban characters and settings with traditional folk magic has made him one of the most popular fantasy authors of his generation.
Memory and Dream is the most ambitious work of de Lint’s extraordinary career, an exciting tale of epic scope that explores the power our dreams have to transform the world-or make it a waking nightmare.
It is the story of Isabelle Copley, a young artist who once lived in the bohemian quarter of the northern city of Newford. As a student of Vincent Rushkin, a cruel but gifted painter, she discovered an awesome power—to craft images so real that they came to life. With her paintbrush she called into being the wild spirits of the wood, made her dreams come true with canvas and paint. But when the forces she unleashed brought unexpected tragedy to those she loved, she ran away from Newford, turning her back on her talent-and on her dreams.
Now, twenty years later, the power of Newford has reached out to draw her back. To fulfill a promise to a long-dead friend, Isabelle must come to terms with the shattering memories she has long denied, and unlock the slumbering power of her brush. She must accept her true feelings for her newfound lover John Sweetgrass, a handsome young Native American who is the image of her most intense imaginings. And, in a dark reckoning with her old master, she must find the courage to live out her dreams, and bring the magic back to life.
Charles de Lint - Novelist, poet, artist, and musician, Charles de Lint is one of the most influential fantasy writers of his generation. With such warmly received works as Spiritwalk, Moonheart, Into the Green, and Dreams Underfoot(also set in the town of Newford), he has earned high praise from readers and critics alike, Booklist has called him “one of the most original fantasy writers currently working.” And The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction writes: “De Lint shows us that, far from being escapism, contemporary fantasy can be the deep, mythic literature of our time.” De Lint and his wife MaryAnn Harris, an artist, live in Ottawa, Ontario, Canada, where they are both Celtic musicians in the band Jump At the Sun. “For more than a decade, Charles de Lint has enjoyed a reputation as one of the world’s leading fantasists.”— “A superb storyteller. De Lint has a flair for tales that blur the lines between the mundane world and magical reality, and nowhere is this more evident than in his fictional city of Newford.”— “De Lint can feel the beauty of the ancient lore he is evoking. He can well imagine what it would be like to conjure the Other World among ancient standing stones. His characters have a certain fallibility that makes them multidimensional and human, and his settings are gritty. This is no Disneylike Never-Never Land. Life and death in de Lint’s world are more than a matter of a few words or a magic crystal.” – “There is no better writer now than Charles de Lint at bringing out the magic in contemporary life ... The best of the post-Stephen King contemporary fantasists, the one with the clearest vision of the possibilities of magic in a modern setting.” — “In the fictional city of Newford, replete with the brutal realities of modern urban life, de Lint’s characters encounter magic in strange and unexpected places ... In de Lint’s capable hands, modern fantasy becomes something other than escapism. It becomes folk song, the stuff of urban myth.” —

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“Nine out of ten times, the victim knows her assailants. Not necessarily well—it might be the guy who takes your change at the subway, or some neighborhood kid you upset through no fault of your own, but there’s usually a reason for this sort of an attack. Once we know it, we can work our way backwards from the motive. In your case, however, that line of inquiry takes us right up against a dead end. And since you weren’t robbed, we can’t even hope to trace your assailants through stolen goods—a distinctive piece of jewelry, that sort of thing.

“I’m sorry, Miss Copley. I wish I had better news to give you than that. All I can tell you is that we’ll keep the file open. If anything new comes up, you can be sure that we’ll contact you.”

But while her going to the precinct hadn’t made much of an impact on the lives of her attackers, it did have an effect upon her own. Now instead of seeing shadowy, unrecognizable features or, what was worse, Rushkin’s face on the youthful bodies of her attackers, she had a whole new vocabulary of faces to fuel her bad dreams.

Izzy sighed, still hesitating at the mouth of the lane. It could have been worse. At least you woke up from a dream. But knowing that didn’t make the nightmares any easier to endure. She wondered how Rochelle had learned to deal with the aftereffects of her own attack. What kind of dreams did she have?

She sighed again. She’d put off returning here for as long as she could. Having finally made it this far today, she knew she had to follow through.

You’re not dreaming now, she told herself and set off down the lane.

The coach house was overhung with a tangle of vines just coming into their summer growth. Yellow and violet irises ran along the sides of the building in bands of startling color, each pocket of flowers surrounded by an amazing array of ferns and the plants’ long, pointed leaves. She paused for a moment, looking for movement in one of the second-floor windows, but she could see nothing moving. The building had an uninhabited feeling about it—not quite abandoned, but not lived-in either.

