Lucy By The Sea Quotes

Look at that sea, girls--all silver and shadow and vision of things not seen. We couldn't enjoy its loveliness any more if we had millions of dollars and ropes of diamonds.

To the glistening eastern sea, I give you Queen Lucy the Valiant. To the great western woods, King Edmund the Just. To the radiant southern sun, Queen Susan the Gentle. And to the clear northern skies, I give you King Peter the Magnificent. Once a king or queen of Narnia, always a king or queen of Narnia. May your wisdom grace us until the stars rain down from the heavens.

But guess what?” “What?” “There was no treasure after all! It was a lie to get you here for your party!” “Oh. I see. So the real treasure was the friendships we made along the way?” “You guys are the worst,” Lucy muttered. “The literal worst.

He looked up at Linus. “I’m glad you’re here.” Linus was touched. “Thank you, Lucy—” “If the cannibals start chasing after us, they’ll see you first. We’re little, and you’ve got all that meat on your bones, so it’ll give us time to get away. Your forthcoming sacrifice is appreciated.

It is a gift in this life that we do not know what awaits us.

Who knows why people are different? We are born with a certain nature, I think. And then the world takes its swings at us.

And Peter became a tall and deep-chested man and a great warrior, and he was called King Peter the Magnificent. And Susan grew into a tall and gracious woman with black hair that fell almost to her feet and the kings of the countries beyond the sea began to send ambassadors asking for her hand in marriage. And she was called Queen Susan the Gentle. Edmund was a graver and quieter man than Peter, and great in council and judgment. he was called King Edmund the Just. But as for Lucy, she was always gay and golden-haired, and all princes in those parts desired her to be their Queen, and her own people called her Queen Lucy the Valiant.

I think you've seen Aslan," said Edmund. "Aslan!" said Eustace. "I've heard that name mentioned several times since we joined the Dawn Treader. And I felt - I don't know what - I hated it. But I was hating everything then. And by the way, I'd like to apologise. I'm afraid I've been pretty beastly." "That's all right," said Edmund. "Between ourselves, you haven't been as bad as I was on my first trip to Narnia. You were only an ass, but I was a traitor." "Well, don't tell me about it, then," said Eustace. "But who is Aslan? Do you know him?" "Well - he knows me," said Edmund. "He is the great Lion, the son of the Emperor-beyond-the-Sea, who saved me and saved Narnia. We've all seen him. Lucy sees him most often. And it may be Aslan's country we are sailing to.

Mr. Baker,” Lucy said sweetly. “Can I get you something to drink? Juice, perhaps? Tea?” He leaned forward and dropped his voice. “The blood of a baby born in a cemetery under a full moon?” “Lucy,” Mr. Parnassus warned. Lucy stared at Linus. “Whatever you want, I can give you,” he whispered.

And what happens when he grows up?” Charles asked. “What happens when he becomes a man? What if he decides this world isn’t what he wants it to be? You know who his father is.” “I do,” Linus said. “His father is Arthur Parnassus. And he’s the best damn father Lucy has, and as far as I’m concerned, the only one.

You must,” Lucy told him. “And if there are cannibals, yell back at us when they start to eat you so we know to run away.” “What if they eat my mouth first?” Lucy squinted up at him. “Um. Try not to let that happen?

We are all in lockdown, all the time. We just don’t know it, that’s all. But we do the best we can. Most of us are just trying to get through.

He’s not going to fight Jesus,” Talia said. “Last night, Lucy stubbed his toe and cried until Zoe kissed it, so all Jesus has to do is wait for that, and the fight is over.

Lucy tilted his head back, staring up at the ceiling. “It’s hard.” “What is?” “Being alive.” “It is,” Arthur agreed. “But perhaps that’s the point: the trials and tribulations of life weigh heavily upon us, but we find people to help lighten the load.

Sometimes,” Mr. Parnassus said, “our prejudices color our thoughts when we least expect them to. If we can recognize that, and learn from it, we can become better people. Lucy?

The spring which moved my energies lay far away beyond seas, in an Indian isle.

These children are faced with nothing but preconceived notions about who they are. And they grow up to be adults who know only the same. You said it yourself: Lucy wasn’t who you expected him to be, which means you already had decided in your head what he was. How can we fight prejudice if we do nothing to change it? If we allow it to fester, what’s the point?

What is it like to be you? I need to say: This is the question that has made me a writer; always that deep desire to know what it feels like to be a different person.

And I also understood: Grief is a private thing. God, is it a private thing.

It’s our duty to bear the burden of the mystery with as much grace as we can.

If Sawtooth could put words to the brambled knot forming in his throat, he would tell her: Girl, don't go. I am marooned in this place without you. What I feel for you is more than love. It's stronger, peninsular. You connect me to the Mainland. You are my leg of land over dark water.

