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Quote by Jeff VanderMeer

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Borne

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Author

Jeff VanderMeer
Jeff VanderMeer

Jeff VanderMeer is an American writer known for his science fiction and fantasy novels. His works often explore themes of ecology, identity, and the relationship between humans and nature. Born on July 7, 1968, VanderMeer's writing career began in the 1990s. more

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“Birth is as old as humanity itself. That means that simply by being human, you can birth. Your body will grow your baby and birth your baby all without you doing a single thing to make it happen. This isn't to say that certain things won't help it along and make it easier, but even without those things, you will birth. Your body knows how. It is your mindset and the culture that you live in that is the real obstacle to you actually getting a natural birth”

“Later, when I process Betty's death with Eileen, the wise volunteer coordinator, she says: "You know, Pete, the Buddhists say: 'A new baby cries when it comes into the world, but everyone else laughs in delight. But everyone cries when a person dies... except the person, who instead laughs in joy at returning home.'" "I've got to tell you, Pete, I've been doing this work for a long time, and every time I'm at a deathbed, I feel mildly envious of the person who has just passed.”

“For him, England has always been a land of fairy tales: a world of pictures, of black-and-white sketches depicting pale, chubby children eating currant buns. A land of fairies and witches, hedgerows and secret gardens, goblins and magical woods. When he arrived he was surprised to find it looked almost exactly as it did in the stories. The trees, the meadows, the little brick houses. He had not come to a real country, but a story come to life. Every day, then, he woke to a fantasy. And no matter how solid and cold and uncomfortable it was, he could never feel it was a country as such, could never quite believe that it had been formed from the same molten stuff that had made his birthplace. England was always secondary, always derivative, always an aftereffect of a story. Perhaps this is why, now, he can decide to leave it.”

“Through the archway, and up the hill, I feel it surging, and drop to my knees. A string of black smoke wafts out of my mouth, as a long slender form starts to crawl out of my gaping maw. My eyes water as it slides and pulls and slowly works its way out of me, trying not to bite down, struggling to breathe. And in the glow of the moon the serpent finally weaves its muscled form out of me, a diamond pattern running down its length, crisscrossed threads of silver, a flicker of its tongue, and an angry hiss permeating the night. As it slithers into the underbrush—ten feet, twenty feet, thirty feet long—the last of it to disappear are three razor sharp needles sticking out of its tail. (End of Chapter Two.)”