I'll Have To Calm Down A Bit.

Everything's Much Too Big Here,' Thought Moominmamma. 'or Perhaps I'm Too Small.

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.

Before We Left, Grandmother Talked A Lot About The Arctic Night We Would Fly Through. 'isn't It A Mystical Word, "arctic"? Pure And Quite Hard. And Meridians. Isn't That Pretty? We're Going To Fly Along Them, Faster Than The Light Can Follow Us... Time Won't Be Able To Catch Us.

One Ought To Have The Right To Have A Secret And To Spring It As A Surprise. But If You Live Inside A Family You Have Neither.

I Love Borders. August Is The Border Between Summer And Autumn; It Is The Most Beautiful Month I Know.