A capacity for inferiority in the growing adult is threatened by the temptation by squander that capacity ruthlessly, to revel in hallowness. The syndrom especially plaques anyone who lives behind a mask. An elephant in her disquise as a human princess, a scarecrow with painted features, a glittering tiara under which to glow and glide in anonymous glamour. A witch's hat, a wizards stole, a scholars gown, a soldiers dress sartorials. A hundred ways to duck the question: how will I live with myself now that I nkow what I know.

For fun? Maybe evil is an art form.

The thing about a mirror is this: The one who stares into it is condemned to consider the world from her own perspective.

It isn’t hard to find evil in this world. Evil is always more easily imagined than good, somehow.

And of the Witch? In the life of a Witch, there is no "after", in the "ever after" of a Witch there is no "happily"; in the story of a Witch, there is no afterword. Of that part that is beyond the life story, beyond the story of the life, there is-alas, or perhaps thank mercy-no telling. She was dead, dead, and gone, and all that was left of her was the carapace of her reputation for malice.

Are you an aberration to your species?' she cried. 'Cats don't look for approval!

Where I'm from, we believe in all sorts of things that aren't true... we call it history.