Zusatztext Truly unforgettable! San Francisco Chronicle A masterful novel . . . a beautiful! symbolic journey of the soul! the journey of a serious dreamer. Berkely Monthly Informationen zum Autor Dorothy Bryant Klappentext The Kin of Ata Are Waiting for You is part love story, part science fiction, at once Jungian myth and utopian allegory. "Truly unforgettable!"-San Francisco Chronicle The kin of Ata live only for the dream. Their work, their art, their love are designed in and by their dreams, and their only aim is to dream higher dreams. Into the world of Ata comes a desperate man, who is first subdued and then led on the spiritual journey that, sooner or later, all of us must make. "A masterful novel . . . a beautiful, symbolic journey of the soul, the journey of a serious dreamer."-Berkely MonthlyOne Bastard! You son of a bitch! Bastard! I was almost bored. She stood in front of me like a woman out of one of my books. I had a sudden thought that I might have invented her: long legs, small waist, full breasts half covered by tossed blonde hair. I must have smiled because she swung at me again. I caught her wrist, and she made a stifled sound of anger, almost a growl. Put your clothes on and get out, I told her. She went on screaming at me. I sat on the edge of the bed and watched her. Her breasts were full, but they hung loose, like bags over a torso on which I could count every rib. The pubic hair told the true color of her bleached head: mousy brown. Her skin, breaking through her smeared make-up, was blotchy. I exist! she was screaming. I'm a person! I yawned and looked at the clock. Four a.m. No, I told her. I invented you, or you tried to invent yourself, right out of my latest book. But some of the details got She lunged at me. She took me by surprise, and I fell back on the bed with her on top of me. She gave a little jump onto her knees and started digging her fingernails into my face. She almost straddled me, but one knee pressed down on my chest. Her hair and her breasts dangled over my eyes, merging like the slack dugs of some obscene animal. Her breath smelled sour, wine and pot mingling in a sickly smell that turned my stomach. I tried to grab her wrists, but they were slick with sweat and kept slipping away from me. She was stronger than I expected, and she was hurting me, taking long slashes at my face, aiming at my eyes. Finally I grabbed her by the shoulders and stretched her away from me at arms length. Her fingernails clawed the air an inch from my nose. I pushed, and she landed against the wall behind the bed, making a couple of thick slapping noises as she hit the wall, then bouncing back at me, her eyes and mouth wide, her claws flailing. As she fell toward me, I stretched out my arm and caught her by the throat. It wouldn't have happened if we hadn't been stoned. And if it hadn't been four o'clock in the morning. And if it hadn't been for the nightmare. But the nightmare had been especially bad that week, and I'd had hardly any sleep, trying to keep it from me. It didn't feel like murder. It was all unreal, like a scene from one of my books. Or she was like a phantom from my nightmare, the phantom I held off with my eyes closed, afraid to look, I wasn't real either. Nothing could be real at four o'clock in the morning. I might wake up anytime, sweating and shaking, and take another pill to push me to a level beyond or below nightmare. It had been quiet for a long time when I gradually came to myself. The first thing I realized was that I was cold. Then I felt the ache in my outstretched arm. I looked down my arm to where my hand gripped her throat, pressing her against the wall. My arm ached because she was heavy, hanging in my grip like a wet doll. Her eyes and...

ldquo;Truly unforgettable!”—San Francisco Chronicle

“A masterful novel . . . a beautiful, symbolic journey of the soul, the journey of a serious dreamer.”—Berkely Monthly

Autorentext

Dorothy Bryant

Klappentext

The Kin of Ata Are Waiting for You is part love story, part science fiction, at once Jungian myth and utopian allegory.

"Truly unforgettable!"-San Francisco Chronicle

The kin of Ata live only for the dream. Their work, their art, their love are designed in and by their dreams, and their only aim is to dream higher dreams. Into the world of Ata comes a desperate man, who is first subdued and then led on the spiritual journey that, sooner or later, all of us must make.

"A masterful novel . . . a beautiful, symbolic journey of the soul, the journey of a serious dreamer."-Berkely Monthly

Zusammenfassung
The Kin of Ata Are Waiting for You is part love story, part science fiction, at once Jungian myth and utopian allegory.

“Truly unforgettable!”—San Francisco Chronicle

The kin of Ata live only for the dream. Their work, their art, their love are designed in and by their dreams, and their only aim is to dream higher dreams. Into the world of Ata comes a desperate man, who is first subdued and then led on the spiritual journey that, sooner or later, all of us must make.

“A masterful novel . . . a beautiful, symbolic journey of the soul, the journey of a serious dreamer.”—Berkely Monthly

Leseprobe
One
 
“Bastard! You son of a bitch! Bastard!”
 
I was almost bored. She stood in front of me like a woman out of one of my books. I had a sudden thought that I might have invented her: long legs, small waist, full breasts half covered by tossed blonde hair. I must have smiled because she swung at me again. I caught her wrist, and she made a stifled sound of anger, almost a growl.
 
“Put your clothes on and get out,” I told her.
 
She went on screaming at me. I sat on the edge of the bed and watched her. Her breasts were full, but they hung loose, like bags over a torso on which I could count every rib. The pubic hair told the true color of her bleached head: mousy brown. Her skin, breaking through her smeared make-up, was blotchy.
 
“I exist!” she was screaming. “I’m a person!”
 
I yawned and looked at the clock. Four a.m. “No,” I told her. “I invented you, or you tried to invent yourself, right out of my latest book. But some of the details got …”
 
She lunged at me. She took me by surprise, and I fell back on the bed with her on top of me. She gave a little jump onto her knees and started digging her fingernails into my face. She almost straddled me, but one knee pressed down on my chest. Her hair and her breasts dangled over my eyes, merging like the slack dugs of some obscene animal. Her breath smelled sour, wine and pot mingling in a sickly smell that turned my stomach.
 
I tried to grab her wrists, but they were slick with sweat and kept slipping away from me. She was stronger than I expected, and she was hurting me, taking long slashes at my face, aiming at my eyes.
 
Finally I grabbed her by the shoulders and stretched her away from me at arms length. Her fingernails clawed the air an inch from my nose. I pushed, and she landed against the wall behind the bed, making a couple of thick slapping noises as she hit the wall, then bouncing back at me, her eyes and mouth wide, her claws flailing. As she fell toward me, I stretched out my arm and caught her by the throat.
 
It wouldn’t have happened if we hadn’t been stoned. And if it hadn’t been four o’clock in the morning. And if it hadn’t been for the nightmare. But the nightmare had been especially bad that week, and I’d had hardly any sleep, trying to keep it from me.
 
It didn’t feel like murder. It was all unreal, like a scene from one of my books. Or she was like a phantom from my…