I haven’t seen Lucy’s room. I haven’t asked. He has offered many times; once, he cornered me and whispered that I wouldn’t believe my eyes, but I don’t think I’m ready to see it yet. I will make sure to view it before I leave. If it is the last thing I do, my last will and testament has been filed with Human Resources. If enough of my remains exist, please see that they are cremated.

Everyone thinks like themselves, this is my point.

We all live with people -- and places -- and things -- that we have given great weight to. But we are weightless, in the end.

...This had often broken my heart, to realize that you never know the last time you pick up a child. Maybe you say "Oh, honey, you're getting too big to be picked up" or something like that. But then you never pick them up again.

Lucy and Talia, you are assigned to Mr. Baker.” Lucy and Talia turned their heads slowly in unison, matching smiles on their faces that sent a cold chill down Linus’s spine. He sputtered. “Perhaps we should—I mean, there’s really no need for—I think we should—oh dear.

If magic was a colour, That colour would be sparkling blue

¿Puede que sea esta la belleza de la que hablaba Lucy? ¿Que el estómago se te encoja ante una obra de arte? ¿O que un libro se te quede dentro del alma?

Lucy threw up his hands. “I don’t know why you don’t just kiss him and get it over with. Adults are so dumb.

We are bodies of water…birthed from bodies of water…drawn to bodies of water.

May yours be the sparkle of light on the ocean, The whisper of foam on the sea, The warm sand guiding your feet safely home, A pebble in your pocket from me. Some sea glass, a starfish, some driftwood, a whelk, Treasures washed up on the shore. A flower, a feather, an urchin, a pearl, Keep your eyes open for more. May you know yourself held in the palm of Her hand, Blessed by the waves wild and free, Blown by the wind, anointed with salt, Beloved of She of the Sea.

How could he tell one child he could be a thing, but tell another that he couldn’t do the same? Granted, David’s idea of being a monster wasn’t the same as Lucy’s, but was it fair to hold one person to a standard and another to something else entirely?

Lucy nodded. “And I’ll open up a dimensional doorway in the fabric of reality and send her to a place where even demons fear to tread. What is this evil place, you might be asking? Great question!” He spread his hands wide in a practiced display of showmanship. “It’s called … Florida.

SCARBOROUGH FAIR, or, THE LOVER'S PROMISE (Lucy:) Are you going to Scarborough Fair? Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme Remember me to one who lives there Always he'll be a true love of mine Tell him I've made him a magical shirt Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme Without any seam or needlework Always he'll be a true love of mine (Zach:) Tell her she's found me an acre of land Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme Between the salt water and the sea strand That makes her a true love of mine Tell her she's plowed it with just a goat's horn Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme She's sowed it all over with one grain of corn Yes, she is a true love of mine And her daughter forever a daughter of mine (Together:) Are you going to Scarborough Fair? Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme Remember us to all who live there Ours will be true love for all time

It was then I thought of Corsica, the place we had discovered together. I craved the wind, the sun and salt, the simplicity of the island.

Everyone has to feel like they matter.

For the millionth time since 1968, I sank into the South China Sea. " I will love you for the rest of my life, William Wilde.

But is it too much to ask for a trespasser? I’ve always wanted to see if humans make good fertilizer. It seems like they would.” She eyed him up and down hungrily. “All that flesh.” “Oh dear,” Linus managed to say. She huffed out a breath. “We don’t get trespassers here. Unless … I saw a cat. Did you bring it as a gift for the house? Lucy will be excited about that. And maybe when he’s done with it, he’ll let me use what’s left. It’s not the same as a human, but I’m sure it’ll work.” “She’s not an offering,” Linus said, aghast. “She’s a pet.” “Oh. Darn.” “Her name is Calliope!” “Well, we better find her before the others do.

Lucy eyed him slyly. “What if I don’t become who you want me to be?” Arthur expected this. Pushing up against perceived boundaries, testing how far they could stretch. All the children did this at one point or another. It went back to what Arthur had said during the hearing, about children being told no and immediately asking why. “I would love you just the same.

Who is it?” Lucy whispered furiously. “Is it the cannibals?” “I don’t know,” Linus said. “Could be. And while I might be a complete meal, they could be full after consuming Arthur and only interested in something a little more . . . snack-sized.” Talia gasped. “But . . . but I’m snack-sized.

And when I found out that I had been living a parallel life, a dishonest life, it crushed me. But I have often thought that it made me a nicer person, I really do. When you are truly humbled, that can happen. I have come to notice this in life. You can become bigger or bitter, that is what I think. And as a result of that pain, I became bigger. Because I understood then how a woman could not know. It had happened, and it had happened to me.

