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She dreamed of leaving, but she had too little exposure to the world to imagine where to go.

Gregory Maguire

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Gregory Maguire
Age: 70
Born: 1954
Born: June 9
Novelist
Writer
Albany
New York
Exposure
Dreamed
Leaving
Imagine
Littles
Little
World

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What goes unnamed remains hard to correct.
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Wrong takes an awful long time to be proven, in my experience.
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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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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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So let my hands and my face make their way in this world, let my hungry eyes see, my tongue taste.
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I shall pray for your soul,' promised Nessarose. I shall wait for your shoes,' Elphie answered.
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Skibbereen have a hard time at [math] the best that the smartest of them can do with adding two plus two is guessing: three plus one. Correct, sort of, but not always useful.
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The overdressed traveler betrays more interest in being seen than in seeing, while the true traveler knows that the novel world about her serves as the most appropriate accessory.
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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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I hate to be obvious, added the Scarecrow, but you'd have saved yourself a heap of trouble if you weren't too cheap to invest in a leash, Dorothy.
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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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Cross a man and you struggle, one of you wins, you adjust and go on - or you lie there dead. Cross a woman and the universe is changed, once again, for cold anger requires an eternal vigilance in all matters of slight and offense
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She dropped her shyness like a nightgown, and in the liquid glare of sunlight on old boards she held up her hands-as if, in the terror of the upcoming skirmish, she had at last understood that she was beautiful. In her own way.
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Approval is overrated...Approval and disapproval alike satisfy those who deliver it more than those who receive it. I don't care for approval, and I don't mind doing without.
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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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Happy endings are still endings.
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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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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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That's the real power of art, I think. Not to chide but to provoke challenge. Otherwise why bother?
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For fun? Maybe evil is an art form.
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