“I am fond of lovely old words like 'locomotive'.”

“It's funny about love', Sophia said. 'The more you love someone, the less he likes you back.''That's very true,' Grandmother observed. 'And so what do you do?''You go on loving,' said Sophia threateningly. 'You love harder and harder.”

“It's a funny thing about bogs. You can fill them with rocks and sand and old logs and make a little fenced-in yard on top with a woodpile and chopping block - but bogs go right on behaving like bogs. Early in the spring they breathe ice and make their own mist, in remembrance of the time when they had black water and their own sedge blossoming untouched.”

“I love borders. August is the border between summer and autumn; it is the most beautiful month I know.Twilight is the border between day and night, and the shore is the border between sea and land. The border is longing: when both have fallen in love but still haven't said anything. The border is to be on the way. It is the way that is the most important thing.”

“But he thought all the strange words were beautiful, and he had never had a book of his own before.”

“She started thinking about all the euphemisms for death, all the anxious taboos that had always fascinated her. It was too bad you could never have an intelligent discussion on the subject. People were either too young or too old, or else they didn't have time.”

“Quite, quite,' she thought with a little sigh. 'It's always like this in their adventures. To save and be saved. I wish somebody would write a story sometime about the people who warm up the heroes afterward.”