One never knows 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? It is the very least question of definitions.
Those times are over and gone, and good-riddance to them, too. We were hopelessly high-spirited. Now we’re the thick-waisted generation, dragging along our children behind us and carrying our parents on our backs. And we’re in charge, while the figures who used to command our respect are wasting away.
Waking up was a daily cruelty, an affront, and she avoided it by not sleeping.
Staring at a world too horrible to comprehend, believing — by dint of ignorance and innocence — that beneath this unbearable contract of guilt and blame there is always an older contract that may bind and release in a more salutary way.