I know now it is children who accept life; grown people cover it up and pretend it is different with drinks.
If books were Persian carpets, one would not look only at the outer side. because it is the stitch that makes a carpet wear, gives it its life and bloom.
The stitch of a book is its words.
Most grown people are like icebergs, three-tenths showing, seven-tenths submerged – that is why a collision with one of them is unexpectedly hurtful...
Every time a child, any child, is born, it is new – and different; that is the wonder.
With everything that happens to you, with everyone you meet who is important to you, you either die a little or are born.
Of course one never knows in draft if it’s going to turn out, even with my age and experience.
For an author nothing is as dead as a book once it is written.
I have never understood why “hard work” is supposed to be pitiable. True, some work is soul destroying when it is done against the grain, but when it is part of “making” how can you grudge it? You get tired, of course, but the struggle, the challenge, the feeling of being extended as you never thought you could be is fulfilling and deeply, deeply satisfying.
When one came to know them it was surprising how childish grown people could be.
Dolls cannot choose; they can only be chosen; they cannot ‘do’; they can only be done by; children who do not understand this often do wrong things, and then the dolls are hurt and abused and lost; and when this happens dolls cannot speak, nor do anything except be hurt and abused and lost. If you have any dolls, you should remember that.
I like the way everything is clear and concise, you’ll always be forgiven but you must know the rules.
When I was a child I remember days that stretched into infinity with the certainty of other infinite days; certain, unhurried and brimmingly full.
The greengages had a pale blue bloom, especially in the shade, but in the sun the flesh showed amber through the clear green skin; if it were cracked the juice was doubly warm and sweet.
And you needn’t worry about being useful,’ said Dame Ursula. ‘When you have become God’s in the measure He wants, He, Himself, will know how to bestow you on others.’ She was quoting St Basil. Then her face grew wistful, ‘“Unless He prefer, for thy greater advantage, to keep thee all to himself.” That does happen to a few people. Yet, paradoxically, they have the greatest influence.
I don’t expect you to understand me any more than I can understand you; but I respect you and that’s the difference between us.
I can’t,’ but it was acceptance now. ‘I can’t,’ whispered Dame Catherine, ’so You must.
I think there are only two ways to live in this place,’ said Sister Philippa, ’you must either live like Mr Dean or like the Sunnyasi; either ignore it completely or give yourself up to it.
None of us should marry, unless we love a man so much we would go through hell for him, which we shall probably have to do.
Not what thou art, nor what thou hast been, beholdeth God with His merciful eyes, but what thou wouldst be.