Underneath the photograph, in blocky letters, was a name. LUCY. “A boy named Lucy,” Linus said. “That’s certainly a first. I wonder why they chose … the name … Lucy…” The last word came out choked. There, written in clear English, was exactly the reason why. The file read: NAME: LUCIFER (NICKNAME LUCY) AGE: SIX YEARS, SIX MONTHS, SIX DAYS (AT TIME OF THIS REPORT) HAIR: BLACK EYE COLOR: BLUE/RED MOTHER: UNKNOWN (BELIEVED DECEASED) FATHER: THE DEVIL SPECIES OF MAGICAL YOUTH: ANTICHRIST Linus Baker fainted dead away.

Lucy yelled in unfettered joy, “You can breathe fire? Holy crap, Theodore! Let’s burn everything!” “And that’s our cue,” Arthur said. “This is what happens when you sleep late,” Linus muttered. “Just when you think you’re getting extra rest, someone breathes fire.

So many people want to eat my food,” Lucy said in awe. “This must be what it feels like to be God.

Lucy.” “Yes, Linus?” Said in picture-perfect innocence. “Question, if I may: Do you know anything about the giant tidal wave heading straight for us?” Arthur said, “The giant what?

I have never seen anything as beautiful as those girls. These women. My daughters!

Everyone needs to feel important.

My point is, if we are lucky we bounce into someone. But we always bounce away again, at least a little.

Lucy sighed. “How am I supposed to make new friends if I can’t tell them about how they’ll die? What’s the point?” “Ice cream and records,” Arthur said. “Oh. Okay!

She wanted summer; fields of daisies; seas misty with moonrise or purple with sunset; companionship; Teddy. In such moments she always knew she wanted Teddy.

It was quiet, which meant that either everyone was out doing their own thing, or Lucy was up to something terrible that would end in death.

Lucy sighed. “I learned once again that I’m not just the sum of my parts.” “Of course not. You’re more.

Yes. Exactly. Lucy might cause fear in the majority of the world, but he doesn’t cause it in me. I’ve seen what he is capable of. Behind the eyes and the demon in his soul, he is charming and witty and terribly smart. I will fight for him as I would for any of my children.

Severed heads?” Linus asked in a strangled voice. Lucy sighed. “Just representations of my enemies. The Pope. Evangelicals who attend megachurches. You know, like normal people have.

Mr. Baker,” Lucy said sweetly. “Can I get you something to drink? Juice, perhaps? Tea?” He leaned forward and dropped his voice. “The blood of a baby born in a cemetery under a full moon?

For a time, Lucy was silent. He looked out the window, his face bathed in golden light. Finally, he said, “Arthur?” “Yes?” “I love you too.” Arthur smiled as fire bloomed in his chest. “I know.

Phee gave him a thumbs-up. Lucy said, “You’re not dead?” He sounded strangely disappointed. “Leaders give positive reinforcement,” Talia told him. “Oh. Good job not dying?” “That was better,” Talia said,

Would you like to lead the way, Commander Lucy?” Linus asked. Lucy shook his head. “You were doing such a good job of it, and you look like you don’t hear that often enough. I don’t want to take that away from you.

There was no treasure after all! It was a lie to get you here for your party!” “Oh. I see. So the real treasure was the friendships we made along the way?” “You guys are the worst,” Lucy muttered. “The literal worst.

On the fifth night of our search, I see a plesiosaur. It is a megawatt behemoth, bronze and blue-white, streaking across the sea floor like a torpid comet. Watching it, I get this primordial deja vu, like I'm watching a dream return to my body. It wings towards me with a slow, avian grace. Its long neck is arced in an S-shaped curve; its lizard body is the size of Granana's carport. Each of its ghost flippers pinwheels colored light. I try to swim out of its path, but the thing's too big to avoid. That Leviathan fin, it shivers right through me. It's a light in my belly, cold and familiar. And I flash back to a snippet from school, a line from a poem or a science book, I can't remember which: 'There are certain prehistoric things that swim beyond extinction'.

You said it yourself: Lucy wasn’t who you expected him to be, which means you already had decided in your head what he was. How can we fight prejudice if we do nothing to change it? If we allow it to fester, what’s the point?

The whole world fizzed. Kissing Fen was like sinking beneath the surface of the sea, but instead of it being airless and dark, it was lit with phosphorescence so luminous that she knew she’d never see the world the same way again.

