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It’s the place of the story, beginning here, in the meadow of late summer flowers, thriving before the Atlantic storms drive wet and winter upon them all.

Gregory Maguire

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Gregory Maguire
Age: 70
Born: 1954
Born: June 9
Novelist
Writer
Albany
New York
Beginning
Storms
Late
Wet
Story
Flowers
Upon
Storm
Place
Drive
Meadow
Stories
Winter
Thriving
Summer
Atlantic
Flower
Meadows

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To read, even in the half-dark, is also to call the lost forward.
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It appears history is going to keep happening, despite our hopes for retirement.
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I wouldn't mind leaving myself behind if I could, but I don't know the way out.
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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.
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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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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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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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One never learns how the witch became wicked, or whether that was the right choice for her~is it ever the right choice? Does the devil ever struggle to be good again, or if so is he not a devil?
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There were people everywhere but no one was mine, and I was no one's.
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He had thought love as a policy made a lot of sense for those who could manage it, and anyone who could manage it belonged in religious life. The rest of us have to struggle with more ordinary love, the common or garden variety: love as a crippling condition. Love as a syndrome.
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Don't wish,said Rain, don't start. Wishing only...
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Remember this: Nothing is written in the stars. Not these stars, nor any others. No one controls your destiny.
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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?
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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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Forget us, forget us all, it makes no difference now, but don't forget we loved it when we were alive.
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I mean, evil and boredom. Evil and ennui. Evil and the lack of stimulation. Evil and sluggish blood.
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I don't like work like that. I am the silent partner. I work through events, I live on the sidelines, I dabble in causes and effects, I watch how the misbegotten creatures of this world live their lives.
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You're fun to look at, decided Galinda. Boq's face fell. Fun? he said. I'd give a lot to achieve fun, Elphaba said. The best I usually hope for is stirring, and when people say that they're usually referring to digestion-
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She is no longer I, she is too long ago, she is only she.
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To look into the mirror is to see the future, in blood and rubies.
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