Proverbs are all very fine when there's nothing to worry you, but when you're in real trouble, they're not a bit of help.

A house isn't a home without the ineffable contentment of a cat with its tail folded about its feet. A cat gives mystery, charm, suggestion.

I don't like green Christmases. They're not green—they're just nasty faded browns and grays.

The woods are never solitary--they are full of whispering, beckoning, friendly life. But the sea is a mighty soul, forever moaning of some great, unshareable sorrow, which shuts it up into itself for all eternity.

All things great are wound up with all things little.

The world looks like something God had just imaged for his own pleasure, doesn't it?

Behind them in the garden the little stone house brooded among the shadows. It was lonely but not forsaken. It had not yet done with dreams and laughter and the joy of life; there were to be future summers for the little stone house; meanwhile, it could wait. And over the river in purple durance the echoes bided their time.