The City of Dreaming Books
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
In this new Zamonian adventure, Optimus Yarnspinner, a young writer, inherits from his beloved godfather an unpublished short story by an unknown author.
The search for the author’s identity takes Yarnspinner to Bookholm―the so-called City of Dreaming Books. On entering its streets, our hero feels as if he has opened the door of a gigantic second-hand bookshop. His nostrils are assailed by clouds of book dust, the stimulating scent of ancient leather, and the tang of printer’s ink. Soon, though, Yarnspinner falls into the clutches of the city's evil genius, Pfistomel Smyke, who treacherously maroons him in the labyrinthine catacombs underneath the city, where reading books can be genuinely dangerous. In The City of Dreaming Books, Walter Moers transports us to a magical world where reading is a remarkable adventure. Only those intrepid souls who are prepared to join Yarnspinner on his perilous journey should read this book. We wish the rest of you a long, safe, unutterably dull and boring life!
to . . . No, it was just your empty wineglass, which you jogged with your elbow. Ice-cold sweat beads your brow, your hair stands on end, your pulses race - and then there’s a rustling sound: the Hair-Raiser on your lap has just turned a page by itself, a startling and unexpected phenomenon that almost gives you a heart attack . . . I myself, dear readers, would have preferred to believe that such effects were achieved by literary skill alone, but it wasn’t so, of course. The astonishing truth
batteries. He caught another glimpse of his separate body parts and saw Harpstick and the Shark Grub staring up at him in amusement. Then gravity reasserted itself and his head fell back into Smyke’s hands. ‘ “The next time you wake up,” said Smyke, “you’ll be a different person.” ‘My friend relapsed into profound unconsciousness. ‘The next time he awoke he really was standing upright, because he could feel his body beneath him and was all too conscious of the pain that racked his limbs.
amusing memoirs of the great humorist Ribbald Larph, or a feast of verse by Zepp Hippo, a poet I idolised. Instead of that I was waiting, frozen stiff, for a concert of music for wind instruments that would probably bore me even stiffer. If it didn’t begin this minute I would simply stand up and - ah, the musicians were filing onto the stage at last! But my heart sank still further at the sight of them. I’d quite forgotten: they were Murkholmers - musicians from Murkholm, of all places! Not that
yellow and sprinkled with brown warts. Protruding from its whitish belly were hundreds of waving antennae or atrophied arms or legs - I couldn’t tell which. The yawning maw at its upper extremity was surrounded by long, curved fangs as sharp, pointed and lethal as scimitars. The huge creature froze for a moment and all I could hear was its whistling intake of breath. It reared up still higher, emitted an earsplitting roar and threw itself flat on the sea of paper with a crash that sounded like a
voice. ‘Ah . . . Ah . . . Ah . . . !’ ‘Help!’ shouted someone, so loudly that I gave a jump. ‘Help . . . Help . . . Help . . . !’ ‘We can’t explain it exactly,’ Al said in a subued voice, ‘but the echoes found their way into this cave by some means and now they can’t get out.’ ‘They’re trapped,’ said Wami. ‘For ever and a day,’ Dancelot put in. ‘Sad, isn’t it?’ ‘It’s been like this ever since we discovered the place,’ said Al. ‘Always the same voices, the same words and sighs, though