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Below, the Yellow Brick Road looped back on itself, like a relaxed noose.
“She’s a woman who prefers the company of other women,” said the Scarecrow, sitting up.
Its canon!
tiktokism, which hardly even qualifies as a religion.
solipsists!
Theory that only the self exists
his hands—his big hands—roaming like sentient pets.
So we have government by a male regent again. It’s only for a limited engagement—like most male encounters.
smiled
She had seen the Misses Pfannee et cetera for what they were—shallow, self-serving snobs—and she would have no more to do with them. So Elphaba, no longer a social liability, had all the potential of becoming an actual friend. If being saddled with this broken doll of a baby sister didn’t interfere too much.
“Nessarose is a strong-willed semi-invalid,” said Elphaba. “She’s very smart, and thinks she is holy. She has inherited my father’s taste for religion. She isn’t good at taking care of other people because she has never learned how to take care of herself. She can’t. My father required me to baby-sit her through most of my childhood. What she will do when Nanny dies I don’t know. I suppose I’ll have to take care of her again.”
“Science, my dears, is the systematic dissection of nature, to reduce it to working parts that more or less obey universal laws. Sorcery moves in the opposite direction. It doesn’t rend, it repairs. It is synthesis rather than analysis. It builds anew rather than revealing the old. In the hands of someone truly skilled”—at this she jabbed herself with a hair pin and yelped—“it is Art. One might in fact call it the Superior, or the Finest, Art. It bypasses the Fine Arts of painting and drama and recitation. It doesn’t pose or represent the world. It becomes. A very noble calling.”
“Help,” said Madame Morrible when the door closed, but Glinda wasn’t sure if this was a criticism of servants or a bid for sympathy.
