Twinkle, twinkle little bat How I wonder what you’re at! Up above the world you fly, Like a tea-tray in the sky.
It is better to be feared than loved.
I’ll try if I know all the things I used to know. Let me see: four times five is twelve, and four times six is thirteen, and four times seven is – oh dear! I shall never get to twenty at that rate!
Which way you ought to go depends on where you want to get to...
Well that was the silliest tea party I ever went to! I am never going back there again!
Well, I never heard it before, but it sounds uncommon nonsense.
Now, here, you see, it takes all the running you can do, to keep in the same place. If you want to get somewhere else, you must run at least twice as fast as that!
There’s no use in comparing one’s feelings between one day and the next; you must allow a reasonable interval, for the direction of change to show itself.
If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense. Nothing would be what it is, because everything would be what it isn’t. And contrary wise, what is, it wouldn’t be. And what it wouldn’t be, it would. You see?
There are three hundred and sixty-four days when you might get un-birthday presents, and only one for birthday presents, you know.
Speak in French when you can’t think of the English for a thing – turn your toes out when you walk – And remember who you are!
In a Wonderland they lie, Dreaming as the days go by, Dreaming as the summers die: Ever drifting down the stream- Lingering in the golden gleam- Life, what is it but a dream?
Beware the Jabberwock, my son The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!
If you drink much from a bottle marked ‘poison’ it is certain to disagree with you sooner or later.
If you set to work to believe everything, you will tire out the believing-muscles of your mind, and then you’ll be so weak you won’t be able to believe the simplest true things.
Still she haunts me, phantomwise, Alice moving under skies Never seen by waking eyes.
The proper definition of a man is an animal that writes letters.
For, you see, so many out-of-the-way things had happened lately, that Alice had begun to think that very few things indeed were really impossible.
I’d give all the wealth that years have piled, the slow result of life’s decay, To be once more a little child for one bright summer day.
It takes all the running you can do just to keep in the same place.