So the once-upon-a-time land of folktales both exists and does not exist in a space of tales full of wonder and in the worlds of reality. It can be found neither in an atlas nor on the globe; its location cannot be determined by geographic coordinates, and its name is not included in any guidebook. Yet everyone who sets out in search of it knows where to find it: it is there, beyond the Glass Mountain, past the \u00d3perenci\u00e1s Sea and past Seven Times Seven Lands, through ditch and bush, and over the poor man\u2019s or the devil\u2019s bridge \u2013 in every gap where reality seeps into the world of imagination. The usual topographical elements \u2013 mountains and valleys, forests and meadows, plains and hills \u2013 wait patiently, neatly lined up, on one side of the border crossing to take on a more fabulous spatial form on the other side. These landscapes, symbolic places permeated with wonder, know no conventional measure or gauge of distance; they have no descriptive properties valid in any known system of coordinates.
The land of folktales has no map, no areas designated for travel or related rules \u2013 still, those who arrive there from distant lands, or outsiders who have taken an unexpected, accidental turn, walk its ground with familiarity. They advance with steps that appear deliberate, even in the direction of unknown destinations. They are helped by streams and rivers, lakes and seas, which, together with all the elements of nature, constantly move and take shape in the manner required by the network of paths in each specific tale. But even the places of folktales \u2013 like all ordinary or strange spaces \u2013 have a center (of course, symbolic). Confident characters hurry there, and the individual elements are transformed in its image. The words of the Storyteller starting the tale mobilizes everything and everyone at once.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"