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, neighbors enjoyed and misplaced, and the power it takes to allow 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 throughout the mind's eye in additional radiant clothing 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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Additional resources for A Dance for Emilia
For the next year—almost two—we wrote more letters than I've ever exchanged with anyone except Sam, and that includes anybody I ever married. How Emilia managed to balance her output against her newspaper work, I can't guess; it was tricky enough for me—especially once Christmas Carol rehearsals started—to drag myself out of Bob Cratchit's intolerably benign consciousness back into my own sullen grief. And after wretched Cratchit came Canon Chasuble, Mr. Peachum, Grandpa Vanderhof, St. Joan's Earl of Warwick ...
And after wretched Cratchit came Canon Chasuble, Mr. Peachum, Grandpa Vanderhof, St. Joan's Earl of Warwick ... actually that wasn't a bad run of roles, thinking about it. Though I should have at least read for Macheath. But I still wrote to Emilia two and three times a week, unearthing foi her sake, and my own, moments as long forgotten as Sam's youthful terror of FBI agents coming back to interrogate his father once more aboul Mike's ten-minute membership in the Communist Party. I rooted through tattered, filthy cardboard boxes to find fragments of the songs we'd written together.
Once she wrote, "Thank you for always calling me Emilia. I liked her so much—she was so passionate and adventurous, so different from Emily. I was sure Emilia died with Sam, but now I don't know. " For my part, writing usually at night, often when rehearsals had run late and I was weary enough that memory and language both tangled with dream, the stories I told of Sam and myself were as true as phoenixes, as imaginary as computers. Things we had done flowed together with things we had always meant to do, things that I think I felt we would have done, once Emilia believed them.
A Dance for Emilia by Peter S. Beagle