Oh, mercy, there is nothing monstrously ugly about you. Ruth may be unpleasing, but you are merely plain. If anything, it's my beauty that's monstrous, for it sweeps away any other aspect of my charac...
No, she wasn't losing language. She was choking on it.
You might forget a story, but you can never unhear a story.
The sun is the biggest metaphor. The sun is the first candle. She can get there by its light.
The real thing about evil… you figure out one side of it - the human side, say - and the eternal side goes into shadow. Or vice versa. The real disaster of this inquiry is that it is the nature of evi...
The colossal might of wickedness, he thought: how we love to locate it massively elsewhere. But so much of it comes down to what each one of us does between breakfast and bedtime.
Small steps to the madhouse still get us there at last
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.
Oh, the accident necessary to fiction!
Lost is not an address, it’s not a permission to fail, it’s not an excuse.
I’m not slow. Well, you’re not hasty,
It was deliciously pagan.
I take responsibility only for the future, not the past. The past can't hurt you the way the future can.
How shallow the words are, really - . One might as well say, , thinks Iris; that about covers the same terrain, doesn't it?
Good gracious, dear, all of life is a spell. You know that.
Don’t wish, said Rain, don’t start. Wishing only…
E tu? - Perguntou o Espantalho ao Lenhador de Lata,- O que farei se ganhar um coração? - Zombou este. - Despedaçá-lo-ei constantemente, suponho.
You need my help? What for? Bread, cash, a fake identity to help you slip sideways through the cracks? Tell me what you need, tell me why I should help, and I'll see what I can do. In memory of Elphab...
Wisdom is not the understanding of mystery. Wisdom is accepting that mystery is beyond understanding. That's what makes it mystery.
What had survived - maybe all that had survived of Trism - was Liir's sense of him. A catalog of impressions that arose from time to time, unbidden and often upsetting. From the sandy smell of his san...