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

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.

Smell is important. It reminds a person of all the things he's been through; it is a sheath of memories and security.

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

It's a funny thing about bogs. You can fill them with rocks and sand and old logs and make a little fenced-in yard on top with a woodpile and chopping block - but bogs go right on behaving like bogs. Early in the spring they breathe ice and make their own mist, in remembrance of the time when they had black water and their own sedge blossoming untouched.

But he thought all the strange words were beautiful, and he had never had a book of his own before.

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.