A Guitar with Too Many Strings - kindle ebook by John Mellor

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00JFLLXP6

"This is not a normal book with a normal story..."
- IT is the story of a strange rock'n'roll singer wresting unearthly harmonies from a 13-string guitar;
and of a bumptious little honeybee
fighting invisible battles with a strange planet;
and a tired, cynical old philosopher conducting
a strange debate with a stone in the woods.
- IT is the story of a shipwrecked sailor's pet egg
evolving into more than a strange seagull;
and the unworldly vision of a worn-out lady,
dying in a strange land where no-one dreams;
and a sad, downtrodden gardener tending to
an old Wise Woman's strange, disquieting weed.
- IT is the story of a lonely white dolphin, and a tree,
curiously shaped like a guitar with too many strings.
And of a young boy who reveals, with a little help from an Angel,
The Seven Gifts ~ that Came to Earth

"I've never seen anything like this before" --- "It is a book to make you think"
"Madness dances with brilliance" --- "... a fine line between profound and insane"
"... most bizarre and memorable characters that have ever appeared in a book"
"I just loved it" --- "... something of importance that I hope will touch everyone"
"A most unusual and beautiful story that lingers in the mind long after reading"

".. quite incredible characters and events strike the reader as insanity on the part of the author. However, if insanity it is, this is the type that gives birth to great achievements, and in examining so many themes such as society, religion and environment this book can be considered a great achievement by its author. It must be approached with an open mind and no preconceived ideas of how books should be written. If readers are looking for something original and thought-provoking, this is nearly perfect"

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BEFORE THIS story began there came into the world a little girl, to whom everything was possible and all things had meaning.

It was obvious to the little girl - long before it was to the scientists - that if she could imagine something then it must exist. Her mind was a part of the Universe, so anything in her mind was also, de facto, part of the Universe, and therefore, in some form, existed.

So the little girl’s life was full of wonder and magic: peopled by daring and handsome Princes who rescued damsels in distress, saved woodcutters and milkmaids from tyranny, and rode fine white chargers across the land, their goodness proudly emblazoned across their hearts.

Good fought with Evil all through the early years of her life, and Good always triumphed. So life for the little girl was simple, and she instinctively understood what was meant by the words: “Except ye become as little children, ye shall not enter the Kingdom of Heaven.”

But her elders had no understanding of those words. They dismissed them as fantasy; and smirked at the smug illusion of their maturity. Life was considerably more complex than any child could imagine, what with stock exchanges and mortgages, pension funds and life assurance, technology, social mores and atom bombs. Without growing up, a child could not enter this adult world, never mind the Kingdom of Heaven (wherever that may be).

It was the bounden duty of adults to make little girls grow up and face the true facts of modern, civilised life. And that, undaunted by dreams, was what they did.

So the little girl was coerced out of childhood; and she carefully put away all her childish things, according to the example set her.

She laid aside her childish charm and wonder, and drew on the mantle of acquisitive adulthood. She replaced her trust and simple honesty with a grown-up worldliness, and the sophisticated pragmatism that comes with maturity. And she came to view the world with the sad eye of the realist: a bleak and practical world with no magic.

The fairy tales and mystic parables that had inspired so many of her dreams were discarded in favour of more realistic and socially orientated writings: the intellectual and literary fashions of her day.

The little girl settled herself - as she had been taught - to the rewards and responsibilities of citizenship. And she grew into a modern young woman, aware of and sensitive to her own important needs and desires; and learnt her rightful place in the community.

Her life, which had once been open, inquisitive and mystical, shrank into a solid, firmly structured matrix built entirely around the need for material comfort. In this respect she was a fortunate young woman, for she lived in a time when there was no work for the majority, and thus generous social benefits to compensate. She had a nice home and car, regular holidays abroad, sufficient money for her comfort and needs, and the time to pursue her own important desires. Any struggle would have had to be of her own making.

But she made nothing. In the company of her peers, she sank slowly and steadily, and quite willingly, into the seductive quicksands of mature adulthood. And as those sands dragged her remorselessly ever downward so, beneath the seeming indifferent gaze of the Angel, her spirit gradually died over the years, until finally only her body remained: a firm, lithe, sensual body, moulded to the mood of the time. She was bright, vivacious and socially aware: a most attractive young woman devoid of all childish things; and all childish dreams.

It was a sad story; and there were few that realised, for it was a story of the time, and they were all in that time.

Had they been in another, they might have seen more clearly into this one. She herself might have done. For every time has its own individual quality: its own cosmic tide against which it is hard to fight; though for those that do, the rewards can be great.

But the young girl did not fight. Her elders had drawn a veil over her mind and left her only eyes with which to see. So she never saw her adversary. And she died without ever knowing there was one.

All this the Angel knew well. As did the girl; for she had chosen it.
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"One of those unique and wonderful manuscripts that turn up all too rarely"

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