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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.

Gregory Maguire

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Gregory Maguire
Age: 70
Born: 1954
Born: June 9
Novelist
Writer
Albany
New York
Something
Convinced
Green
Walk
Walks
Wasn
Dart
Public
Fuse
Though
Knife
Place
Knives

More quotes by Gregory Maguire

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Starlight and comet tails burned the tips of endless grass below into hammered silver. Like thousands of tapers in the chapel, just blown out but still glowing. If one could drown in the grass...it might be the best way to die.
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To read, even in the half-dark, is also to call the lost forward.
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No one is exempt from grief.
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If you have an ancestor who is a Benedictine monk, we would rather not know it.
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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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Before catechisms can instill a proper humility, small children know the truth that their own existence has caused the world to bloom into being.
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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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Such silly things, children -- and so embarrassing -- because they keep changing themselves out of shame, out of a need to be loved or something. While animals are born who they are, accept it, and that is that. They live with greater peace than people do.
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That's all I want- to do no harm.
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...perhaps charity is the kind of beauty that we comprehend the best because we miss it the most.
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So she listened hard. And she began to evolve, because stories work their magic that way. They build conviction and erode conviction in equal measure.
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The answer of course, is that the clock isn't meant to measure earthly time, but the time of the soul. Redemption and condemnation time. For the soul, each instant is always a minute short of judgment.
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In the end, all disguises must drop.
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Not an ugly color, Nanny thought. Just not a human color.
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But his face had that hollow look, as if there was something gone... you know that look. The inward focus. Distantly attentive to the home you're missing, or the someone you're missing. That look that a bird has when it turns it dry reptilian eye on you. That look that doesn't see you because the mind is filled up with someone it would rather see.
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When the times are a crucible, when the air is full of crisis, those who are the most themselves are the victims.
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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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They'd never been lovers, of course, not in the physical sense. But they'd been lovers as most of us manage, loving through expressions and gestures and the palm set softly upon the bruise at the necessary moment. Lovers by inclination rather than by lust. Lovers, that is, by love.
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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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Just my luck, if I believed in luck. I only believe in the opposite of luck, whatever that is.
Gregory Maguire