Practical Magic (Practical Magic, #1)

by Alice Hoffman

Witches are outsiders, and those among us who have been bullied and ostracized can relate to their plight. Part of our fascination with witches is that they are the only female mythic figures with power. These are women who don’t need to be rescued by a prince or a king but, instead, can save themselves—sometimes with the help of a sister. They are wise and fearless women of courage. In short, they are everything little girls wish to grow up to become.

Practical Magic is the mythic reconfiguration of the journey most women must make, whether they are sisters, mothers, daughters, or aunts.

Practical Magic addresses serious questions about the place of women in our society—questions

Unfortunately, over the past quarter century, the place of a woman in society has not moved forward as we had wished, then and now. There are still many of the same issues left to address: equal pay, childcare, healthcare, sexual assault. Magic may not be able to right these wrongs, but sisterhood just might.

For every evil under the sun, There is a remedy, or there is none. If there be one, seek till you find it; If there be none, never mind it. MOTHER GOOSE

FOR more than two hundred years, the Owens women have been blamed for everything that has gone wrong in town.

As soon as there was a hint of trouble or the slightest misfortune, people began pointing their fingers and placing blame.

were able to understand, earlier than most sisters, that the moon is always jealous of the heat of the day, just as the sun always longs for something dark and deep.

Black cats can do that to some people; they make them go all shivery and scared and remind them of dark, wicked nights.

“My lover’s heart will feel this pin, and his devotion I will win. There’ll be no way for him to rest nor sleep, until he comes to me to speak. Only when he loves me best will he find peace, and with peace, rest.”

What had she thought, that love was a toy, something easy and sweet, just to play with? Real love was dangerous, it got you from inside and held on tight, and if you didn’t let go fast enough you might be willing to do anything for its sake.

Gillian broke hearts the way other people broke kindling for firewood.

The aunts tried to encourage her not to be so good. Goodness, in their opinion, was not a virtue but merely spinelessness and fear disguised as humility.

Regina knew how to have fun, an ability the Owens women were proud of. Gillian had inherited her mother’s wild streak, but Sally wouldn’t have known a good time if it sat up and bit her.

In their estimation Gillian was young and stupid and would get herself pregnant in record time—all the prerequisites for a miserable and ordinary life.

Some fates are guaranteed, no matter who tries to intervene.

sometimes the right thing felt all wrong until it was over and done with.

Sometimes you have to leave home. Sometimes, running away means you’re headed in the exact right direction.

Trouble is just like love, after all; it comes in unannounced and takes over before you’ve had a chance to reconsider, or even to think.

In her opinion, everything goes wrong if you give it enough time.

No one knows you like a person with whom you’ve shared a childhood. No one will ever understand you in quite the same way.

People want to ignore what they can’t understand. They’re looking for logic at any cost.

She always believed that experience was not simply the best teacher, it was the only one, which is why she insisted the painter include the bump on her right hand, where it had never quite healed.

But love was not about practice and preparation, it was pure chance; if you took your time with it you ran the risk of having it evaporate before it had even begun.

It’s easy to forget what you do in the dark, if you need to.

Grief is all around; it’s just invisible to most people. Most people will figure out a way to stop themselves from being aware of agony—they’ll have a good stiff drink, or swim a hundred laps, or not eat anything all day,

She knows what happens when you bottle up your sorrow, she knows what she’s done to herself, the walls she’s built, the tower she’s made, stone by stone. But they’re walls of grief, and the tower is drenched in a thousand tears, and that’s no protection; it will all fall to the ground with one touch.

Lately, she’s been wondering if perhaps when the living become the dead they leave an empty space behind, a hollow that no one else can fill.

There’s a lot to lose when you have something, when you’re foolish enough to let yourself care.