Who is Aslan?” asked Susan. “Aslan?” said Mr. Beaver, “Why, don’t you know? He’s the King. He’s the Lord of the whole wood, but not often here, you understand. Never in my time or my father’s time. But the word has reached us that he has come back. He is in Narnia at this moment. He’ll settle the White Queen all right. It is he, not you, that will save Mr. Tumnus.” “She won’t turn him into stone too?” said Edmund. “Lord love you, Son of Adam, what a simple thing to say!” answered Mr. Beaver with a great laugh. “Turn him into stone? If she can stand on her two feet and look him in the face it’ll be the most she can do and more than I expect of her. No, no. He’ll put all to rights, as it says in an old rhyme in these parts: Wrong will be right, when Aslan comes in sight, At the sound of his roar, sorrows will be no more, When he bares his teeth, winter meets its death And when he shakes his mane, we shall have spring again. You’ll understand when you see him.” “But shall we see him?” asked Susan. “Why, Daughter of Eve, that’s what I brought you here for. I’m to lead you where you shall meet him,” said Mr. Beaver. “Is--is he a man?” asked Lucy. “Aslan a man!” said Mr. Beaver sternly. “Certainly not. I tell you he is the King of the wood and the son of the great Emperor-Beyond-the-Sea. Don’t you know who is the King of Beasts? Aslan is a lion--the Lion, the great Lion.” “Ooh!” said Susan, “I’d thought he was a man. Is he--quite safe? I shall feel rather nervous about meeting a lion.” “That you will, dearie, and no mistake,” said Mrs. Beaver. “If there’s anyone who can appear before Aslan without their knees knocking, they’re either braver than most or else just silly.” “Then he isn’t safe?” said Lucy. “Safe?” said Mr. Beaver. “Don’t you hear what Mrs. Beaver tells you? Who said anything about safe? ’Course he isn’t safe. But he’s good. He’s the King, I tell you.

The children are going to adore him.” Linus shivered despite the summer heat. “That’s what worries me. Lucy’s going to love him.” He sighed, undoubtedly imagining explosions or blood splatter on the walls. “I’m already losing my hair as it is.

What did I say about animals?" Mr. Parnassus said. Lucy stomped toward a closed door near the chairs. "I'm not supposed to kill them because only serial killers do that, and if they're already dead, I can't play with the remains because I'll smell bad.

Every aspect of the sea holds profound metaphorical power. The outer seascape provides so many corollaries for human psychology in general, and women’s psychology in particular. This is the reason it has haunted the myths and legends – the psychology before psychology – of so many cultures. And it is why water is present in most spiritual rituals. The sea speaks to the soul. Our ancestors knew that beneath the depths lay much wisdom. They knew that the way to our own depths was through the depths of the ocean.

Even as a young man, Sawtooth had a hard time talking to women. Since moving to Out-to-Sea, he's become tight-lipped as an oyster. But he can feel the worlds pearling on his tongue: Girl, you are my moon. You are the tidal pull that keeps time marching forward.

There is something almost religious about the call of the sea, the connection we feel that transcends the mundanity of daily existence. It simultaneously reminds us of our smallness and our interconnected- ness. It awakens within us the eye of the artist, the voice of the poet, the soul of the mystic. It reignites an awareness that beyond this lies something vaster. The water, pulled by the moon, ever-moving but ever-remaining, seems to speak to something elemental within us in ways we can barely find expression for, yet find ourselves driven to try, nonetheless. It has inspired storytellers, artists and musicians of many cultures and genders throughout history. The sea sings through us…if we let her…as we in turn channel ourselves through her.

Well, don’t tell me about it, then,” said Eustace. “But who is Aslan? Do you know him?” “Well—he knows me,” said Edmund. “He is the great Lion, the son of the Emperor-beyond-the-Sea, who saved me and saved Narnia. We’ve all seen him. Lucy sees him most often. And it may be Aslan’s country we are sailing to.

Oh my, that was such a restful sleep. Wouldn’t you agree, dear Linus?” “Quite!” Linus practically shouted. “I’m not even remotely concerned about the state of the kitchen and instead am focused on how rested I feel!” They both had to stifle laughter when Chauncey began to yell, “Battle stations! Battle stations! The chickens are coming home to roost!” Another din from the kitchen, this time followed by Lucy shouting, “But we’re not ready yet! Choke the chickens!

I suppose that it’s all quite beautiful, what I am looking at, but I can’t feel it being beautiful. I can’t properly feel any good things anymore: like the taste of food, or the sun on my face or a song I like on the radio. Looking out at the sea all I feel is a dull pain, somewhere under my ribs, like an old injury.

assuage Arthur’s guilt. How could he tell one child he could be a thing, but tell another that he couldn’t do the same? Granted, David’s idea of being a monster wasn’t the same as Lucy’s, but was it fair to hold one person to a standard and another to something else entirely? “Guys!” Sal called. “I think we have a problem.

And then I remembered that one time, when I was pregnant with Chrissy, I had looked down at my big stomach and put my hand over it and thought: Whoever you are, you do not belong to me. My job is to help you get into the world, but you do not belong to me. And remembering this now, I thought: Lucy, you were absolutely right.

Lucy looked toward the ceiling, and in a monotone voice said, “I learned that I am the bringer of death and destroyer of worlds.

Helen winced. “Oh. Ignore me. I shouldn’t have said that. Never curse, children. Understood?” They nodded, but Linus could already see Lucy mouthing daft little bitch in glee.

