Once upon a time, a country called Fairyland grew very tired indeed of people squabbling over it, of polishing up the glitter on the same magic and wonder and dashing dangers each morning, of drifting along prettily through the same Perverse and Perilous Sea, of playing with the same old tyrants and brave heroes every century. Because she was quite a large and opinionated country, and because she was as old as starlight and twice as stubborn, and because she had a mountain range on her left border that simply would _not_ be bossed about, Fairyland decided to do something about it one day in March just after her morning tea.
— Catherynne M. Valente, The Girl Who Raced Fairyland All the Way Home ‎- как человек, чтобы быть попугаем
Fairyland is warm in March, which is not called springtime, but Bideawhile, for Fairyland has not four seasons, but five and one quarter. In Bideawhile, the bare winter trees put forth tiny paper buds, and on these buds are written secrets, memories, tales only trees can tell. ‎- как человек, чтобы быть попугаем
September smiled at all of them, safe and happy and in one place for once. She looked up at the Green Wind. “Why should I have to eat Charlie’s breakfast? I’m sure it’s gone cold by now.” “You are the Queen of Fairyland. Everything you do echoes in Fairyland, one way or another. If you do not have the milk of a dun cow, a snifter of liegelime cordial, and a shortstack of magnamillet flapjacks each morning, the Greatvole of Black Salt Cavern will wake from her thousand-year slumber. I only hope we’re not too late!” ‎- как человек, чтобы быть попугаем
Folk dress in all manner of finery and wonderful hats to go and watch the races, but only if it’s horses doing the barreling that day. This, at least, is understandable, for horses, in secret, love hats more than any other creature. It is a horse’s tragedy that they can never properly wear one. ‎- как человек, чтобы быть попугаем
Already, a family of dryads have gathered to sit on the fountain’s rim, kicking their cedar-bark legs into the air. They wave us over—plenty of room for all. But we’ve already snatched up the best spot for ourselves. From a narrator’s picnic blanket, there’s nothing you can’t see. ‎- как человек, чтобы быть попугаем
A pieman with round, friendly cheeks and round, friendly serpents where her hair ought to be insisted on slipping in a little almond-wood barrel of cider. “The Queen shouldn’t thirst while I’m on my fourth cup,” crowed the pieman. ‎- как человек, чтобы быть попугаем
“The Pieces of Eight guard Mumkeep Reef. The Octopus Assassins. A very ancient guild. Masters of the Octopunch and the Luminous Eight-Armed Thrill-Throttle. They’re actually nonapuses—nine arms. But when they pass their initiations, they always come out of the Grueling Grotto with eight. No one knows the fate of the ninth arm. It is one of their marauding mysteries.” ‎- как человек, чтобы быть попугаем
The cuttlefish smiled. This involved opening up her face into its many thick, short tentacles and waggling them vigorously. It is rather hideous. ‎- как человек, чтобы быть попугаем
“What time do you call this?” Blunderbuss growled. She meant it to sound endearingly mum-like, but wombat mums are very growly, so it came out rather ferociously. She didn’t notice anything the matter. To a wombat, a growl sounds like love. “We’ve got to keep moving, you two!” ‎- как человек, чтобы быть попугаем
September untied the black bow and tore open the black paper. She opened the box. Inside lay a green velvet cushion. On the cushion rested the Rivet Gun. Halloween, the Hollow Queen, grinned at September. “Okay, Nebraska. I want you to shoot me.” ‎- как человек, чтобы быть попугаем
“It’s not working,” fretted Ell. “Someone still has to tell the story, silly,” September said. She traced the whisker over and around the letters and whispered their story to Saturday. “Once upon a time, there was a girl from very far away and a boy who lived every which way at once…” ‎- как человек, чтобы быть попугаем
“Good evening, my lady,” said September, as she had done long ago, when her death was small. “Good evening, September,” said her death. “I am sorry I could not make it in time for tea. But you seem to have done well enough without me.” ‎- как человек, чтобы быть попугаем
Endings are rubbish. No such thing. Never has been, never will be. There is only the place where you choose to stop talking. Everything else goes on forever. ‎- как человек, чтобы быть попугаем