Finished reading “Son of a Witch” by Gregory Maguire today. This is, of course, the sequel to “Wicked” and starts up where it left off. I found it even more awesome than the first. Wow… some of his sentences and paragraphs have the density of a black hole. Just so inspiring and impressive. Take this introduction to the beginning of Liir’s downfall:
A notion of character, not so much discredited as simply forgotten, once held that people only came into themselves partway through their lives. They woke up, were they lucky enough to have consciousness, in the act of doing something they already knew how to do: feeding themselves with currants. Walking the dog. Knotting up a broken bootlace. Singing antiphonally in the choir. Suddenly: This is I, I am the girl singing this alto line off-key, I am the boy loping after the dog, and I can see myself doing it as, presumably, the dog cannot see itself. How peculiar! I lift on my toes at the end of the dock, to dive into the lake because I am hot, and while isolated like a specimen in the glassy slide of summer, the notions of hot and lake and I converge into a consciousness of consciousness–in an instant, in between launch and landing, even before I cannonball into the lake, shattering both my reflection and my old notion of myself.
That was what was once believed. Now, it seems hardly to matter when and how we become ourselves–or even what we become. Theory chases theory about how we are composed. The only constant: the abjuration of personal responsibility.
Such breadth and beauty. And flow. Wow again. I wish I had written that. I know exactly what he’s saying but I doubt I could reproduce it a million years of tapping at keys.
And how about this concise and expressive description of a trunk in an attic in 6 words:
The thing was felted with dust.
You can feel that! And… I can look forward to the third Oz historical fiction by Maguire: A Lion among Men.