Her sister's shoes. They sparkeled even in the darkening afternoon. They sparkeled like yellow diamonds, and embers of blood and thorny stars.

When the times are a crucible, when the air is full of crisis, those who are the most themselves are the victims.

I shall pray for your soul,' promised Nessarose. I shall wait for your shoes,' Elphie answered.

The world rarely shrieks its meaning at you. It whispers, in private languages and obscure modalities, in arcane and quixotic imagery, through symbol systems in which every element has multiple meanings determined by juxtaposition.

In summer moonlight, she was dangerously, inebriatingly magnified.

Does the devil ever struggle to be good again, or if so is he not a devil?

That's the real power of art, I think. Not to chide but to provoke challenge. Otherwise why bother?