I love borders. August is the border between summer and autumn; it is the most beautiful month I know.

Making a journey by night is more wonderful than anything in the world.

I mean, anyone can let Danger out but the really clever thing is finding somewhere for it to go afterwards.

You can't always be friendly. It's impossible, there isn't the time.

Christmas always rustled. It rustled every time, mysteriously, with silver and gold paper, tissue paper and a rich abundance of shiny paper, decorating and hiding everything and giving a feeling of reckless extravagance.

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.

I need to write down my observations. Even the tiniest ones; they're the most important.