‎'all We Need Is A Book,' Roared

My Childhood In Corfu Shaped My Life. If I Had The Craft Of Merlin, I Would Give Every Child The Gift Of My Childhood.

Why Keep In Touch With Them? That's What I Want To Know,' Asked Larry Despairingly. 'what Satisfaction Does It Give You? They're All Either Fossilized Or Mental.' 'indeed, They're Not Mental,' Said Mother Indignantly. 'nonsense, Mother... Look At Aunt Bertha, Keeping Flocks Of Imaginary Cats... And There's Great-uncle Patrick, Who Wanders About Nude And Tells Complete Strangers How He Killed Whales With A Penknife...they're All Bats.

Aspirin Is So Good For Roses, Brandy For Sweet Peas, And A Squeeze Of Lemon-juice For The Fleshy Flowers, Like Begonias.

Among The Myrtles The Mantids Moved, Lightly, Carefully, Swaying Slightly, The Quintessence Of Evil. They Were Lank And Green, With Chinless Faces And Monstrous Globular Eyes, Frosty Gold, With An Expression Of Intense, Predatory Madness In Them. The Crooked Arms, With Their Fringes Of Sharp Teeth, Would Be Raised In Mock Supplication To The Insect World, So Humble, So Fervent, Trembling Slightly When A Butterfly Flew Too Close.

They Were Maps That Lived, Maps That One Could Study, Frown Over, And Add To; Maps, In Short, That Really Meant Something.