Elena had always felt like the center of her own world - who doesn't? The world arranged itself around her like petals around the stem of a flower. This way the meadows, that way the woodland. Over here, the baryn's estate, out there, the hills that hug the known world close and imply a world at beyond. She could never come up with the edge of a world, because it always kept going on beyond. She moved the center of the world as she walked. The world was balanced on her head.
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.
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.
It's been a long rocky life, with plenty of possibility but too much human ugliness.
Before catechisms can instill a proper humility, small children know the truth that their own existence has caused the world to bloom into being.
Small steps to the madhouse still get us there at last
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.
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.
...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.
Speaking uses us up, speeds us up. Without prayer, that act of confession for merely existing, one might live forever and not know it.
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.
The momentum of the mind can be vexingly, involuntarily capricious.
Oh, everything is gorgeous once it's gone.
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.
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.
Little critters fried like fritters come out crunchy and divine.
For fun? Maybe evil is an art form.
And it's a cold place the world, especially when warmed by arsen.
My job is to protect you, Lady Glinda even if you are loosing your mind.
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.
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