I find I think of myself not as a writer so much as someone who provides a gateway, a tangential route for readers to reach the circus again, if only in their minds, when they are unable to attend it physically, I relay it through printed words on crumpled newsprint, words that they can read again and again. returning to the circus whenever they wish, regardless of time of day or physical location. Transporting them at will.
When put that way, it sounds rather like magic, doesn't it? -Friedrick Thiessen, 1898"

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you,
were all spirits, and
Are melted into air,
into thin air:
And, like the baseless
fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd tow'rs,
the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples,
the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit,
shall dissiolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind.
We are such stuff
As dreams are made on;
and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

_Prosper, THE TEMPEST, ACT IV,
SCENE 1

Auteur: Erin Morgenstern