I don't think any of us can speak frankly about pain until we are no longer enduring it.

Grief is a most peculiar thing; we’re so helpless in the face of it. It’s like a window that will simply open of its own accord. The room grows cold, and we can do nothing but shiver. But it opens a little less each time, and a little less; and one day we wonder what has become of it.

A wounded tiger is a dangerous beast.

Sadness was a very heavy thing.

A mouse who wishes to fool the cat doesn't simply scamper out of its hole whenever it feels the slightest urge.

The corridor couldn't have smelled more strongly of fish guts if we had actually been inside a fish.

Autobiography, if there really is such a thing, is like asking a rabbit to tell us what he looks like hopping through the grasses of the field. How would he know? If we want to hear about the field on the other hand, no one is in a better circumstance to tell us-so long as we keep in mind that we are missing all those things the rabbit was in no position to observe.