By Peter S. Beagle
Even lifelong friendships cannot out live death...or can they?
Award-winning writer Peter S. Beagle provides a deeply own tale of desires deserted and recovered, pals enjoyed and misplaced, and the energy it takes to permit go....
Praise for Peter S. Beagle's novels:
"Peter S. Beagle has either opulence of mind's eye and mastery of style."-New York Times
"Stunning...Fantasy infrequently dances in the course of the mind's eye in additional radiant apparel than this." -Publishers Weekly (starred review)
"Peter S. Beagle illuminates along with his personal specific magic."-Ursula ok. LeGuin
"Beagle is the category act of delusion writing."-Booklist
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Extra info for A Dance for Emilia
She dived back into her dinner, obliviously, leaving Emilia and me staring at each other in confusion so identical that there was no need to speak, possibly ever again. " and I answered, "Like a divorce. " Emilia said, "She doesn't belong to us. She was Sam's cat, and he's ... " "To take possession, as you might say. Right. " I realized that I was just this side of hysterical, and closing fast. "Emilia, you'd better take him—her—them—home with you. I'm an actor, I pretend for a living, and this is altogether too much reality for me.
We were always aliens, one way or another, always foreigners, outsiders, Martians. " On the last day, with everything of Sam's packed up, sold, given away, donated or dumped, and the apartment echoing, even with our breath, we made one last pass through the shrunken Dark Continent in search of Sam's guitar. We never found it. I still worry over that, at very odd hours, wondering whether he might have given it up because of what I said to him on that bad night long ago. I swept the floor while Emilia picked up our own debris and shoehorned an unusually recalcitrant Millamant into her traveling case.
After she'd moved in with him, and after she'd left him two months and five days later for a playwright who'd written a one-woman show about Duse for her. I borrowed plane fare to New York because of the way he sounded on the phone. He was fine all the way through the nice dinner at the deli, and fine through the usual amble along Columbus, twenty blocks or so down, twenty blocks back. It wasn't until we were in the apartment, until I'd found a hairbrush of Marianne's and casually asked him where I should put it, that he came apart.
A Dance for Emilia by Peter S. Beagle