The real thing about evil," said the Witch at the doorway, "isn't any of what you said. You figure out one side of it - the human side, say - and the eternal side goes into shadow. Or vice versa. It's like the old saw: What does a dragon in its shell look like? Well no one can ever tell, for as soon as you break the shell to see, the dragon is no longer in its shell. The real disaster of this inquiry is that it is the nature of evil to be secret.
...the reasons just reassemble themselves in different patterns every time I think about it.
...I dabble in causes and effects.
How deeply bound by cords of family anger we all are[...]None of us breaks free.
Behold the male beast roaring in the jungle for his mate," said Elphaba. "See how the female beast giggles behind a shrub while she organizes her face to say, Pardon dear, did you say something?
Before you save anyone else, you have to save yourself. otherwise, you'rejust a bundle of tics, a stringed puppet manipulated by the chance and the insensible wind.
She watched the sun bleed water out of the icicle. Warm and cold working together to make an icicle. Warm and cold anger working together to make a fury, a fury worthy enough to use as a weapon against the old things that still needed fighting.
There may be no city in the clouds, but dreaming of it can enliven the spirit.
Everyone dies. It's a question of where and how, that's all.
If one could drown in the grass, thought Elphie, that might be the best way to die.
We only have babies when we're young enough not to know how grim life turns out. Once we really get the full measure of it--we're slow learners, we women--we dry up in disgust and sensibly halt production.
Are you an aberration to your species?' she cried. 'Cats don't look for approval!
Perhaps family itself, like beauty, is temporary, and no discredit need attach to impermanence.
I may not be sure if monsters exist, but I’d rather live my life in doubt than be persuaded by a real experience of one.
The further on we go, the more meaning there is, but the less articulable. You live your life and the older you get- the more specifically you harvest- the more precious becomes every ounce and spasm. Your life and times don’t drain of meaning because they become more contradictory, ornamented by paradox, inexplicable. The less explicable, the more meaning. The less like a mathematics equation (a sum game); the more like music (significant secret).
They'd never been lovers, of course, not in the physical sense. But they'd been lovers as most of us manage, loving through expressions and gestures and the palm set softly upon the bruise at the necessary moment. Lovers by inclination rather than by lust. Lovers, that is, by love.
This is why you shouldn't fall in love, it blinds you. Love is wicked distraction.
That's what misbehavior is all about, just a little extra loving being asked for.
...and he kissed her and kissed her and kissed her, little by little by little.
Forgive us our trespasses," says Margarethe, "and get out of our way.
Skibbereen have a hard time at [math]; the best that the smartest of them can do with adding two plus two is guessing: three plus one. Correct, sort of, but not always useful.
...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.
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.
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.
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