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Erin Morgenstern

Erin Morgenstern Books

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The Night Circus

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The Starless Sea

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“Once, very long ago, Time fell in love with Fate. This, as you might imagine, proved problematic. Their romance disrupted the flow of time. It tangled the strings of fortune into knots.  The stars watched from the heavens nervously, worrying what might occur. What might happen to the days and nights were time to suffer a broken heart? What catastrophes might result if the same fate awaited Fate itself? The stars conspired and separated the two. For a while they breathed easier in the heavens. Time continued to flow as it always had, or perhaps imperceptibly slower. Fate weaved together the paths that were meant to intertwine, though perhaps a string was missed here and there. But eventually, Fate and Time found each other again.  In the heavens, the stars sighed, twinkling and fretting. They asked the Moon her advice. The Moon in turn called upon the parliament of owls to decide how best to proceed. The parliament of owls convened to discuss the matter amongst themselves night after night. They argued and debated while the world slept around them, and the world continued to turn, unaware that such important matters were under discussion while it slumbered.  The parliament of owls came to the logical conclusion that if the problem was in the combination, one of the elements should be removed. They chose to keep the one they felt more important. The parliament of owls told their decision to the stars and the stars agreed. The Moon did not, but on this night she was dark and could not offer her opinion.  So it was decided, and Fate was pulled apart. Ripped into pieces by beaks and claws. Fate’s screams echoed through the deepest corners and the highest heavens but no one dared to intervene save for a small brave mouse who snuck into the fray, creeping unnoticed through the blood and bone and feathers, and took Fate’s heart and kept it safe. When the furor died down there was nothing else left of Fate.  The owl who consumed Fate’s eyes gained great site, greater site then any that had been granted to a mortal creature before. The Parliament crowned him the Owl King. In the heavens the stars sparkled with relief but the moon was full of sorrow. And so time goes as it should and events that were once fated to happen are left instead to chance, and Chance never falls in love with anything for long. But the world is strange and endings are not truly endings no matter how the stars might wish it so.  Occasionally Fate can pull itself together again.  And Time is always waiting.”

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Book:The Starless Sea
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“Where I am from they tell a story about it,’ the woman said, her attention on the work in front of her, the steady movement of her hands through the flour. ‘They say that every hundred years – some versions say every five hundred, or every thousand – the sun disappears from the daytime sky at the same time the moon vanishes from the night. They say their absence is coordinated so that they may meet in a secret location, unseen by the stars, to discuss the state of the world and compare what each has seen over the past hundred or five hundred or thousand years. They meet and talk and part again, returning to their respective places in the sky until their next meeting.”

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Book:The Starless Sea
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“Alone in their town house, Tara wanders absently. She abandons half-read novels on chairs and tables. The invitations from Mme. Padva to join her for tea or accompany her to the ballet are politely declined. She turns all of the mirrors in the house to face the walls. Those she cannot manage to turn she covers with sheets so they sit like ghosts in empty rooms. She has trouble sleeping.”

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Book:The Night Circus
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“Ці двері співатимуть. Мовчазні пісні сирен для тих, хто шукає заховане за ними місце. Для тих, хто тужить за місцем, де ніколи не бував. Для тих, хто шукає, хай навіть сам не знає чого (чи де). Ті, хто шукає, знайдуть. Їхні двері чекатимуть на них. Але те, що трапиться далі, може різнитися. Іноді хтось знаходить двері, відчиняє, зазирає туди і знову зачиняє. Хтось, знайшовши двері, не чіпає їх, попри те що його охоплює цікавість. Люди думають, що їм потрібен дозвіл. Гадають, буцімто двері чекають на когось іншого, навіть якщо насправді ті чекали на них. Хтось знайде їх, відчинить і зайде, щоб подивитися, куди вони ведуть. Опинившись усередині, мандрівники блукають камʼяними залами, де є на що подивитися, до чого торкнутись і що почитати. Вони знаходять історії, запхані в потаємні кутки, та кладуть їх на стіл, наче ті завжди там лежали, чекаючи на появу свого читача. Кожен відвідувач знайде якусь річ чи місце, що поглине його уяву. Книжку, або розмову, або зручний стілець у добре спланованій альтанці. Хтось принесе їм якийсь напій. Вони більше не помічають, як плине час.”

Beautiful
Book:The Starless Sea
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“Ой ні, та все ж таки дякую. Я агносто-атеїст. — Чоловік на це запитально нахиляє голову, а Закарі пояснює: - Набожний, але не релігійний. Він не озвучує вголос свою думку, що його релігія — слухати з утіхою історії, опівнічні концерти, від захоплення якими аж у вухах звенить, та натискати на кнопку, щоб викликати на бій боса. Його релігія ховається в тиші свіжого снігу, у майстерно приготованому коктейлі, десь посеред сторінок книжки, не на самому початку, але й не в кінці.”

Beautiful
Book:The Starless Sea
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“This womens skin is shimmering and pale, her long black hair is tied with dozens of silver ribbons that fall over her shoulders. Her gown is white, covered in what to Bailey looks like looping black embroidery, but as he walks closer he sees that the black marks are actually words written across the fabric. When he is near enough to read parts of the gown, he realizes that they are love letters, inscribed in handwritten text. Words of desire and longing wrapping around her waist, flowing down the train of her gown as it spills over the platform. The statue herself is still, but her hand is held out and only then does Bailey notice the young woman with a red scarf standing in front of her, offering the love letter-clad statue a sungle crimson rose. The movement is so subtle that it is almost undetectable, but slowly, very, very slowly, the statue reaches to accept the rose. Her fingers open, and the young woman with the rose waits patiently as the statue gradually closes her hand around the stem, releasing it only when it is secure. ....The statue is lifting the rose, gradually, to her face. Her eye lids slowly close.”

