You can't ever be really free if you admire somebody too much.

And all you can do is just read," she said. She raised her voice an screamed, "You just read and read and read!" Then she threw herself down on the table and wept.

There are such a lot of things that have no place in summer and autumn and spring. Everything that’s a little shy and a little rum. Some kinds of night animals and people that don’t fit in with others and that nobody really believes in. They keep out of the way all the year. And then when everything’s quiet and white and the nights are long and most people are asleep—then they appear.

Someone who eats pancakes and jam can't be so awfully dangerous. You can talk to him.

The thing about God, she thought, is that He usually does help, but not until you've made an effort on your own.

They were always doing something. Quietly, without interruption, and with great concentration, they carried on with the hundred-and-one small things that made up their world.

One ought to have the right to have a secret and to spring it as a surprise. But if you live inside a family you have neither.