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.
Interpretation
The quote reflects on the finality of life and the legacy one leaves behind, particularly in the context of societal perceptions of individuals labeled as 'Witches'.
This quote delves into the life and death of a witch, emphasizing the absence of a traditional 'happily ever after'. It presents the notion that the story of a witch does not conclude with a fairy-tale resolution, but rather highlights the remnants of her reputation, which may overshadow her true essence and experiences. This invites reflection on how society views individuals, especially those marginalized or misunderstood, and how their narratives conclude in the eyes of others.
In practice
Discussing the themes of legacy and reputation in a literature class.
She watched the sun bleed water out of the icicle. Warm and cold working together to make an icicle. Warm and cold anger working together to make a fury, a fury worthy enough to use as a weapon against the old things that still needed fighting.
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.
The further on we go, the more meaning there is, but the less articulable. You live your life and the older you get- the more specifically you harvest- the more precious becomes every ounce and spasm. Your life and times don’t drain of meaning because they become more contradictory, ornamented by paradox, inexplicable. The less explicable, the more meaning. The less like a mathematics equation (a sum game); the more like music (significant secret).
Birds know themselves not to be at the center of anything, but at the margins of everything. The end of the map. We only live where someone's horizon sweeps someone else's. We are only noticed on the edge of things; but on the edge of things, we notice much.
In the lives of children, pumpkins turn into coaches, mice and rats turn into men. When we grow up, we realize it is far more common for men to turn into rats.
The moon rose, an opalescent goddess tipping light from her harsh maternal scimitar.
I cannot find language of sufficient energy to convey my sense of the sacredness of private integrity.
There are apartments in the soul which have a glorious outlook; from whose windows you can see across the river of death, and into the shining city beyond; but how often are these neglected for the lower ones, which have earthward-looking windows.
The trouble with these people is that their cities have never been bombed and their mothers have never been told to shut up.
When people talk, they lay lines on each other, do a lot of role playing, sidestep, shilly-shally and engage in all manner of vagueness and innuendo. We do this and expect others to do it, yet at the same time we profess to long for the plain truth, for people to say what they mean, simple as that. Such hypocrisy is a human universal.
It is a violation which has obsessed the tyrants of the twentieth century. They do not want simply to kill their opponents, but to liquidate them, to deny that they have ever existed.
If we have never been amazed by the very fact that we exist, we are squandering the greatest fact of all.
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