He had thought love as a policy made a lot of sense for those who could manage it, and anyone who could manage it belonged in religious life. The rest of us have to struggle with more ordinary love, the common or garden variety: love as a crippling condition. Love as a syndrome.
And there the wicked witch stayed for a long long time.' Did she ever come out?' Not yet.
Cross a man and you struggle, one of you wins, you adjust and go on - or you lie there dead. Cross a woman and the universe is changed, once again, for cold anger requires an eternal vigilance in all matters of slight and offense
Oh now that's a blueprint for an impossibly rosy future
We start out in identical perfection: bright, reflective, full of sun. The accident of our lives bruises us into dirty individuality. We meet with grief. Our character dulls and tarnishes. We meet with guilt. We know, we know: the price of living is corruption. There isn’t as much light as there once was. In the grave we lapse back into undifferentiated sameness
Elphaba looked like something between an animal and an Animal, like something more than life but not quite Life.
I learned to fly on a broom," he said, rolling up his sleeves. "I can learn to milk a goat, I bet." Though flying on a broom proved to be the easier task, he found.
So she listened hard. And she began to evolve, because stories work their magic that way. They build conviction and erode conviction in equal measure.
Wrong takes an awful long time to be proven, in my experience.
I learned failure early and mastered it.
She dreamed of leaving, but she had too little exposure to the world to imagine where to go.
The storm dropped a house on her head.
It was mild monsters like these that made Jack the Ripper go after young women, she decided: who could tolerate yielding the world to someone who behaved as if she had given birth to the very world herself?
How poetic you are," she said. "I've a notion that poetry is the highest form of self-deception.
That's all I want- to do no harm.
Sorrow has a name, and its name is loneliness. Sorrow has a shape, and its shape is absence. Sorrow is a sickness like any other.
I never write a book unless I can't help it. Something has to bother me, like a mosquito, until I have to do something to relieve the itch.
Her sister's shoes. They sparkeled even in the darkening afternoon. They sparkeled like yellow diamonds, and embers of blood and thorny stars.
The moon rose, an opalescent goddess tipping light from her harsh maternal scimitar.
She dropped her shyness like a nightgown, and in the liquid glare of sunlight on old boards she held up her hands-as if, in the terror of the upcoming skirmish, she had at last understood that she was beautiful. In her own way.
Memory is a part of the present. It builds us up inside; it knits our bones to our muscles and keeps our hearts pumping. It is memory that reminds our bodies to work, and memory that reminds our spirits to work to: it keeps us who we are.~Candle
Yet who can say how our souls have been stamped by witnessing such a cruel drama? All souls are hostages to their human envelopes, but souls must decay and suffer at such indignity, don't you agree?
The answer of course, is that the clock isn't meant to measure earthly time, but the time of the soul. Redemption and condemnation time. For the soul, each instant is always a minute short of judgment.
In summer moonlight, she was dangerously, inebriatingly magnified.
There were more ways to live than the ones given by one's superiors
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