Man-eating snakes, you say? Sounds dangerous.” Lucy glanced back at the others before he leaned forward and whispered, “They’re not real. I’m just playing. But don’t tell the others.

Cerró los ojos. Y le vinieron imágenes de Chauncey escondido debajo de su cama aquella primera mañana, de Talia sentada en el suelo de la tienda de discos con sus herramientas, de Theodore cogiendo los botones como si fueran el mejor regalo del mundo, de Phee recogiendo a un Sal tembloroso de entre un montón de ropa, de Lucy llorando después de romper sus discos, de Zoe dándole la bienvenida a su hogar. Y, por supuesto, de la sonrisa de Arthur. Aquella sonrisa tranquila, hermosa, que le producía el mismo efecto que ver el mar por primera vez.

Sometimes,” Mr. Parnassus said, “our prejudices color our thoughts when we least expect them to. If we can recognize that, and learn from it, we can become better people. Lucy?” Linus

Zachary's mother, Lucy, waylaid him on the third-floor landing and offered, unsolicited, her opinion that the Traumatics had been the kind of adolescently posturing, angst-mongering boy group that never interested her. Then she waited, with parted lips and a saucy challenge in her eyes, to see how her presence --the drama of being her-- was registering. In the way of such chicks, she seemed convinced of the originality of her provocation. Katz had encountered, practically verbatim, the same provocation a hundred times before, which put him in the ridiculous position now of feeling bad for being unable to pretend to be provoked: of pitying Lucy's doughty little ego, its floatation on a sea of aging-female insecurity. He doubted he could get anywhere with her even if he felt like trying, but he knew that her pride would be hurt if he didn't make at least a token effort to be disagreeable. (p. 194)

He’s six years old.” “He proclaimed himself to be hellfire and darkness when he threatened me!” Mr. Parnassus chuckled. “It was his way of saying hello. He’s got a morbid sense of humor for one so young. It’s endearing once you get used to it.” Linus gaped at him. Mr. Parnassus sighed as he leaned forward. “Look, Mr. Baker. I know it’s—a lot to swallow, but I’ve had Lucy for a year. There were plans to … well. Let’s just say this was a last resort. Regardless of his parentage, he is a child.

These two Kings and two Queens governed Narnia well, and long and happy was their reign. At first much of their time was spent in seeking out the remnants of the White Witch's army and destroying them, and indeed for a long time there would be news of evil things lurking in the wilder parts of the forest- a haunting here and a killing there, a glimpse of a werewolf one month and a rumor of a hag the next. But in the end all that foul brood was stamped out. And they made good laws and kept the peace and saved good trees from being unnecessarily cut down, and liberated young dwarfs and young satyrs from being sent to school, and generally stopped busybodies and interferers and encouraged ordinary people who wanted to live and let live. And they drove back the fierce giants (quite a different sort from Giant Rumblebuffin) in the North of Narnia when these ventured across the frontier. And they entered into friendship and alliance with countries beyond the sea and paid them visits of state and received visits of state from them. And they themselves grew and changed as the years passed over them. And Peter became a tall and deep-chested man and a great warrior, and he was called King Peter the Magnificent. And Susan grew into a tall and gracious woman with black hair that fell almost to her feet and the kings of the countries beyond the sea began to send ambassadors asking for her hand in marriage. And she was called Queen Susan the Gentle. Edmund was a graver and quieter man than Peter, and great in council and judgement. He was called King Edmund the Just. But as for Lucy, she was always gay and golden-haired, and all the princes in those parts desired her to be their Queen, and her own people called her Queen Lucy the Valiant.

Robyn felt warmth bloom in her cheeks, heat rising from the very centre of her. Fen’s gaze skirted across her face, as if reading something in her expression. Robyn could feel the sun hot against her scalp, hear the gentle lap of the sea at the foot of the cliffs.

Granted, that was before he knew the Antichrist was a six-year-old on Marsyas Island. For the first time in his life, Linus wished he had a crucifix or a Bible or something with which to protect himself should Lucy decide he needed a sacrifice in order to come into his full powers.

Lucy laughed, a sound Linus was sure would haunt him for the rest of his life, before he went to the remaining empty chair. Sal pulled it out for him. On the chair sat a booster seat. Lucy climbed up into it, and Sal pushed the chair back toward the table, keeping his gaze downcast.

You tell yourself it’s for the greater good, and it may very well be. Does that make it right?” Lucy stared at Arthur with ancient eyes. “It’d make things easier.” “Perhaps,” Arthur said. “But that doesn’t answer my question. Even if your intentions are pure, does eradicating free will to get the end result you desire make your actions right?” Lucy hesitated. “I… don’t know?” “And it’s okay not to know,” Arthur said. “It comes back to the idea of moral relativism.” Lucy groaned, sounding so much like Linus that Arthur grinned. “Yes, yes, it’s terribly inconsiderate of me to spring philosophy on you. I will do better in the future.

