. . . the pain itself made Puddleglum’s head for a moment perfectly clear and he knew exactly what he really thought. . . ‘One word, Ma’am,’ he said, coming back from the fire; limping,....

Shhhhh, I am trying to read.

Sleep is a little death, dreams the whisperings of the Other, who would drag us all into his eternal night.

Because that means you’re thinking, and a thinking woman is usually something to fear.