Between the wolf in the tall grass and the wolf in the tall story there is a shimmering go-between. That go-between, that prism, is the art of literature.
There is nothing more atrociously cruel than an adored child.
Nostalgia in reverse, the longing for yet another strange land, grew especially strong in spring.
My little cup brims with tiddles.
Oh, let me be mawkish for the nonce! I am so tired of being cynical.
I think she always nursed a small mad hope.