No wonder Wonderland isn't funny to read anymore: We live there full time. We need a break from it.
One never learns how the witch became wicked, or whether that was the right choice for her~is it ever the right choice? Does the devil ever struggle to be good again, or if so is he not a devil?
But his face had that hollow look, as if there was something gone... you know that look. The inward focus. Distantly attentive to the home you're missing, or the someone you're missing. That look that a bird has when it turns it dry reptilian eye on you. That look that doesn't see you because the mind is filled up with someone it would rather see.
She assumes that skill will guide her fingertips, that shapely lines will uncoil out of the pencil the moment she starts. Surely talent is a thing curled deep inside, just waiting to be exercised, and at the slightest invitation it will stretch, shake itself, make itself known? Talent, it seems, is not so insistent.
If you have an ancestor who is a Benedictine monk, we would rather not know it.
In summer moonlight, she was dangerously, inebriatingly magnified.
Wrong takes an awful long time to be proven, in my experience.
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.
...looking at him makes her feel like laughing all over - as if she could laugh not just with her mouth but with her eyes, her heart, her very limbs.
Elphaba looked like something between an animal and an Animal, like something more than life but not quite Life.
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
... the decades looked on and didn't notice her passing. They stared from their fixed mounts across at each other and didn't see revolution striding between them, on her way to destiny.
Oh, everything is gorgeous once it's gone.
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.
In the end, all disguises must drop.
When I write a book, I write very cleanly from page one to the last page. I hardly ever write out of sequence.
However in the world did her skin come green?" Nanny wondered, stupidly, for Melena blanched and Frex reddened, and the baby held her breath as if trying to turn blue to please them all. Nanny had to slap her to make her breath again.
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.
Little critters fried like fritters come out crunchy and divine.
Notice, notice; let noticing take the place of screaming.
Speaking uses us up, speeds us up. Without prayer, that act of confession for merely existing, one might live forever and not know it.
Are you the dart?" he said. "Are you the knife? The fuse?" She said (though he wasn't convinced): "My deane, my poppet, I am too green to walk into a public place and do something bad.
It isn't whether you do it well or ill, it's that you do it all.
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.
Forget us, forget us all, it makes no difference now, but don't forget we loved it when we were alive.
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