Forget us, forget us all, it makes no difference now, but don’t forget we loved it when we were alive.
We are loping sequences of chemical conversions, acting ourselves converted. We are twists of genes acting ourselves twisted; we are wicks of burning neuroses acting ourselves wicked. And nothing to be done about it. And nothing to be done about it.
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.
I like classical music of the late 19th and early 20th centuries, and I adore Bach above all.
When I write a book, I write very cleanly from page one to the last page. I hardly ever write out of sequence.
For fun? Maybe evil is an art form.
Her sister’s shoes. They sparkeled even in the darkening afternoon. They sparkeled like yellow diamonds, and embers of blood and thorny stars.
And it’s a cold place the world, especially when warmed by arsen.
In a sense, Out of Oz is an examination of how individuals keep going, keep reinventing themselves and their lives, even after life-altering complications have afflicted them.
I had written childrens books for 14 years before I published Wicked. And none of them were poorly reviewed, and none of them sold enough for me to be able to buy a bed.
I actually prefer female voices to listen to, mostly, but among the male singers whose voices I like are Jeff Buckley, Art Garfunkel, that sort of voice. Contemporary crooners rather than rockers.
I do love to sing. Had I a longer set of thigh bones and a sweeter voice, I should have loved to be a performer.
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.
The moon rose, an opalescent goddess tipping light from her harsh maternal scimitar.
Not an ugly color, Nanny thought. Just not a human color.
In the end, all disguises must drop.
There were more ways to live than the ones given by one’s superiors.
Little critters fried like fritters come out crunchy and divine.
I’m not a writer because I want to make money. I’m a writer because I’m a very slow thinker, but I do care about thinking, and the only way I know how to think with any kind of finesse is by telling stories.
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.