Seven to eleven is a huge chunk of life, full of dulling and forgetting. It is fabled that we slowly lose the gift of speech with animals, that birds no longer visit our windowsills to converse. As our eyes grow accustomed to sight they armor themselves against wonder.
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Heaven lies about us in our infancy and the world begins lying about us pretty soon afterward.
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I am convinced that, except in a few extraordinary cases, one form or another of an unhappy childhood is essential to the formation of exceptional gifts.
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Come children, let us shut up the box and the puppets, for our play is played out.
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That great Cathedral space which was childhood.
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Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close upon the growing boy.
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There are perhaps no days of our childhood we lived so fully as those we spent with a favorite book.
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What a man takes in by contemplation, that he pours out in love.
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The childhood shows the man, as morning shows the day.
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There is always one moment in childhood when the door opens and lets the future in.
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Is it not strange, that an infant should be heir of the whole world, and see those mysteries which the books of the learned never unfold?
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