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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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If magic was present, it moved under the skin of the world, beneath the ability of human eyes to catch sight of it.
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Elphaba looked like something between an animal and an Animal, like something more than life but not quite Life.
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Only he with the hobbled foot fully knows the beauty of running. Only he with the severed ear can apprehend what the sweetest music must sound like. Our ailments complete us.
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If one could drown in the grass, thought Elphie, that might be the best way to die.
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I had written childrens books for 14 years before I published Wicked. And none of them were poorly reviewed, and none of them sold enough for me to be able to buy a bed.
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Small steps to the madhouse still get us there at last
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Some said the original evil was the vacuum caused by the Fairy Queen Lurline leaving us alone here. When goodness removes itself, the space it occupies corrodes and becomes evil and maybe slpits apart and multiplies. So every evil thing is a sign of the absence of deity
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No one is exempt from grief.
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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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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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I shall pray for your soul,' promised Nessarose. I shall wait for your shoes,' Elphie answered.
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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 worth living, but once it slips by, there isn’t any reclaiming it or revising it.
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Children are wickeder than adults, they have no sense of restraint.
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For fun? Maybe evil is an art form.
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His avenging angel had come to call him home. A suicide was waiting for him back in his own world, and by now he ought to have learned enough to get through it successfully.
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It isn't whether you do it well or ill, it's that you do it all.
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We live in our tales of ourselves, she thought, and ignore as best we can the contradictions, and the lapses, and the abrasions of plot against our mortal souls.
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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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And there the wicked witch stayed for a long long time.' Did she ever come out?' Not yet.
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Memory is a part of the present. It builds us up inside it knits our bones to our muscles and keeps our hearts pumping. It is memory that reminds our bodies to work, and memory that reminds our spirits to work to: it keeps us who we are.~Candle
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