“I wrote this story for you, but when I began it I had not realized that girls grow quicker than books. As a result you are already too old for fairy tales, and by the time it is printed and bound you will be older still. But some day you will be old enough to start reading fairy tales again. You can then take it down from some upper shelf, dust it, and tell me what you think of it. I shall probably be too deaf to hear, and too old to understand a word you say, but I shall still be your affectionate Godfather, C. S. Lewis.”— C.S. Lewis
A secret girl named Augustine wrapped courage in brown parcel paper and twine. I think she meant to mail it to me, in a schooner made from glass, but the war came and everything turned to dust: dust fell from her eyelashes, slowly and steadily risen and lowered; and the sea turned to dust, it tasted like under-the-bed darkness; the rain was dust, too - it sounded like a soft footfall on the stairs.
“‘If you want a red rose, said the Tree, ‘you must build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart’s blood. You must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All night long you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your life-blood must flow into my veins, and become mine.”—Oscar Wilde, The Nightingale and the Rose