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Book:The Night Circus
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“Far beneath the surface of the earth, hidden from the sun and the moon, upon the shores of the Starless Sea, there is a labyrinthine collection of tunnels and rooms filled with stories. Stories written in books and sealed in jars and painted on walls. Odes inscribed onto skin and pressed into rose petals. Tales laid in tiles upon the floors, bits of plot worn away by passing feet. Legends carved in crystal and hung from chandeliers. Stories catalogued and cared for and revered. Old stories preserved while new stories spring up around them.”

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Book:The Starless Sea
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“Without the concern for the effect she might be having on the surroundings, she is able to relax into the sensation instead of resisting it. It is exquisite. It is the way she has felt in so many of his tents, the thrill of being surrounded by something wondrous and fantastical, only magnified and focused directly on her. The feel of his skin against hers reverberates across her entire body, though his fingers remain entwined in hers. She looks it up at him, caught in the haunting greenish-grey of his eyes again, and she does not turn away. They stand gazing at each other in silence for moments that seem to stretch for hours.”

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Book:The Night Circus
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“The night of the anniversary party," she says. "The night you kissed me. I thought it that night. I didn't want to play anymore, I only wanted to be with you. I thought I would ask you to run away with me and I meant it. The very moment I convinced myself that we could manage it, I was in so much pain I could barely stand. Friedrick didn't know what to make of me, he sat me in a quiet corner and held my hand and did not pry when I couldn't explain because that's how kind he is.”

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Book:The Night Circus
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“Marco watches her approach, confused at first but then the confusion is replaced by something entirely. He could tell from across the room that she was lovely, but when she is near enough to look him in the eyes the loveliness-the shape of her face, the contrast of her hair against her skin-evolves into something more. She is radiant. For a moment, while they look at each other, he cannot remember what he is meant to be doing, or why she is handing him a piece of paper with the number twenty-three written on it in his own handwriting. "This way, please," he manages to say as he takes her number and holds the door open for her. She bobs the slightest of curtseys in acknowledgment and the lobby is abuzz with whispers before the door has fully closed behind them.”

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Book:The Night Circus
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“Secrets have power," Widget begins. "And that power diminishes when they are shared, so they are best kept and kept well. Sharing secrets, real secrets, important ones, with even one other person, will change them. Writing them down is even worse, because who can tell how many eyes might see them inscribed on paper, no matter how careful you might be with it. So it's really best to keep your secrets when you have them, for their own good, as well as yours. This is, in part, why there is less magic in the world today. Magic is secret and secrets are magic, after all, and years upon years of teaching and sharing magic and worse. Writing it down in fancy books that get all dusty with age has lessened it, removed its power bit by bit. It was inevitable, perhaps, but not unavoidable. Everyone makes mistakes.”

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Book:The Night Circus
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“I believe you have my umbrella," he says, almost out of breath but wearing a grin that has too much wolf in it to be properly sheepish. Celia stares up at him in surprise. At first she wonders what on earth Chandresh's assistant is doing in Prauge, as she has never seen him outside London. Then comes the question of how he could possess such an umbrella. As she stairs at him, confused, the pieces of the puzzle begin to shift together. She remembers every encounter she had with the man now standing before her in the rain, recalling the distress he had exhibited at her audition, the years of glances and comments she had read as no more than coy flirtation. And the constant impression as though he is not really there, blending so well into the background that she would occasionally forget he was in the room.”

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Book:The Night Circus
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“Everything within the cage rotates slowly, the silver stars sparkling as they catch the light. Once the slow, steady tick begins, Celia removes her hand. Friedrick does not inquire as to how she managed it. Instead, he takes her to dinner. They do speak of the circus, but spend most of the meal discussing books and art, wine and favorite cities. The pauses in the conversation are not awkward, though they struggle to find the same rhythm in speaking that was already present in their written exchanges, often switching from one language to another.”

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Book:The Night Circus
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“She gives him a hint of a bow as she returns to her feet, a gentle nod of her head, a movement that reminds him of the beginning of the dance. (Even a pirate can recognize the beginning of a dance.) The next night the pirate stays back from the bars, a polite distance that could be closed in a single step, and the girl comes a breath closer. Another night and the dance continues. A step closer. A step back. A movement to the side.”

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Book:The Starless Sea
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“He returns to the blur of velvet and firelight in the main room, kicking off his shoes as he walks, managing to remove his suit jacket and vest before he reaches the bed but he is asleep before he can deal with additional buttons, linen sheets, and lamb's-wool pillows swallowing him like a cloud and he welcomes it, his last thoughts before sleeping a fleeting mix of reflections on the evening that has finally ended, questions and worries about everything from his sanity to hot to get paint out of his hair and then it is gone, the last wisp of thought wondering how you go to sleep if you're already dreaming.”

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Book:The Starless Sea
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“A story is like an egg, a universe contained in its chosen medium. The spark of something new and different but fully formed and fragile. In need of protection. You want to protect it, too, but there's more to it than that. You want to be inside it (...). You want to be in the story, not observing it from the outside. You want to be under the shell. The only way to do that is to break it. But if it breaks, it is gone.”

The Starless Sea
Author:Erin Morgenstern
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