Even the homely wood blewits, that you cook like tripe, with milk and onions, and the egg-yolk yellow chanterelle with its fan-vaulting and faint smell of apricots, all spring up overnight like bubbles of earth, unsustained by nature, existing in a void.
1979, Angela Carter, ‘The Erl-King’, The Bloody Chamber, Vintage, published 2006, page 98