“Bees blew like cake-crumbs through the golden air, white butterflies like sugared wafers, and when it wasn't raining a diamond dust took over which veiled and yet magnified all things”

“This tiny, white-washed Infants' room was a brief but cosy anarchy. In that short time allowed us we played and wept, broke things, fell asleep, cheeked the teacher, discovered things we could do t...”

“The prospect Smiler was a manic farmer. Few men I think can have been as unfortunate as he; for on the one hand he was a melancholic with a loathing for mankind, on the other, some paralysis had tw...”

“Granny Trill and Granny Wallon were traditional ancients of a kind we wont see today, the last of that dignity of grandmothers to whom age was its own embellishment. The grandmothers of those days ...”

“Me dad planted that tree, she said absently, pointing out through the old cracked window.The great beech filled at least half the sky and shook shadows all over the house.Its roots clutched the slo...”

“It came out sparkling like liquid sky.”

“Awestruck, Flora stared at the dishevelled sisters with their blazing faces and radiant ragged wings, who smelled of no kin but the wild high air.”

“I drank, sucking the blood out of the holes, experiencing for the first time since infancy the special pleasure of sucking nourishment, the body focused with the mind upon one vital source.”

“It came out sparkling like liquid sky.”

“Your words on the screen are my color palette I dip my brush into your words and paint youOn the sky, on the ceiling, on the snow; on the tabletOf things eternal : love truth beauty happiness”

“Who cares what colour your hair or what shape your shape is? Who cares what religion your religion or what language your language is? What is the colour of your heart? That is all that matters!”

“My world was the size of a crayon box, and it took every colour to draw her”

“...and the country is like a great unfolded mantle with a green velvet cape bordered with a fringe of silver.”

“Night simply drapes itself over the dayAs if someone had lowered a curtain.The sky glitters and moves,Filled with shooting stars and fireflies.”

“In the infancy of society every author is necessarily a poet, because language itself is poetry. Owen Barfield”