In the last jag of summer reading, I finally finished Charles de Lint’s award-winning book last night, The Onion Girl.  JG lent it to me (as well as de Lint’s two short story collections, Dreams Underfoot and Tapping the Dream Tree), and I read all three books in a whirlwind, devouring the words in about two weeks, in between prepping for the semester.

I’ve seen the books before, mostly drawn by the beautiful but spare covers.  But I tend not to read something for leisure unless highly recommended, and JG said to me, “If only I read his stuff earlier — years earlier…”  And she’d shake her head.

And so I’ve read them, and I’ve come to understand what she meant.

These are contemporary fantasy stories — a genre where you’d find Neil Gaimen’s works — but de Lint’s works are highly self-referential, always making the reader aware of the “story-ness” of the story and yet hinting that what’s written isn’t so much fantasy but a fictionalized version of what’s very very real, experienced not only by the characters in the stories but by the readers themselves in their own dreaming and waking lives.

This is not escapist fantasy, no sir, no ma’am.   It makes you think about your own life, your own choices — good and bad.  Quite simply, it’s good medicine.

And not to be taken lightly.

I’ll likely read more Charles de Lint, but not right now.  Later.

For certain, later.

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