I take all the credit in the world for my own foolishness.
I never talk about the end game. He winked at her. I've lived so long without death that I've stopped believing in it.
I know Oz, now, she said, and in the carving of the lintel she found that common ideogram, a Z circled with an O. Usually letters don't hide inside each other, she told Glinda firmly. No, that's true....
I have the distinct feeling I'm not in Oz anymore,' said Brrr.
I do not deny that you overwhelm me with your beauty. You are the moon in the season of shadow light; you are the fruit of the candlewood tree; you are the phoenix in circles of flight --.
Humans are so blind, their eyes on the ground, themselves always at the center. Birds know themselves not to be at the center of anything, but at the margins of everything. The end of the map. We only...
How poetic you are, she said. I've a notion that poetry is the highest form of self-deception.
How like a spoon with a razor edge is human edge.
How could anyone live without flying?
How children love the broken thing! And a puzzle is for the piecing together, especially for the young, who still believe it can be done.
History crawls along on the peg legs of small individual lives, said Frex, and at the same time larger eternal forces converge. You can’t attend to both arenas at once. Our child may not have a small...
He spoke in one of the American accents; Lydia couldn’t distinguish among them. To her they all sounded dry and tinny. Almost quack-like.
Evil is moral at its heart—the selection of vice over virtue; you can pretend not to know, you can rationalize, but you know it in your conscience
Everyone dies. It's a question of where and how, that's all.
Deslizando as mãos ao longo das costelas dela até a planura do seu abdómen. Ela trazia-lhe sempre as mãos de volta aos seios delgados e expressivos; não permitia ser tocada por mãos abaixo da cintura....
Death might be the only way forward for someone. Or it might seem so at the time
Day after day in the season of disaster, it can be hard to recognize a chance in fortune when it comes.
Damn the human stomach, this fat betrayor of ideals
But who could teach daughters how to fly? Parents were by definition earthbound, grub eaters, feet in their own coffins, by dint of being parents.
But to be most effective, the faces of the children would need to be painted in 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; an...