The only palliative is to keep the clean sea breeze of the centuries blowing through our minds, and this can be done only by reading old books.

Puddleglum's my name. But it doesn't matter if you forget it. I can always tell you again.

The point is that for our ancestors, the universe was a picture; for modern physics it is a story.

Slowly, quietly, like snow-flakes—like the small flakes that come when it is going to snow all night —little flakes of me, my impressions, my selections, are settling down on the image of her. The real shape wil be quite hidden in the end.

All that is not eternal is eternally out of date.

It is always the novice who exaggerates.

Nothing that you have not given away will ever be really yours.