From Lord of the Fading Lands by C.L. Wilson:
For nearly a thousand years, the network of underground palaces had survived, thrived even, undetected and steadily growing in strength and number, like a cancer quiety spreading its deadly tentacles beneath the skin of a seemingly healthy man.
I read very little fantasy and, to be honest, it took me several tries to get through the prologue, but this is a beautiful book. And, while it can be difficult to know what with screennames and pseudonyms, as far as I know, I don’t know C.L. Wilson. So no friend-pimpage here. *g*
I had no other thought when I opened this entry box other than to say “Hey, this is a beautiful book”, but now that I’m here, I have another thought. Looking at the book sitting next to me, I’m struck by what a lyrical, lush and evocative story it is, and yet I can’t recall a single one of the long, descriptive passages I associate with fantasy romance. Despite the necessity of having to provide the reader with knowledge of the world, the magic, the history, I haven’t skimmed a single paragraph in the 145 pages I’ve reached. For me, that’s pretty amazing.
In short, I think C.L. Wilson is not only a talented writer, but a truly gifted storyteller.
A beautiful sentence is beautiful, and a beautiful flower is beautiful, but their duration is nearly the sameâ€”a day, a century. Nothing dies more quickly than a style that is not supported by the solidity of strong thought. It shrivels up like a slackened hide; it falls in a heap like a rotten vine deprived of the tree it entwines. And if someone says that the vine keeps a tree with withered roots from falling down, I would agree. Style is also a force, but its value is that much more quickly diminished when it exhausts itself in preserving from annihilation the fragility which it embraces and sustains.