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Her sister's shoes. They sparkeled even in the darkening afternoon. They sparkeled like yellow diamonds, and embers of blood and thorny stars.

Gregory Maguire

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Gregory Maguire
Age: 70
Born: 1954
Born: June 9
Novelist
Writer
Albany
New York
Like
Diamond
Afternoon
Yellow
Sister
Shoes
Thorny
Blood
Darkening
Stars
Embers
Even
Diamonds

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There were people everywhere but no one was mine, and I was no one's.
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No one is exempt from grief.
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She's sent the crows out to blind the guests coming for dinner! What? She's BLINDING THE GUESTS COMING FOR DINNER! Well, that's one way to avoid having to dust, I suppose.
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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.
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If you have an ancestor who is a Benedictine monk, we would rather not know it.
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That was such a wonderful time, even in its strangeness and sadness-and life isn't the same now. It's wonderful, but it isn't the same.
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You confuse not speaking with not listening.
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She dreamed of leaving, but she had too little exposure to the world to imagine where to go.
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And girls need cold anger. They need the cold simmer, the ceaseless grudge, the talent to avoid forgiveness, the side stepping of compromise. They need to know when they say something that they will never back down, ever, ever.
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I may not be sure if monsters exist, but I’d rather live my life in doubt than be persuaded by a real experience of one.
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She assumes that skill will guide her fingertips, that shapely lines will uncoil out of the pencil the moment she starts. Surely talent is a thing curled deep inside, just waiting to be exercised, and at the slightest invitation it will stretch, shake itself, make itself known? Talent, it seems, is not so insistent.
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Are you the dart? he said. Are you the knife? The fuse? She said (though he wasn't convinced): My deane, my poppet, I am too green to walk into a public place and do something bad.
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It's the work that's important, not the individual who does it.
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The colossal might of wickedness: 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.
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In summer moonlight, she was dangerously, inebriatingly magnified.
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That's all I want- to do no harm.
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