Too late, I found you can’t wait to become perfect, you got to go out and fall down and get up with everybody else.

For if we’re destroyed, the knowledge is dead…We’re nothing more than dust jackets for books…so many pages to a person…

Bees do have a smell, you know, and if they don’t they should, for their feet are dusted with spices from a million flowers.

and sleeping put an end to summer, 1928,

Todos deben dejar algo al morir, decía mi abuelo. Un niño o un libro o un cuadro o una casa o una pared o un par de zapatos. O un jardín. Algo que las manos...

No,” said a voice, “the only thing wrong on a night like that is that there is a world and you must come back to it.

Or maybe he means in a richer world the begging population is melting away. But no to that too. So maybe, perhaps, he means there aren’t many ‘human beings’ left to look, see, and understand...

The world, like a great iris of an even more gigantic eye, which has also just opened and stretched out to encompass everything, stared back at him.

Books were only one type of receptacle where we stored a lot of things we were afraid we might forget. There is nothing magical in them at all. The magic is only in what books...

Ignorance is fatal.

I got a statistic for you right now. Grab your pencil, Doug. There are five billion trees in the world. I looked it up. Under every tree is a shadow, right? So, then, what makes...

First of all, it was October, a rare month for boys. Not that all months aren’t rare. But one strange year, halloween came early….don’t you ditch me jim nightshade…don’t talk death. Someone might hear…