“Mother: It’s broccoli, dear. — Child: I say it’s spinach, and I say the hell with it.”

I believe in dreams. People should have faith in the songs poets sing.

English usage is sometimes more than mere taste, judgment and education – sometimes it’s sheer luck, like getting across the street.

When an American family becomes separated from its toothbrushes and combs and pajamas for a few hours it considers that it has had quite an adventure.

I don’t know which is more discouraging, literature or chickens.

In a man’s middle years there is scarcely a part of the body he would hesitate to turn over to the proper authorities.

Safety is all well and good: I prefer freedom.

I am often mad, but I would hate to be nothing but mad: and I think I would lose what little value I may have as a writer if I were to refuse, as a matter of principle, to accept the warming rays of the sun, and to report them, whenever, and if ever, they

It is quite possible that an animal has spoken to me and that I didn’t catch the remark because I wasn’t paying attention.

All that I hope to say in books, all that I ever hope to say, is that I love the world.

I have one share in corporate Earth, and I am nervous about the management.

Democracy is itself, a religious faith. For some it comes close to being the only formal religion they have.

Luck is not something you can mention in the presence of self-made men.

Reading is the work of the alert mind, is demanding, and under ideal conditions produces finally a sort of ecstasy.

Fern was up at daylight, trying to rid the world of injustice. As a result, she now has a pig. A small one to be sure, but nevertheless a pig. It just shows what can happen if a person gets out of bed promptly.

Understanding humor is like dissecting a live frog. It can be done, but the frog tends to die in the process.

Always be on the lookout for the presence of wonder.

You want to save more fish? Eat more broccoli.