It was but imagination, yet imagination had all the terrors of reality; nay, it was worse, for the reality would have come and gone, and there an end, but in imagination it was always coming, and never went away.

Love is a beautiful kind of fear.

Eğer başka çocuklar da anlaşılmamaktan, yanlış anlaşılmaktan, benim çocukken korktuğum kadar korkuyorlarsa (ki olasıdır, çünkü çocukluğumda bir hilkat garibesi olduğumu hiç sanmıyorum) bu korku birçok suskunluk ve yalanların anahtarıdır.

Apprehension of a painful or disagreeable recognition made me tremble. I am confident that it took no distinctness of shape, and that it was the revival for a few minutes of the terror of childhood.