Cassandra Khaw Sözleri ve Alıntıları
Cassandra Khaw sözleri ve alıntılarını, Cassandra Khaw kitap alıntılarını, Cassandra Khaw en etkileyici cümleleri ve paragragları 1000Kitap'ta bulabilirsiniz.There is a reason the hunt is central to so many narratives.
For all that humanity professes to delighting in its own sophistication, it longs for simplicity, for when the world can be deboned into binaries: darkness and light, death and life, hunter and hunted.
It is this desire, perhaps, that drives so many to seek spouses among the inhuman and the immortal. Valkyries who cloak themselves in swan feathers. Long-throated crane wives, foreheads slashed with scarlet. Fox girls with bloody mouths and carnivore grins. Dryads, fairy women, the huldra with spines of gnarled bark. And mermaids, of course, hunger and glimmering scales, like nothing the air might ever produce and nothing the land could hope to keep.
It is always interesting to see how often women are described as ravenous when it is the men who, without exception, take without thought of compensation.
“Do you see now?” the three cry in unison, voices bolstered by the paeans of their disciples, messianic in their mutilation. In that moment, they are nothing if not mythic, nothing if not gods of this small place, this snow-swallowed taiga. “Do you not *see*?”
Of all the men who have mistold my history, I resent him least. Like me, he stood anchored in gilded chains, throat and wrists collared by another’s presumptions, breath beaten to gasps by a world that permits only a single direction: forward and away from our heart’s desire.
What need is there for such platitudes when you are born to yourself time and again? Like a story, we are the summation of our incarnations, a spirit refracted through a billion lives. We are our pasts, our futures, tethered by the flavor of our sisters’ flesh.
A thousand mythologies contributed to my conception. Who can say which of them was responsible for this miracle?
We are made of *stardust*.
Or maybe, of primordial elements such as the ocean and the dark and the killing flame and love. Perhaps, my kind are conduits, our shape defined not by parentage but the things to which we’d yoked our beliefs. Perhaps, we are as any myths are: protean, impossible, exactly what we need to be.
The body I’d held for long, that I’d held despite man’s predations, that I’d held in captivity, held like a vow, a curse, a blasphemy, a wish for better things, combusts.
I look to the tree line where the pines stand like a tribunal in judgment. Sunlight breaks itself upon their branches, and the world beneath them is stark, no color at all, a chiaroscuro of midnight and salt. I tilt my head. Between the roots, there are graves, I realize, planted so close to the trees that there can be no mistaking the purpose. What better use is there for the rotting tenement of the soul than as sustenance for new life, life that’d linger longer after history has been digested by moths and mold?
They were always men, those itinerant storytellers, for the bitter winding roads—bandit-swollen, lord-haunted—were and, for all that I might wish otherwise, will likely always be unkind to women.