“But there wasn’t a real dragon,” said the mother. “It was just a story I made up.”
“It turned out to be true after all,” said the little boy. “You should have looked in the matchbox first.”
“That is how it is,” said the lion. “Some stories are true and some aren’t…”
Once upon a time, back when animals spoke and rivers sang and every quest was worth going on, back when dragons still roared and maidens were beautiful and an honest young man with a good heart and a great deal of luck could always wind up with a princess and half the kingdom - back then, fairytales were for adults.
No night is now with hymn or carol blest:
Therefore the moon, the governess of floods,
Pale in her anger, washes all the air,
That rheumatic diseases do abound:
And thorough this distemperature we see
The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts
Far in the fresh lap of the crimson rose,
And on old Hiems’ thin and icy crown
An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds
Is, as in mockery, set: the spring, the summer,
The childing autumn, angry winter, change
Their wonted liveries, and the mazed world,
By their increase, now knows not which is which:
And this same progeny of evils comes
From our debate, from our dissension;
We are their parents and original.
“
—
(Taken from Titania’s speech, Act II Scene 1: A Midsummer Night’s Dream by William Shakespeare)
Some people are so special, so different, that when they are in pain or angry you feel as if it might even affect the world, nature itself.
