Chovia bastante naquela manhã. A luz tinha um tom acinzentado e musguento devido às nuvens baixas. Teve de admitir que a menina não era um cadáver. Estava viva. Talvez tivesse nascido gelada, mas agor...
By so giving up, of course, it renews itself- that is the secret
But though her thoughts were rich and complicated, her words were poor, and she merely grunted.
But now? Now? Children in the twentieth and this early twenty-first century hated the Alice books, couldn't read them, and why should they? Their world had strayed into madness long ago. Look at the p...
Brrr, who had never admired books particularly...didn't remember that a mere book might reek of sex, possibility, fecundity. Yet a book has a ripe furrow and a yielding spine, he thought, and the nuan...
Behold the male beast roaring in the jungle for his mate, said Elphaba. See how the female beast giggles behind a shrub while she organizes her face to say, Pardon dear, did you say something?
Before catechisms can instill a proper humility, small children know the truth that their own existence has caused the world to bloom into being.
At its most elemental, a spell is no more than a recipe for change.
As for dreams, they are powered by urgent desire, even if that desire is only to escape the quotidian.
And there the wicked old witch stayed for a good long time... And did she ever come out? ... Not yet.
Ah, the inner eye blinks, and the spirit trembles, at the dangerous cost of seeing one's self as one is.
After all is said and done, said the Dormouse, there is nothing to be done. Or said.
A more ancient precedent of ransom, that we may not always be tormented by our shame.
A capacity for inferiority in the growing adult is threatened by the temptation by squander that capacity ruthlessly, to revel in hallowness. The syndrom especially plaques anyone who lives behind a m...
The reasons just reassemble themselves in different patterns every time I think about it.
One expects poetry, if it is Poetry, to offend.
With all those stars in the sky, why isn’t there enough light for us to see by? We stumble like blinded sheep. As you can see, it is clouding over. The stars can’t pierce that gloom; they just wait it...
Wisdom is not the understanding of mystery, she said to herself, not for the first time. Wisdom is accepting that mystery is beyond understanding. That's what makes it mystery
Aren't these the finest treasures? Each one springs up, and becomes more red than rubies, more fine than diamonds adn more valuable, so we are told; and before you can run back here again to look, the...
Ambition without direction is like milk without a cup.