Have devoured Valente's novel, The Labrynth like absinthe-sugar on the tongue. If you are impatient, turn away. If you are one who clings with razor-sharp talons to the real, turn away. But if you are not...

Imagine that Alice and the maze have become one, the maiden and the labrynth, the eater and the eaten, devouring as only symbols can devour. Beasts and helpers are there, and the psychopomp with his lovely glistening fur yaps at heels, coddles and coerces, driving the heroine onward, toward, down. A smug ouroboros threads his way 'round as quest and as questor.

Do you dare...? I hear the mermaids singing, but I do not know that they will sing to you.