Maybe My Passion Is Nothing Special, But

One Summer Morning At Sunrise A Long Time Ago I Met A Little Girl With A Book Under Her Arm. I Asked Her Why She Was Out So Early And She Answered That There Were Too Many Books And Far Too Little Time. And There She Was Absolutely Right.

She Started Thinking About All The Euphemisms For Death, All The Anxious Taboos That Had Always Fascinated Her. It Was Too Bad You Could Never Have An Intelligent Discussion On The Subject. People Were Either Too Young Or Too Old, Or Else They Didn't Have Time.

I Don't Want To Hear About Them Any More. I Could Vomit On The Moomintrolls.

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.

It’s Strange,” Moominmamma Thought. “strange That People Can Be Sad, And Even Angry Because Life Is Too Easy. But That’s The Way It Is, I Suppose. The Only Thing To Do Is To Start Life Afresh.