Norton Juster
- The Phantom Tollbooth, The King and Milo
Why, my cabinet members can do all sorts of things. The duke here can make mountains out of molehills. The minister splits hairs. The count makes hay while the sun shines. The earl leaves no stone unturned. And the undersecretary," he finished ominously, "hangs by a thread. Can't you do anything at all?" "I can count to a thousand," offered Milo. "A-A-R-G-H, numbers! Never mention numbers here.
Norton Juster
- The Phantom Tollbooth, Which
"What's a Which?" - asked Milo, releasing Tock and stepping a little closer. "Well, I am the king's great-aunt. For years and years I was in charge of choosing which words were to be used for all occasions, which ones to say and which ones not to say, which ones to write and which ones not to write. As you can well imagine, with all the thousands to choose from, it was a most important and responsible job. I was given the title of 'Official Which,' which made me very proud and happy."
Norton Juster
- The Phantom Tollbooth, Which Witch
Milo jumped back in fright and quickly grabbed Tock to make sure that his alarm didn't go off-for he knew how much witches hate loud noises. "Don't be frightened," she laughed "I'm not a witch-I'm a Which." "Oh," said Milo, because he couldn't think of anything else to say. "I'm Faintly Macabre, the not-so-wicked Which," she continued, "and I'm certainly not going to harm you."
Norton Juster
- The Phantom Tollbooth, Short Shrift
SILENCE!" thundered the policeman, pulling himself up to full height. "And now," he continued, speaking to Milo, "where were you on the night of July 27?" "What does that have to do with it?" asked Milo. "It's my birthday, that what," said the policeman as he entered "Forgot my birthday" in his little book. "Boys always forget other people's birthdays.
Lorca
- Duende
Reject the angel, and give the Muse a kick, and forget our fear of the scent of violets that poetry breathes out, and of the great telescope in whose lenses the Muse sleeps. The true struggle is with the duende. The roads where one searches for God are known, whether the barbaric way of the hermit or the subtle one of the mystic. ... And though we may have to cry out, in Isaiah's voice: Truly you are a hidden God,' finally, in the end, God sends his primal thorns of fire to those who seek Him.
