An author is known by the worlds he creates. The measure of his greatness is the degree of clarity and the consistency with which he builds his spirit's habitation, the depth and height it offers the reader who enters it. Eleanor Farjeon's world is construed of fantasy, romance, and an abounding yea-saying joy in the experience of life. It is the stuff that dreams are made of, and as dangerous as dynamite except for those who have genius in their blood, a compassionate heart, a sense of wonder at the multitudinous miracles to be met in one day's living in this world, and the blessed proportion of wit, humor and nonsense. All these she has.

I was a little overworked. I had been reading a great number of manuscripts in the preceding weeks, and the mere sight of typescript was a burden to me. But be…

He could not be captured, He could not be bought, His running was rhythm, His standing was thought; With one eye on sorrow And one eye on mirth, He galloped in…

From the blood of Medusa Pegasus sprang. His hoof of heaven Like melody rang.

When I was young I longed to write a great novel that should win me fame. Now that I am getting old my first book is written to amuse children. For aside from …

The creations of a great writer are little more than the moods and passions of his own heart, given surnames and Christian names, and sent to walk the earth.

Why does my Muse only speak when she is unhappy? She does not, I only listen when I am unhappy.