Long Live King Peter! Long Live Queen Susan! Long Live King Edmund! Long Live Queen Lucy!” “Once a King or Queen in Narnia, always a King or Queen. Bear it well, Sons of Adam! Bear it well, Daughters of Eve!” said Aslan. And through the eastern door, which was wide open, came the voices of the mermen and the mermaids swimming close to the castle steps and singing in honor of their new Kings and Queens. So the children sat in their thrones and scepters were put into their hands and they gave rewards and honors to all their friends, to Tumnus the Faun, and to the Beavers, and Giant Rumblebuffin, to the leopards, and the good centaurs and the good dwarfs, and to the lion. And that night there was a great feast in Cair Paravel, and revelry and dancing, and gold flashed and wine flowed, and answering to the music inside, but stranger, sweeter, and more piercing, came the music of the sea-people. But amid all these rejoicings Aslan himself quietly slipped away. And when the Kings and Queens noticed that he wasn’t there, they said nothing about it. For Mr. Beaver had warned them. “He’ll be coming and going,” he had said. “One day you’ll see him and another you won’t. He doesn’t like being tied down--and of course he has other countries to attend to. It’s quite all right. He’ll often drop in. Only you mustn’t press him. He’s wild, you know. Not like a tame lion.

Humans get hungry for blue, it seems: to hold the sea in their hands, to wear the sky in their hair, to drape themselves in the hazy blue of distant mountains. Blue is more than a colour: it is a feeling. We don’t say that we feel orange or purple, but we say we feel blue when our souls are sad and heavy. We play or sing or listen to the blues to express this sensation. Like any colour, it cannot be adequately described with words, only experienced, known through the eyes and the soul. Making blue has always been magic: the domain of alchemists since the beginning of human history. To find red only required blood or berries or the smearing of red clay. To make brown was as simple as reaching down to the earth beneath one’s feet. White chalk is plentiful in many places, or can be replaced by fire ash. But blue appears rarely in forms from which paints or dyes can be made…blue requires earthly magic.

Anne went to the little Avonlea graveyard the next evening to put fresh flowers on Matthew’s grave and water the Scotch rosebush. She lingered there until dusk, liking the peace and calm of the little place, with its poplars whose rustle was like low, friendly speech, and its whispering grasses growing at will among the graves. When she finally left it and walked down the long hill that sloped to the Lake of Shining Waters it was past sunset and all Avonlea lay before her in a dreamlike afterlight— ‘a haunt of ancient peace.’ There was a freshness in the air as of a wind that had blown over honey-sweet fields of clover. Home lights twinkled out here and there among the homestead trees. Beyond lay the sea, misty and purple, with its haunting, unceasing murmur. The west was a glory of soft mingled hues, and the pond reflected them all in still softer shadings. The beauty of it all thrilled Anne’s heart, and she gratefully opened the gates of her soul to it.

I have spent my life clinging to my own shores for safety. Flying like a bird above the storm waters of my own body, too scared to land. I guess that is why the sea floods in to visit me. I have been too frightened to venture out into her depths alone. The central core of me is dark and churning, I can only sense it vaguely. It scares me with its power. As a late-diagnosed autistic woman, I realise that this experience is partly neurological…my sensory abilities are all hyper-aroused on the surface, and my nervous system melts down when it becomes overwhelmed in everyday places. But my ability to know what is going on within is flawed. Instead of an accurate information readout, there is a big, dark, unknowable mass within. I am sailing blind without map or lighthouse within my own skin. It feels a very scary place to have a life sentence. This is why I write: to attempt to find words for what this big scariness is, to try and find images to give form and name to the wild churning expanse.

I have spent my life clinging to my own shores for safety. Flying like a bird above the storm waters of my own body, too scared to land. I guess that is why the sea floods in to visit me. I have been too frightened to venture out into her depths alone. The central core of me is dark and churning, I can only sense it vaguely. It scares me with its power. As a late-diagnosed autistic woman, I realise that this experience is partly neurological…my sensory abilities are all hyper-aroused on the surface, and my nervous system melts down when it becomes overwhelmed in everyday places. But my ability to know what is going on within is flawed. Instead of an accurate information readout, there is a big, dark, unknowable mass within. I am sailing blind without map or lighthouse within my own skin. It feels a very scary place to have a life sentence. This is why I write: to attempt to find words for what this big scariness is, to try and find images to give form and name to the wild churning expanse. Pearce, Lucy H.. She of the Sea

Why have you never seen the ocean?" Phee asked as Linus stared in horror at Lucy. "It's always there. It never goes anywhere. It's too big to move." [. . .] "I've just...I've never had time," Linus said, feeling dizzy. "I-too many responsibilities. I have an important job and-" Theodore attacked the meat Ms. Chapelwhite had set on his plate growling low in his throat. "Arthur says that we should always make time for the things we like," Talia said. "If we don't, we might forget how to be happy. Are you not happy, Mr. Baker?

