We praise the banker that we may overdraw our account, and find good qualities in the highwayman in the hope that he may spare our pockets. I mean everything that I have said.

Pantheism is sexed-up atheism. Deism is watered-down theism.

They reminded him of something—what was it?—some memory, some picture. He strove to find it and then it came of itself.  It rose out of the years complete with all its colours and its cries, its crowded feelings.

Facts are the barren branches on which we hang the dear, obscuring foliage of our dreams.

Written By Natalie Babbitt

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