magic

It is easy to trip over a rock when you are watching everyone else's footsteps.

The heightened sanity of science and the sheer lunacy of magic. It's in the area where they overlap that we both are able to find... ecstasy!

Is something the matter?_ Calcifer asked. __es. My heart. There was a scarecrow at the door!_ Sophie gasped. __hat has a scarecrow to do with your heart?_ Calcifer asked. __t was trying to get in here. It gave me a terrible fright. And my heart__ut you wouldn__ understand, you silly young demon!_ Sophie panted. __ou haven__ got a heart._ __es I have,_ Calcifer said, as proudly as he had revealed his arm. __own in the glowing part under the logs. And don__ call me young. I__ a good million years older than you are! Can I reduce the speed of the castle now?

Magic is magic. It isn__ good or bad in and of itself. It__ the intent that matters. Ideally, you treat magic as a gift and you use it to influence natural forces to help and to heal. It__ a positive act.

I have the idea that we grandmothers are meant to play the part of protective witches; we must watch over younger women, children, community, and also, why not?, this mistreated planet, the victim of such unrelenting desecration. I would like to fly on a broomstick and dance in the moonlight with other pagan witches in the forest, invoking earth forces and howling demons; I want to become a wise old crone, to learn ancient spells and healers' secrets. It is no small thing, this design of mine. Witches, like saints, are solitary stars that shine with a light of their own; they depend on nothing and no one, which is why they have no fear and can plunge blindly into the abyss with the assurance that instead of crashing to earth, they will fly back out. They can change into birds and see the world from above, or worms to see it from within, they can inhabit other dimensions and travel to other galaxies, they are navigators on an infinite ocean of consciousness and cognition.

If one squinted in Cabeswater long enough, in the right way, one could see secrets dart between the trees. The shadows of horned animals that never appeared. The winking lights of another summer's fireflies. The rushing sound of many wings, the sound of a massive flock always out of sight. Magic.

The goblins have been after me ever since I helped the Coven drive them out of Essex. (They were gobbling up drunk people in club bathrooms, and the Mage was worried about losing regional slang.) I think the goblin who successfully offs me gets to be king.

The real protagonist of the story, however, is the magic ring, because it is the movements of the ring that determine those of the characters and because it is the ring that establishes the relationships between them. Around the magic object there forms a kind of force field that is in fact the territory of the story itself. We might say that the magic object is an outward and visible sign that reveals the connection between people or between events. . . We might even say that in a narrative any object is always magic.

Oh, more people than not have some magic, they just forget about it. Children use it all the time - what do you think jump rope rhymes are, or bouncing ball games, or cat's cradles? Where do you think that girl, Aiffe, draws her power? Because she refuses to forget, that's all it is.

Naughty children have to be protected. Even if it's just from themselves.

It is important to view a recipe book as one that you use daily and what we in our family call "a living book" _ a book that you use all the time, not just read once and discard on the shelf. It is in a sense a spell book, a book of magical enchantments, to be consulted, used and altered as needed.

Magic is always an illusion and love a magic of illusion.

Another revolution around the sun and I was still no closer to getting home. Laying on my lumpy mattress in my blood-stained shirt and dusty jeans with my arm over my eyes, I tried to imagine I was lying on Violet's couch. Clara paced in her cell and I let myself believe it was Violet, padding around the kitchen. My memory kicked up the image of her in tiny cotton shorts and a baggy Beatles t-shirt making coffee. My chest swelled and more than ever I wished I could see her face again, hear her voice.

I__e been lucky enough to cross paths with these angels who seem to brush the dust off my wings so effortlessly. These wonderful people I don__ and will never know. I want to be one of them. I want to be many of them. Radiating, resonating, finding lost souls and then exhaling magic.

Shadow is on the move," a soldier said suddenly.... "We spotted her in the West atrium, then she vanished into the unfinished apartments. Scared the shit out of Dr. Marea on four, then ended up in the kitchen ogling a cheesecake.

Once you realize life is magic, you will never look upon the world with dimmed eyes again.

She used to think that if she stole enough, the want would fade, the hunger would go away, but maybe it wasn__ that simple. Maybe it wasn__ a matter of what she didn__ have, of what she wasn__, but what she was.

That's what you people never understand," said Rincewind, wearily. "You think magic is just something you can pick up and use like a, a -""Parsnip?" said Nijel."Wine Bottle?" said the Seriph."Something like that," said Rincewind cautiously, but rallied somewhat and went on, "But the truth is, is -""Not like that?""More like a wine bottle?" said the Seriph hopefully."Magic uses people," said Rincewind hurriedly. "It affects you as much as you affect it, sort of thing. You can't mess around with magical things without it affecting you. I just thought I'd better warn you.""Like a wine bottle," said Creosote, "that -""- drinks you back," said Rincewind.