And if they thought her aimless, if they thought her a bit mad, let them. It meant they left her alone. Marya was not aimless, anyway. She was thinking.

This is what comes of having a heart, even a very small and young one. It causes no end of trouble, and that’s the truth.

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.

How much better if life were more like books, if life lied a little more, and gave up its stubborn and boring adherence to the way things can be, and thought a little more imaginatively about the way things might be.

I will not let her speak because I love her, and when you love someone, you do not make them tell war stories. A war story is a black space. On the one side is before and on the other side is after, and what is inside belongs only to the dead.

She sounds like someone who spends a lot of time in libraries, which are the best sorts of people.

Children make prayers so thoughtlessly, building them up like sand castles—and they are always surprised when suddenly the castle becomes real, and the iron gate grinds shut.