Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West (Wicked Years, #1)

by Gregory Maguire

We only have babies when we’re young enough not to know how grim life turns out. Once we really get the full measure of it—we’re slow learners, we women—we dry up in disgust and sensibly halt production. But men don’t dry up, Melena objected; they can father to the death.

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She reasoned that because she was beautiful she was significant, though what she signified, and to whom, was not clear to her yet.

Galinda didn’t often stop to consider whether she believed in what she said or not; the whole point of conversation was flow.

“I don’t read very well. So I don’t think I think very well either.” Galinda smiled. “I dress to kill, though.”

It’s a systematic marginalizing of populations, Glinda, that’s what the Wizard’s all about.”

What really is the difference between science and sorcery?”

But it wasn’t only Elphaba who was on her feet yelling. Half a dozen students were shouting at the Doctor. “Pain? Eliminate pain? Look at the thing, it’s terrified! It already gets pain! Don’t do that, what are you, crazy?”

“My dearie, my poppet, I am too green to walk into a public place and do something bad. It’s all too expected. Security guards watch me like owls on a mouse. My very presence provokes alarm and heightened vigilance.

One never learns 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 at the very least a question of definitions.”

“Just because you’re the youngest, Six, and can still locate your waist, there’s no need to be unkind.”

It didn’t matter how crippled Nessarose was; she would always be more than Elphaba, always. She would always mean more.