No book is really worth reading at the age of ten which is not equally – and often far more – worth reading at the age of fifty and beyond.

There seemed no end to the lilies. Day after day from all those miles and leagues of flowers there rose a smell which Lucy found it very hard to describe; sweet—yes, but not at all sleepy or overpowering, a fresh, wild, lonely smell that seemed to get into your brain and make you feel that you could go up mountains at a run or wrestle with an elephant. She and Caspian said to one another, "I feel that I can't stand much more of this, yet I don't want it to stop".

There are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind.

Go under Mercy; Sleep under the Protection.