As she drew nearer, another memory rose up. This one was more painful. She looked past the coach house to where the lane continued on under a canopy of maple and oak boughs. That was where she’d first seen John—really seen him and his resemblance to The Spirit Is Strong instead of talking to him in the shadows of the library’s steps. She wished he could be there now, but that part of the lane was as empty as the length of it that she’d already walked down.

Don’t think about him, she told herself. Easier said than done, but she had to make the effort.

She went up the stairs and tried the door. Locked. Descending, she went to look under the clay flowerpot by the back door. The key was there, just where Rushkin had said it would be in his letter.

So he really had gone away.

At the top of the stairs once more, she used the key to open the door and walked into a curiously unfamiliar studio. It had the same layout as she remembered, but all of Rushkin’s art was gone, which made the room appear much larger than it ever had before. The only finished art was her own, which he’d obviously taken up from the storeroom below and put on one of the walls. The two easels remained, hers and his, as did the long wooden worktable that ran almost the length of the room. There she could see boxes of art supplies—paint tubes, brushes, turpentine, linseed oil and the like, all still in their manufacturers’ packaging. Under the table were stacks of blank canvas, frames, pads of sketching paper, cans of gesso and other materials. Her easel stood where it usually had, with her paints and brushes neatly arranged on the small table that stood beside it. A blank, primed canvas waited for her on the easel. Rushkin’s easel was empty, as was the top of the small table beside it.

Izzy walked slowly around the studio, taking it all in. The room held such an eerie sensation of loss and emptiness. The feeling of disuse she’d sensed outside was so much stronger here. Even the air was different—a little close because of the closed windows, but lacking the smells of a working studio as well.

Paints and turpentine.

She found a note on the worktable that basically repeated what the letter he’d sent her had said. The only addition was an assurance that the rent and utilities would continue to be paid while he was gone.

Gone where? she wanted to know.

But that was Rushkin. He only explained things when he felt like it.

At the bottom of the letter was a postscript that told her if she had any questions, or if any problems arose in his absence, she was to call Olson, Silva & Chizmar Associates. After the name of the law firm, he’d written in their phone number.

Izzy stared thoughtfully at the name, then went downstairs to see if Rushkin had left the phone connected. When she got a dial tone, she called The Green Man Gallery.

“Hello, Albina,” she said once the connection was made.

“Izzy. It’s good to hear your voice. How are you feeling?”

“Much better. I’m going to start painting today.”

“Good for you.”

“But I was just wondering something. You remember that offer that was made for The Spirit Is Strong at my show—can you tell me the name of the law firm that made it?”

“Let me think. It was Silver, something or other. I’d know it if I heard it.”

“Silva?” Izzy asked. “Olson, Silva & Chizmar Associates?”

“Yes, that’s it. Why? I thought you couldn’t sell the painting.”

“I still can’t. I just ran across that name and something made me think of the offer.”

After a little more small talk, Izzy managed to get off the phone. She wandered around Rushkin’s apartment, but there was even less to be seen here than upstairs. The furniture remained and there were some canned goods and staples in the kitchen, but everything else was gone. All the paintings and sketches. All of his personal belongings. It was as though he’d never lived here at all.

Returning to the studio, Izzy went through some of the boxes whose contents she couldn’t guess and found still more art supplies. Taking the items out, she soon had an array of soft and oil pastels, vine charcoal, pencils, cans of fixative and any number of other useful items laid out on the long worktable.

It was like having her own art shop, Izzy thought, right here in her studio. Except it wasn’t her studio, was it? It was Rushkin’s, but Rushkin was gone, taking with him every trace of himself that the long room had held.

She turned slowly around, studying what remained.

Why had he gone? Why had he left her all of this material? Why did he have his lawyers make that offer on The Spirit Is Strong when he’d wanted her to destroy it herself? Surely he hadn’t meant to spend that kind of money just so that he could do the honors?

But then she shook her head. No, he’d distinctly said that only she could send John back. She’d brought him over, so it would have been up to her to send him back.

She drifted over to the window and sat down, staring down at the place where John had been sitting that autumn morning. None of it made sense. Not what Kathy had taken to calling her numena. Not Rushkin’s disappearance. Not how she had inadvertently sent John out of her life ....

Although how inadvertent had that been? Perhaps it would be more fair to say that she’d been taking his measure and he’d been found wanting. Maybe he’d never lied to her, but what hope could there be for a relationship built upon vagaries and riddles? When one of them had no past. When one of them hadn’t even been born, but was called up by the other through magic.

After a while she got one of the pads of paper and a stick of vine charcoal and returned to the window seat. She sat and drew what she could see of the lane while she let her thoughts go round and round in her head, giving them free rein until they began to run into one another. They became a kind of a mantra, the questions losing their need to be answered, eventually dissolving into a state of mind where all she did was draw.

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