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It was her, Grace. The glow on the bank. The pull from the trees. She's not of this place.

And then you see it. As it strangles and beats your friends to death... the sweetest most courageous people in the world. You see the fear and power in its eyes. Then you know. That the bourgeois are not human.

Aixue stares at her face in astonishment. The slight but vital asymmetry that says this is human. You cannot be symmetrical and be real. The perfect concentricity of her eyes. The stunning fractal subdivision of her pupils, two splitting in two—

In solitude, I felt the liberty you spoke of. But I also felt your absence.

“This is the end, thought Melena. Her brain was too foggy to think anything else, and she said it again and again, as if to prevent it from being true.
This is the beginning, thought Frex, but of what?

Baru Cormorant’s wound swallows half her world.

It is no secret. All power is one in source and end, I think. Years and distances, stars and candles, water and wind and wizardry, the craft in a man’s hand and the wisdom in a tree’s root: they all arise together.

The Captain had started fussing again. Crown, distracted, moved to her side. She said tenderly, “If it wasn't for you I wouldn't be in all this trouble. You thorn, you pest.”

You’re the one with all the stories. What do I have to even say?
That’s the thing. You got to go figure it out. I told you... you’re just like me. You got your own mountain to climb.

You want me to believe you, your tales and messages. But why need I believe, or listen? If there are eighty thousand worlds full of monsters out there among the stars, what of it?

I am the least difficult of men. All I want is boundless love.
Even trees understand me! Good heavens, I lie under them, too, don't I? I'm just like a pile of leaves.

Little lark, I know what it means to see strange sails in the harbor. My name’s Shir and I’m from Aurdwynn. When I was a child, the Masquerade harbored in Treatymont, our great city.

There was one poem, she says, speaking softly, almost to herself, as if she is trying to remember an almost-faded dream. One poem that just—
She rubs the spot between her collarbones, as if the punch of the poem still lingers there

Everything in the world happened in circles, the Whale Worlds told Tau. This was why the world held together. The end of the story told the beginning how to happen, so that the story could go on.

But Elphaba dropped the whole sugary plate onto her strange pointed head, and looked at Galinda again from underneath the broad brim. She seemed like a rare flower, her skin stemlike in its soft pearlescent sheen, the hat a botanical riot.

Who would have thought this childhood code would serve us so long?
Find me at the return address. We simply must catch up. I have a remarkable wound to show you.
Regards,
Your sword thief

All my life, I’ve endeavored to serve both my house and the realm. And somehow none of it matters. We are cast aside, or hated.

A narrative weapon is the only chance we have against the Exordia! It has to be here. I can smell it on your souls, in the arc of your myths and the dreams of your children!

Say the word and I'll put my guitar down
I'll be sad but at least we'll both get laid
We'll start to fight when I start to resent you
And we'll both agree the thought was nice but I should not have stayed

The rage rose up in her again. Water hammer. That was the name. Water hammer—when you closed a pipe-valve too quickly, or detonated a mine underwater, then a pressure wave would form in the water or the sea. It could tear plumbing from the wall or cave in a ship’s hull. Water hammer.

Sometimes round the way, where we live, you can catch this same breeze. It come through the hood and it’s like everything stop for a second ‘cause everybody just wanna feel it. Everything just get quiet, you know?

In solitude, I felt the liberty you spoke of. But I also felt your absence.

The Imperial need for control is so desperate because it is so unnatural. Tyranny requires constant effort. It breaks, it leaks. Authority is brittle. Oppression is the mask of fear.

What are the words you do not yet have? What do you need to say? What are the tyrannies you swallow day by day and attempt to make your own, until you will sicken and die of them, still in silence?

Like after a prairie fire. I saw one, years ago, when we were in Nebraska. It seems like the end of the world. The earth is all scorched and black and everything green is gone. But after the burning the soil is richer, and new things can grow.

You're in a lot of them. In one of the recurring ones, we're in your living room, and I've just drank your drugged screwdriver... and you're screaming, asking me why I did it. Asking me why I have a horse's head instead of my face.

Kevin looking back at Little, looking down at him lying there, Little fully returning his gaze, these fourteen pages the first time he's looked at anyone thus.

I found my heart. Isabel, oh my god, I found yours too. And it was still beating.

Levi, the closer I get to this, the worse it’s gonna go.

You can only love and need and miss someone so much for years and years before language just washes its hands of the whole business. We used to be part of each other and now we were nothing, and nobody’s brain knows how to square that.