you had nothing to say about it and yet made the nothing up into words.

The man is a humbug — a vulgar, shallow, self-satisfied mind, absolutely inaccessible to the complexities and delicacies of the real world. He has the journalist's air of being a specialist in everything, of taking in all points of view and being always on the side of the angels: he merely annoys a reader who has the least experience of knowing things, of what knowing is like. There is not two pence worth of real thought or real nobility in him. But he isn't dull.

As Christians we are tempted to make unnecessary concessions to those outside the faith. We give in too much. Now, I don't mean that we should run the risk of making a nuisance of ourselves by witnessing at improper times, but there comes a time when we must show that we disagree.

We have a strange illusion that mere time cancels sin.

We treat our dogs as if they were "almost human": that is why they really become "almost human" in the end.

Edmund, give a special goodbye to Trumpkin for me. He's been a brick.

Do not cite the Deep Magic to me, Witch. I was there when it was written.