When little ones say they want to go home, they almost never mean it. They mean they are tired of this particular game and would like to start another.

What is the world but a boxing ring where fools and devils put up their fists?

When one is traveling, everything looks brighter and lovelier. That does not mean it IS brighter and lovelier; it just means that sweet, kindly home suffers in comparison to tarted-up foreign places with all their jewels on.

Bad luck relies on absolutely perfect timing.

Oh, quit that. Blushing is for virgins and Christians.

We all live inside the terrible engine of authority, and it grinds and shrieks and burns so that no one will say: lines on maps are silly.

The future is a messy, motley business, little girl.