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Margaret Mahy

  • Canadians are Americans with no Disneyland.

  • She was her own currency ...

  • 'I suppose it's no use my saying anything ... ' he began, which usually meant he was going to have quite a lot to say.

  • There's a lot of things you can put up with, as long as you're not related to them.

  • People can say what they like about the eternal verities, love and truth and so on, but nothing's as eternal as the dishes.

  • She wrote until she felt empty of words, light and free enough to go properly into the day.

  • ... a man who builds a house never really dies.

  • If a job's worth doing, it's worth doing twice.

  • Do you think that clothes have a life of their own, and maybe have unsuitable affairs with opposite styles? I mean — you look at some people — their clothes go on flirting long after the people inside them have lost interest.

  • Time was too much a part of love, for even in fairytales the proof of love was not its first moment, but its latest ones — that people lived happily ever after. Love at first sight was nothing but infatuation until proved by time ...

  • ... the adventures we wind up with often aren't the ones we chose in the beginning.

  • Real is what everyone agrees about. True is what you somehow know inside yourself.

  • Family! ... You might just as well celebrate battle, murder and sudden death.

  • 'Oh, do you remember, my darling...?' / 'I cannot remember,' said he, / 'But was I a succulent starling / When you were the leaf on a tree? / 'And then I turned into a trumpet / And you were the music I played. / And was I a hot buttered crumpet / When you were some fresh marmalade?' / I know I have sat with you often / But cannot remember the place. / I was once an astrologer's coffin / And you were the smile on his face. / 'We're acquainted but never together. / We encounter but never unite, / For I was a spell of bad weather / When you were a Saturday night.'

    • Margaret Mahy,
    • "The Star-Crossed Lovers," Nonstop Nonsense ()
  • The winter with ice on the edge of its teeth / Blew snow in the sandpit and hail on the heath. / And, sliding through eyeholes and any odd cracks, / Ran shivery fingers down everyone's back.

    • Margaret Mahy,
    • "The Springing Granny," Bubble Trouble and Other Poems and Stories ()

Margaret Mahy, New Zealand writer

(1936 - 2012)