What is real and what is not? What is fiction and what—truth?
In reading, then thinking, over The Last Unicorn by Peter S. Beagle, I am conflicted with these very questions. It's Beagle who's brought them bubbling to the surface. What with his characters in one ethereal dialogue after the next:
"Spells of seeming," the unicorn said...
The magician answered: "[Madame Fortuna's] shabby skill lies in disguise. And even that knack would be beyond her, if it weren't for the eagerness of those gulls, those marks, to believe whatever comes easiest."




