But she wrote out some extra words on a piece of paper so Rain could practice reading. Is this a magic spell? the girl asked her.
And Ama Clutch was gone, and the overly subordinate pillowcase took a small spill of human juice from the edge of her slackened mouth.
. . this girl who seemed, increasingly, to be interested in learning to read everything except how human beings talked to one another.
Approval is overrated...Approval and disapproval alike satisfy those who deliver it more than those who receive it. I don't care for approval, and I don't mind doing without.
The use of beauty? I have lived my life surrounded by painters, and I still do not know the answer. But I suspect, some days, that beauty helps protect the spirit of mankind, swaddle it and succor it,...
At least i'm talkng to myself. instead of giving myself the cold shoulder
An odor of June mud, backwashed with essence of meadow-grass and a whiff of cow.
A blur, the way all children’s faces truly are. For they blur as they run; they blur as they grow and change so fast; and they blur to keep us from loving them too deeply, for their protection, and al...
You're critical of everyone.Oh, not everyone. Only everybody who's alive as well as most people who are dead. I feel quite neutral about anybody not yet born
You might forget a story, but you can never unhear a story. By that token, you might forget an event, but you can never go back to living as you did before its hidden influence was applied upon you.
You mean you indulged in adultery and you dont' even have the benefit of a good saucy memory about it.
You lie, cheat and steal and call it courtesy, cunning and thrift.
You know, Boq,' she said, 'the thing is I have become fond of Galinda myself. Behind her starry-eyed love of herself there is a mind struggling to work. She does think about things. When her mind is r...
You have your own life to live, and at its end, the only opinion that amounts to anything is that which God bestows.
You could catalog the thousand ways people shrink from life, as if chance and change are by their nature toxic, disfiguring.
You collect a hunderd pennies in one minute by Master’s timepiece and you bought yourself free. Then they shakes a jar of coppers onto the belly of a shovel and holds it over the campfire long time. W...
Yet who can say how our souls have been stamped by witnessing such a cruel drama? All souls are hostages to their human envelopes, but souls must decay and suffer at such indignity, don't you agree?
Whimsy is fate, too: just less knowable.
Where I'm from, we believe in all sorts of things that aren't true... we call it history.
When the dawn light is coursing through the slats in the shutters at last, making thin stripes on the floor, she, tossing, decides that for every human soul there must surely be a possible childhood w...