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It's the only condition I know. Bitter Love, Loneliness, contempt for corruption, blind hope. It's where I live. A permanent state of bereavement. This is nothing new.

Gregory Maguire

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Gregory Maguire
Age: 70
Born: 1954
Born: June 9
Novelist
Writer
Albany
New York
Blind
Conditions
Bereavement
State
Contempt
Hope
Corruption
States
Permanent
Live
Bitter
Nothing
Loneliness
Love
Condition

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The world rarely shrieks its meaning at you. It whispers, in private languages and obscure modalities, in arcane and quixotic imagery, through symbol systems in which every element has multiple meanings determined by juxtaposition.
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All our lives are activity without meaning we burrow ratlike into life and we squirm ratlike through it and ratlike we are flung into our graves at the end. Now and then, why shouldn't we hear a voice of prophecy.
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To consider what other people might say is hardly a good reason to take action or to defer it. You have your own life to live, Iris, and at its end, the only opinion that amounts to anything is that which God bestows
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Light will blind us in time, but what we learn in the dark can see us through.
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You confuse not speaking with not listening.
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That's the real power of art, I think. Not to chide but to provoke challenge. Otherwise why bother?
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I may not know how to fly but I know how to read, and that's almost the same thing.
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Wrong takes an awful long time to be proven, in my experience.
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It was mild monsters like these that made Jack the Ripper go after young women, she decided: who could tolerate yielding the world to someone who behaved as if she had given birth to the very world herself?
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Notice, notice let noticing take the place of screaming.
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Birds know themselves not to be at the center of anything, but at the margins of everything. The end of the map. We only live where someone's horizon sweeps someone else's. We are only noticed on the edge of things but on the edge of things, we notice much.
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I learned to fly on a broom, he said, rolling up his sleeves. I can learn to milk a goat, I bet. Though flying on a broom proved to be the easier task, he found.
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Sorrow has a name, and its name is loneliness. Sorrow has a shape, and its shape is absence. Sorrow is a sickness like any other.
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To read, even in the half-dark, is also to call the lost forward.
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The world unwraps itself to you, again and again as soon as you are ready to see it anew.
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So he stalked her again. Love makes hunters of us all.
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I am a forgettable leaf on a tree.
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Does the devil ever struggle to be good again, or if so is he not a devil?
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The future reshapes the memory of the past in the way it recalibrates significance some episodes are advanced, others lose purchase.
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Evil is an act, not an appetite. How many haven't wanted to slash the throat of some boor across the dining room table? Present company excepted of course. Everyone has the appetite. If you give in to it, it, that act is evil. The appetite is normal.
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