I learned failure early and mastered it.
Wrong takes an awful long time to be proven, in my experience.
People always did like to talk, didn't they? That's why I call myself a witch now: the Wicked Witch of the West, if you want the full glory of it. As long as people are going to call you a lunatic anyway, why not get the benefit of it? It liberates you from convention.
Not everyone is born a witch or a saint. Not everyone is born talented, or crooked, or blessed; some are born definite in no particular at all. We are a fountain of shimmering contradictions, most of us. Beautiful in the concept, if we're lucky, but frequently tedious or regrettable as we flesh ourselves out.
A man is called a traitor, or liberator. A rich man is a thief or philanthropist. Is one a crusader or ruthless invader? It's all in which label is able to persist.
Small steps to the madhouse still get us there at last
Before catechisms can instill a proper humility, small children know the truth that their own existence has caused the world to bloom into being.
No one survives in times of war unless they make war their home. How did I get so old and wise, but for welcoming war into my house and making friends with him? Better to befriend the enemy and hang on. Something worse might come along, which might be amusing or might not.
I'm not a writer because I want to make money. I'm a writer because I'm a very slow thinker, but I do care about thinking, and the only way I know how to think with any kind of finesse is by telling stories.
...No opening sermons concerning children with humps and fins for limbs, who nonetheless, immortal souls all, deserve life, liberty, and the pursuit of Happy Meals.
She is no longer I, she is too long ago, she is only she.
Maybe the definition of home is the place where you are never forgiven. So you may always belong there, bound by guilt. And maybe the cost of belonging is worth it.
I write because I admire the act of rationalization, of seeking clarity in one's understanding of the complexities of life, and I'm bad at it. I'm slow. Writing, which is an arduous and slow process, proceeds at the same rate as my sloth-like mind.
They moved together, blue diamonds on a green field.
If you're ever in doubt, throw a pepper in the air. If it fails to come down, you have gone mad, so don't trust in anything.
The moon rose, an opalescent goddess tipping light from her harsh maternal scimitar.
There were more ways to live than the ones given by one's superiors
Even God used silence as a strategy.
Speaking uses us up, speeds us up. Without prayer, that act of confession for merely existing, one might live forever and not know it.
In the lives of children, pumpkins turn into coaches, mice and rats turn into men. When we grow up, we realize it is far more common for men to turn into rats.
My job is to protect you, Lady Glinda even if you are loosing your mind.
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.
No wonder Wonderland isn't funny to read anymore: We live there full time. We need a break from it.
I do love to sing. Had I a longer set of thigh bones and a sweeter voice, I should have loved to be a performer.
I was just about to begin writing Mirror Mirror, within about a week of it, when September 11, 2001 happened. I found myself incapable of caring about fiction-making for a number of months.
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