...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.
We live in our tales of ourselves, she thought, and ignore as best we can the contradictions, and the lapses, and the abrasions of plot against our mortal souls.
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.
I mean, evil and boredom. Evil and ennui. Evil and the lack of stimulation. Evil and sluggish blood.
I like to think Im a pretty good-natured guy and pretty civil and probably not ever truly guilty in any serious way of any legal infractions.
I like classical music of the late 19th and early 20th centuries, and I adore Bach above all.
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.
This is why you shouldn't fall in love, it blinds you. Love is wicked distraction.
I actually prefer female voices to listen to, mostly, but among the male singers whose voices I like are Jeff Buckley, Art Garfunkel, that sort of voice. Contemporary crooners rather than rockers.
The momentum of the mind can be vexingly, involuntarily capricious.
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.
Before catechisms can instill a proper humility, small children know the truth that their own existence has caused the world to bloom into being.
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.
...but the tale itself is a trickster and doesn't hesitate to lie. It is anachronistic with a vengeance. It emerges always and everywhere, overt or disguised, pureblood or hybrid, and healthy as sin.
Small steps to the madhouse still get us there at last
It's been a long rocky life, with plenty of possibility but too much human ugliness.
Those times are over and gone, and good riddance to them, too. We were hopelessly high-spirited. Now we're the tick-waisted generation, dragging along our children behind us and carrying our parents on our backs. And we're in charge, while the figures who used to command our respect are wasting away.
He knew about being alone. The weather was always cold there.
Doubt was much more energy efficient than conviction.
Only he with the hobbled foot fully knows the beauty of running. Only he with the severed ear can apprehend what the sweetest music must sound like. Our ailments complete us.
How deeply bound by cords of family anger we all are[...]None of us breaks free.
...I dabble in causes and effects.
...the reasons just reassemble themselves in different patterns every time I think about it.
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.
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