in all the world there is not someone who does not believe something.

Poor strangers, they have so much to be afraid of.

I came to believe that being a private detective was the work I was meant to do.

All our land was enriched with my treasures buried in it, thickly inhabited just below the surface with my marbles and my teeth and my colored stones, all perhaps turned to jewels by now, held together under the ground in a powerful taut web which never loosened, but held fast to guard us.

Dad and I did not care at all for your story in The New Yorker … [I]t does seem, dear, that this gloomy kind of story is what all you young people think about these days. Why don't you write something to cheer people up?

God! Whose hand was I holding?

Today my winged horse is coming and I am carrying you off to the moon and on the moon we will eat rose petals.