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About Weaveworld
Product Description Clive Barker has made his mark on modern fiction by exposing all that is surreal and magical in the ordinary world --- and exploring the profound and overwhelming terror that results. With its volatile mix of the fantastical and the contemporary, the everyday and the otherworldly, Weaveworld is an epic work of dark fantasy and horror -- a tour de force from one of today's most forceful and imaginative artists. Review Time Barker puts in strands of Joyce, Poe, Tolkien, and King himself, and emerges with the one ingredient that all good rugmakers and storytellers have in common: an irresistible yarn. The New York Times Book Review Prodigious talent....Barker creates a fantastic romance of magic and promise that is at once popular fiction and utopian conjuring. Peter Straub Weaveworld is pure dazzle, pure storytelling. The mixed, tricky world where fantasy and horror overlap has been visited before -- though not very often -- and Weaveworld will be a guide to everyone who travels there in the future Cincinnati Post A powerfully imagined, fully executed fantasy. A book of dreams recalling William Blake instead of Lewis Carroll....Barker borrows a great many themes from literature, folklore, and religion, and makes it completely his own. He writes with a lyrical intensity that transforms some passages from prose to poetry. He infuses his villains and horrors with such venom that they are overwhelming. And he informs everything with an imagination so powerful that it creates its own reality. About the Author Clive Barker is the bestselling author of over twenty novels and collections, including Weaveworld, Imajica, and Galilee. He regularly shows his art in Los Angeles and New York, and produces and directs for both large screen and small. He lives in California with his partner. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter One: Homing 1 Nothing ever begins. There is no first moment; no single word or place from which this or any other story springs. The threads can always be traced back to some earlier tale, and to the tales that preceded that; though as the narrator's voice recedes the connections will seem to grow more tenuous, for each age will want the tale told as if it were of its own making. Thus the pagan will be sanctified, the tragic become laughable; great lovers will stoop to sentiment, and demons dwindle to clockwork toys. Nothing is fixed. In and out the shuttle goes, fact and fiction, mind and matter woven into patterns that may have only this in common: that hidden among them is a filigree that will with time become a world. It must be arbitrary, then, the place at which we choose to embark. Somewhere between a past half forgotten and a future as yet only glimpsed. This place, for instance. This garden, untended since the death of its protector three months ago, and now running riot beneath a blindingly bright late August sky; its fruits hanging unharvested, its herbaceous borders coaxed to mutiny by a summer of torrential rain and sudden, sweltering days. This house, identical to the hundreds of others in this street alone, built with its back so close to the railway track that the passage of the slow train from Liverpool to Crew rocks the china dogs on the dining room sill. And with this young man, who now steps out of the back door and makes his way down the beleaguered path to a ramshackle hut from which there rises a welcoming chorus of coos and flutterings. His name is Calhoun Mooney, but he's universally known as Cal. He is twenty-six, and has worked for five years at an insurance firm in the city center. It's a job he takes no pleasure in, but escape from the city he's lived in all his life seems more unlikely than ever since the death of his mother, all of which may account for the weary expression on his well-made face. He approaches the door of the pigeon loft, opens it, and at that moment -- for want of a better -- this story tak
