I recalled the taste of quinoa plucked fresh from the Eiran fields, its hidden coils unfurled, boiled and dressed with just a bit of lemon and cut radishes. Tart and sharp and rich like the smell of sun on a field after a rain. And I recalled, too, the face of the gilt-haired man with whom I'd shared that dish, the smell of him, and all I'd left behind in the Eiran earth.

And I do believe there is a narrative that underlies these tales—a story or cycle, rooted in biology or psychology that explains horror stories the way Joseph Campbell's monomyth explains religion and mythology.

You should think of this book as analogous/to a mushroom hunter's guide