Look,” she said. They both looked, but almost at once Drinian said in a low voice: “Turn round at once, your Majesties--that’s right, with our backs to the sea. And don’t look as if we were talking about anything important.” “Why, what’s the matter?” said Lucy as she obeyed. “It’ll never do for the sailors to see all that,” said Drinian. “We’ll have men falling in love with a sea-woman, or falling in love with the under-sea country itself, and jumping overboard. I’ve heard of that kind of thing happening before in strange seas. It’s always unlucky to see these people.” “But we used to know them,” said Lucy. “In the old days at Cair Paravel when my brother Peter was High King. They came to the surface and sang at our coronation.” “I think that must have been a different kind, Lu,” said Edmund. “They could live in the air as well as under water. I rather think these can’t. By the look of them they’d have surfaced and started attacking us long ago if they could. They seem very fierce.” “At any rate,” began Drinian, but at that moment two sounds were heard. One was a plop. The other was a voice from the fighting-top shouting, “Man overboard!” Then everyone was busy. Some of the sailors hurried aloft to take in the sail; others hurried below to get to the oars; and Rhince, who was on duty on the poop, began to put the helm hard over so as to come round and back to the man who had gone overboard. But by now everyone knew that it wasn’t strictly a man. It was Reepicheep. “Drat that mouse!” said Drinian. “It’s more trouble than all the rest of the ship’s company put together.

They were waiting for him as he reached the house in the middle of the trees. Talia and Phee. Sal, Theodore, Chauncey, and Lucy. Zoe, the flowers in her hair green and gold. And Arthur, of course. Always Arthur. They held a sign out in front of them, a long roll of paper with painted words that read: WE’LL MISS YOU, MR. BAKER!!! There were handprints on it. Little ones for Talia and Phee and Lucy. A bigger one for Sal. A line that he thought came from Chauncey’s tentacles. And a drip of paint that looked like claws from Theodore

-¡Ooh!-dijo Susan-. Pensaba que era un hombre. ¿No es peligroso? Me pone un poco nerviosa la idea de encontrarme con un león. -Lo entiendo, querida, y es comprensible- indicó la señora Castor-, si existe alguien capaz de presentarse ante Aslan sin que le tiemblen las rodillas, o bien es más valiente que la mayoría o es sencillamente un tonto. -Entonces ¿es peligroso?- dijo Lucy. -¿Peligroso?- contestó el señor Castor-. ¿No has oído lo que ha dicho la señora Castor? ¿Quién ha dicho que no sea peligroso? Claro que es peligroso. Pero es bueno. Es el rey, ya os lo he dicho.

Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Tumnus.” “I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Tumnus,” said Lucy. “And may I ask, O Lucy, Daughter of Eve,” said Mr. Tumnus, “how you have come into Narnia?” “Narnia?” What’s that?” said Lucy. “This is the land of Narnia,” said the Faun, “where we are now; all that lies between the lamppost and the great castle of Cair Paravel on the Eastern Sea. And you--you have come from the wild woods of the west?” “I--I got in through the wardrobe in the spare room,” said Lucy. “Ah,” said Mr. Tumnus in a rather melancholy voice, “if only I had worked harder at geography when I was a little faun, I should no doubt know all about those strange countries. It is too late now.” “But they aren’t countries at all,” said Lucy, almost laughing. “It’s only just back there--at least--I’m not sure. It is summer there.” “Meanwhile,” said Mr. Tumnus, “it is winter in Narnia, and has been for ever so long, and we shall both catch cold if we stand here talking in the snow. Daughter of Eve from the far land of Spare Oom where eternal summer reigns around the bright city of War Drobe, how would it be if you came and had tea with me?

He lifted the envelope. It felt stiff in his hands. On the top were two words, written in black, blocky letters: DON’T FORGET. He slid the envelope open. Inside was a photograph. His eyes stung as he looked down at it. Zoe must have taken the picture. He didn’t even remember seeing her with a camera. It was the first adventure they’d taken through the woods to her house. In it, Lucy and Talia were laughing. Sal sat with Theodore in his lap. Chauncey and Phee were wrestling over the last roll. Arthur and Linus sat together. Linus was watching the children with amusement. And Arthur was watching Linus, that quiet smile on his face.

We are taught to believe that we do, or rather we should, come from one place. We are raised to be proud of the land we call home, to be happy to spill our blood – or the blood of our children – to protect it. But what about those of us that don’t come from just one place, just one land? Who find our souls stretched and bisected by bodies of water? Those of us whose identities are more fluid than small tick-boxes on forms allow for. This is the reality of so many of us, whose nationalities, genders or neurology are neither one thing or another, but inherently fluid, both/and. How do we honour this fluidity? We, I think, are perhaps more likely to honour the sea in ourselves, in our identities. We are we of the sea.

