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I was just about to begin writing Mirror Mirror, within about a week of it, when September 11, 2001 happened. I found myself incapable of caring about fiction-making for a number of months.

Gregory Maguire

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Gregory Maguire
Age: 70
Born: 1954
Born: June 9
Novelist
Writer
Albany
New York
Happened
Mirror
Within
Mirrors
Making
Begin
Found
Number
Writing
Months
Fiction
September
Numbers
Incapable
Week
Caring

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She is no longer I, she is too long ago, she is only she.
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Yet who can say how our souls have been stamped by witnessing such a cruel drama? All souls are hostages to their human envelopes, but souls must decay and suffer at such indignity, don't you agree?
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I learned failure early and mastered it.
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No one is exempt from grief.
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For fun? Maybe evil is an art form.
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... the decades looked on and didn't notice her passing. They stared from their fixed mounts across at each other and didn't see revolution striding between them, on her way to destiny.
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And a puzzle is for the piecing together, especially for the young, who still believe it can be done.
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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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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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How poetic you are, she said. I've a notion that poetry is the highest form of self-deception.
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To look into the mirror is to see the future, in blood and rubies.
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She's sent the crows out to blind the guests coming for dinner! What? She's BLINDING THE GUESTS COMING FOR DINNER! Well, that's one way to avoid having to dust, I suppose.
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Perhaps family itself, like beauty, is temporary, and no discredit need attach to impermanence.
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Galinda didn't often stop to consider whether she believed in what she said or not the whole point of conversations was flow.
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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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Light will blind us in time, but what we learn in the dark can see us through.
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Even God used silence as a strategy.
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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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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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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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