The story of my own childhood is a complicated sentence that I am always trying to finish, to finish and put behind me. It resists finishing, and partly this is because words are not enough; my early world was synaesthesic, and I am haunted by the ghosts of my own sense impressions, which re-emerge when I try to write, and shiver between the lines.
Hilary MantelTags: life consciousness past childhood ghosts
I miss those childish days of long ago, when one day was as long as twenty are now ...
C.J. HeckTags: youth childhood long-days
You know, it's a sad and unfortunate state of affairs that you have to live in a world where eight-year-olds refuse to believe in anything that they cannot touch or measure, and anyone who happens to see a thing that is invisible to most people is immediately branded a lunatic.
Caitlín R. KiernanTags: belief religion faith atheism childhood spirituality
The warm night claimed her. In a moment it was part of her. She walked on the grass, and her shoes were instantly soaked. She flung up her arms to the sky. Power ran to her fingertips. Excitement was communicated from the waiting trees, and the orchard, and the paddock; the intensity of their secret life caught at her and made her run. It was nothing like the excitement of ordinary looking forward, of birthday presents, of Christmas stockings, but the pull of a magnet - her grandfather had shown her once how it worked, little needles springing to the jaws - and now night and the sky above were a vast magnet, and the things that waited below were needles, caught up in the great demand. ("The Pool")
Daphne du MaurierTags: youth night childhood excitement excitement-of-youth
Then Deborah stood at the wicket gate, the boundary, and there was a woman with outstretched hand, demanding tickets.
"Pass through," she said when Deborah reached her. "We saw you coming." The wicket gate became a turnstile. Deborah pushed against it and there was no resistance, she was through.
"What is it?" she asked. "Am I really here at last? Is this the bottom of the pool?"
"It could be," smiled the woman. "There are so many ways. You just happened to choose this one."
Other people were pressing to come through. They had no faces, they were only shadows. Deborah stood aside to let them by, and in a moment they had gone, all phantoms.
"Why only now, tonight?" asked Deborah. "Why not in the afternoon, when I came to the pool?"
"It's a trick," said the woman. "You seize on the moment in time. We were here this afternoon. We're always here. Our life goes on around you, but nobody knows it. The trick's easier by night, that's all."
"Am I dreaming, then?" asked Deborah.
"No," said the woman, "this isn't a dream. And it isn't death, either. It's the secret world."
The secret world... It was something Deborah had always known, and now the pattern was complete. The memory of it, and the relief, were so tremendous that something seemed to burst inside her heart.
"Of course..." she said, "of course..." and everything that had ever been fell into place. There was no disharmony. The joy was indescribable, and the surge of feeling, like wings about her in the air, lifted her away from the turnstile and the woman, and she had all knowledge. That was it - the invasion of knowledge. ("The Pool")
Tags: imagination innocence knowledge time death night fantasy childhood creativity dream secret
Misery is a scar on the soul, that if it begins in childhood, it lasts the whole lifetime. I understand that no two scars are alike, but I also ask myself; even if these scars are not alike, aren’t these things engraved on our souls signed by which we know each other?Aren’t we also alike?
Bahaa TaherTags: soul childhood memories depression misery
and when all the wars are over, a butterfly will still be beautiful.
Ruskin BondTags: life love beauty peace war human-nature human childhood india butterfly ruskin-bond
Here is the door of my mom's house, well-remembered childhood portal. Here is the yard, and a set of wires that runs from the house to a wooden pole, and some fat birds sitting together on the wires, five of them lined up like beads on an abacus.
Dan ChaonTags: childhood birds door abacus
...for if we try to go on protecting them we prevent them from growing up to be ordinary, confident adults, capable of looking after themselves.
Dorothy RoweTags: childhood depression childer
In a universe where all life is in movement, where ever fact seen in perspective is totally engaging, we impose stillness on lively young bodies, distort reality to dullness, make action drudgery. Those who submit - as the majority does - are conditioned to a life lived without their human birthright: work done with the joy and creativity of love.
But what are schools for if not to make children fall so deeply in love with the world that they really want to learn about it? That is the true business of schools. And if they succeed in it, all other desirable developments follow of themselves.
In a proper school, no fact would ever be presented as a soulless one, for the simple reason that there is no such thing. Every facet of reality, discovered where it lives, startles with its wonder, beauty, meaning.
Tags: learning school children work childhood waldorf
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