There is perhaps only one thing to say to this infant, who is all future, overlapping briefly with me, whose life, barring the improbable, is all but past. That message is simple: When you come to one of the many moments in life where you must give an account of yourself, provide a ledger of what you have been, and done, and meant to the world, do not, I pray, discount that you filled a dying man’s days with a sated joy, a joy unknown to me in all my prior years, a joy that does not hunger for more and more but rests, satisfied. In this time, right now, that is an enormous thing. EPILOGUE Lucy Kalanithi You left me, sweet, two legacies,— A legacy of love A Heavenly Father would content, Had he the offer of; You left me boundaries of pain Capacious as the sea,

Stop it,” came Eustace’s voice, squeaky with fright and bad temper. “It’s some silly trick you two are playing. Stop it. I’ll tell Alberta--Ow!” The other two were much more accustomed to adventures, but, just exactly as Eustace Clarence said “Ow,” they both said “Ow” too. The reason was that a great cold, salt splash had broken right out of the frame and they were breathless from the smack of it, besides being wet through. “I’ll smash the rotten thing,” cried Eustace; and then several things happened at the same time. Eustace rushed toward the picture. Edmund, who knew something about magic, sprang after him, warning him to look out and not to be a fool. Lucy grabbed at him from the other side and was dragged forward. And by this time either they had grown much smaller or the picture had grown bigger. Eustace jumped to try to pull it off the wall and found himself standing on the frame; in front of him was not glass but real sea, and wind and waves rushing up to the frame as they might to a rock. He lost his head and clutched at the other two who had jumped up beside him. There was a second of struggling and shouting, and just as they thought they had got their balance a great blue roller surged up round them, swept them off their feet, and drew them down into the sea. Eustace’s despairing cry suddenly ended as the water got into his mouth. Lucy thanked her stars that she had worked hard at her swimming last summer term. It is true that she would have got on much better if she had used a slower stroke, and also that the water felt a great deal colder than it had looked while it was only a picture. Still, she kept her head and kicked her shoes off, as everyone ought to do who falls into deep water in their clothes. She even kept her mouth shut and her eyes open. They were still quite near the ship; she saw its green side towering high above them, and people looking at her from the deck. Then, as one might have expected, Eustace clutched at her in a panic and down they both went.

You are clever man, friend John; you reason well, and your wit is bold; but you are too prejudiced. You do not let your eyes see nor your ears hear, and that which is outside your daily life is not of account to you. Do you not think that there are things which you cannot understand, and yet which are: that some people see things that others cannot? But there are things old and new which must not be contemplate by men's eyes, because they know-or think they know-some things which other men have told them. Ah, it is the fault of our science that it wants to explain all; and if it explain not, then it says there is nothing to explain. But yet we see around us every day the growth of new beliefs, which think themselves new, and which are yet but the old, which pretend to be young-like the fine ladies at the opera. I sup-pose now you do not believe in corporeal transference. No? Nor in materialization. No? Nor in astral bodies. No? Nor in the reading of thought. No? Nor in hypnotism-' 'Yes,' I said. 'Charcot has proved that pretty well.' He smiled as he went on: 'Then you are satisfied as to it. Yes? And of course then you understand how it act, and can follow the mind of the great Charcot-alas that he is no more!-into the very soul of the patient that he influence. No? Then, friend John, am I to take it that you simply accept fact, and are satisfied to let from premise to conclusion be a blank? No? Then tell me for I am stu-dent of the brain-how you accept the hypnotism and reject the thought-reading. Let me tell you, my friend, that there are things done to-day in electrical science which would have been deemed unholy by the very men who discovered electricity-who would themselves not so long before have been burned as wizards. There are always mysteries in life. Why was it that Methuselah lived nine hundred years, and "Old Parr" one hundred and sixty-nine, and yet that poor Lucy, with four men's blood in her poor veins, could not live even one day! For, had she lived one more day, we could have save her. Do you know all the mystery of life and death? Do you know the altogether of comparative anatomy, and can say wherefore the qualities of brutes are in some men, and not in others? Can you tell me why, when other spiders die small and soon, that one great spider lived for centuries in the tower of the old Spanish church and grew and grew, till, on descending, he could drink the oil of all the church lamps? Can you tell me why in the Pampas, ay and elsewhere, there are bats that come at night and open the veins of cattle and horses and suck dry their veins; how in some islands of the Western seas there are bats which hang on the trees all day, that those who have seen describe as like giant nuts or pods, and that when the sailors sleep on the deck, because that it is hot, flit down on them, and then and then in the morning are found dead men, white as even Miss Lucy was?