Many people could say things in a cutting way, Nanny knew. But Granny Weatherwax could in a cutting way. She could make something sound stupid just by hearing it.
So all the system was running down and collapsing. Mrs. Thatcher became the leader of the Conservative Party in February 1975, and she clearly wanted to strike out and do something different.
Msabu's bleeding. She does not have this ox. This lion is hungry. He does not have this ox. This wagon is heavy. It doesn't have this ox. God is happy, msabu. He plays with us.
Nothing is lost that cannot be refound" she says in a voice infused with otherworldly authority "this is the Dark Goddess's promise to guide you back to your deepest self and soul. If you choose this Sarah, so will it be.
If she's a flapper," mused the sergeant, wiping Passionate Rouge lipstick off his blameless mouth, "then I'm all for 'em, and I don't care what Mum says.
If I ever saw my muse she would be an old woman with a tight bun and spectacles poking me in the middle of the back and growling, "Wake up and write the book!
I think, first and foremost ,Marie Antoinette was intellectually impoverished. She really had never been introduced to the notion of abstract thinking - of thinking at all in any profound way.
I was actually very hesitant to write about Marie Antoinette. She seemed at first glance - well, I cannot think of any other term - an airhead of the first degree.
A caveman took a shell, and maybe it had a hole in it, or maybe he put a hole in it, and he put it on a piece of a tail of a donkey or a dinosaur or something and gave it to the cavewoman. She put it around her neck - the first jewel.
I remember telling the agent, 'I don't want to do anything but Broadway.' She was like, 'That's not really possible because there is not that much Broadway. So I'll send you out on TV and stuff like that.'
She wept a river of tears holy water, sent to soften the sharp edges of sorrow a gentle hollowing out, carving new chambers in her heart a hallowed vessel for holding sacred, the tears of others...
When I was growing up, my stepmother's sister was the chief detective in one of the adjoining towns, so she piqued my interest in crime.
Any reviewer who expresses rage and loathing for a novel is preposterous. He or she is like a person who has put on full armor and attacked a hot fudge sundae.
We're really awful animals. I mean, that dumb Barbra Streisand song, 'People who need people are the luckiest people in the world' - she's talking about cannibals. Lot's to eat.
With her high pale brow under her faded brown hair, she was like a rock washed clean by years of her husband's absences at conventions, dinners, committee meetings or simply at the office.
When a woman reaches twenty-six in America, she's on the slide. It's downhill all the way from then on. It doesn't give you a tremendous feeling of confidence and well-being.
His eyes narrowed to slits. Power passed over her, intensifying her desire for him. She moaned and rotated her hips against him. “What will you do with me now?
Of the female black authors, I really like Morrison's early books a lot. But she's really become so much a clone of Faulkner. He did it better.
The story line was done in a way that's organic and was doled out very slowly in little bites. We think that's authentic for this character, that her feelings are very deeply buried or she never felt them.
The procedure was that an artist got a mural and then he would have anywhere from two to ten assistants depending on the size of the mural and how many assistants he needed, or she needed.
Now lemme get this straight," she said in a throaty, nasal voice. "You put the lime in the cocanut and drink 'em both up--whoa, long faces. What am I interrupting?
