Wendy: Sir, you are both ungallant and deficient! Peter: How am I deficient? Wendy: You’re just a boy.
It is not in doing what you like, but in liking what you do that is the secret of happiness.
When a new baby laughs for the first time a new fairy is born, and as there are always new babies there are always new fairies.
He was a poet; and they are never exactly grown-up.
Nobody really wants us. So let us watch and say jaggy things, in the hope that some of them will hurt.
Be kinder than necessary because everyone you meet is fighting some kind of battle.
The best place a person can die, is where they die for others.
I don’t want to go to school and learn solemn things.
Take care, lest an adventure is now offered you, which, if accepted, will plunge you in deepest woe.
After you have been unfair to him he will love you again, but he will never afterwards be quite the same boy. No one ever gets over the first unfairness; no one except Peter.
There are, I dare say, many lovers who would never have been drawn to each other had they met for the first time, as, say, they met the second time.
Feeling that Peter was on his way back, the Neverland had again woke into life. We ought to use the pluperfect and say wakened, but woke is better and was always used by Peter.
Years rolled on again, and Wendy had a daughter. This ought not to be written in ink but in a golden splash.
When the first baby laughed for the first time, its laughter broke into a thousand pieces, and they all went skipping about, and that was the beginning of fairies – Peter Pan.
Second to the right, and straight on till morning.? That, Peter had told Wendy, was the way to the Neverland; but even birds, carrying maps and consulting them at windy corners, could not have sighted it with these instructions. Peter, you see, just said anything that came into his head.
They took it for granted that if they went he would go also, but really they scarcely cared. Thus children are ever so ready, when novelty knocks, to desert their dearest ones.
It is frightfully difficult to know much about the fairies, and almost the only thing for certain is that there are fairies wherever there are children.
It was not really Saturday night, at least it may have been, for they had long lost count of the days; but always if they wanted to do anything special they said this was Saturday night, and then they did it.
The life of every man is a diary in which he means to write on story, and writes another.
All remember about my mother,” Nibs told them, “is that she often said to my father, ‘Oh, how I wish I had a cheque-book of my own!’ I don’t know what a cheque-book is, but I should just love to give my mother one.