Beagle, Peter S. (ed) - The Secret History of Fantasy / Бигл, Питер С. (ред) - Тайная история фэнтези [2010, EPUB, ENG]

Introduction essay by Peter S. Beagle Ancestor Money / Приношение мёртвым short story by Maureen F. McHugh Scarecrow short story by Gregory Maguire Lady of the Skulls short story by Patricia A. McKillip We are Norsemen short story by T. Coraghessan Boyle The Barnum Museum short story by Steven Millhauser Mrs. Todd's Shortcut / Короткая дорога миссис Тодд novelette by Stephen King Bears Discover Fire / Медведи познают огонь short story by Terry Bisson Bones short story by Francesca Lia Block Snow, Glass, Apples / Снег, зеркало, яблоко short story by Neil Gaiman Fruit and Words short story by Aimee Bender The Empire of Ice Cream / Империя мороженого novelette by Jeffrey Ford The Edge of the World / Край мира short story by Michael Swanwick Super Goat Man / Сверхкозёл short story by Jonathan Lethem John Uskglass and the Cumbrian Charcoal Burner / История о Джоне Аскглассе и углежоге из Камбрии short story by Susanna Clarke The Book of Martha short story by Octavia E. Butler The Vita Æterna Mirror Company: Mirrors to Last Till Kingdom Come / Фирма «Вечная Жизнь». Зеркала, что доживут до Царствия Небесного short story by Yann Martel Sleight of Hand short story by Peter S. Beagle Mythago Wood novelette by Robert Holdstock 26 Monkeys, Also the Abyss / 26 обезьян и бездна short story by Kij Johnson The Critics, the Monsters, and the Fantasists essay by Ursula K. Le Guin The Making of the American Fantasy Genre essay by David G. Hartwell

SHE HAD NO idea where she was going. When she needed to sleep she stopped at the first motel; when the Buick’s gas gauge dropped into the red zone she filled the tank, and sometimes bought a sandwich or orange juice at the attached convenience store. Now and then during one of these stops she spoke with someone who was neither a desk clerk nor a gasstation attendant, but she forgot all such conversations within minutes, as she forgot everything but the words of the young policeman who had come to her door on a pleasant Wednesday afternoon, weeks and worlds ago. Nothing had moved in her since that point except the memory of his shakily sympathetic voice, telling her that her husband and daughter were dead: ashes in a smoking, twisted, unrecognizable ruin, because, six blocks from their home, a drowsy adolescent had mistaken his accelerator for his brake pedal. There had been a funeral she was present, but not there and more police, and some lawyer; and Alan’s sister managing it all, as always, and for once she was truly grateful to the interfering bitch. But that was all far away too, both the gratitude and the old detestation, made nothing by the momentary droop of a boy’s eyelids. The nothing got her snugly through the days after the funeral, dealing with each of the endless phone calls, sitting down to answer every condolence card and e-mail, informing Social Security and CREF of Alan’s death, going with three of his graduate students to clean out his office, and attending the memorial on campus, which was very tasteful and genuinely moving, or so the nothing was told. She was glad to hear it. . . .