You can ask me anything you like about my work, but I'll never talk about myself. - P. L. Travers

I’m not asleep,” Jane reassured her. “I’m thinking about the story.” “I heard every word,” said Michael, yawning. The Park Keeper rocked, as if in a trance. “A Nex-plorer in disguise,” he murmured, “sittin’ in the midnight sun and climbin’ the North Pole!” “Ouch!

The Sphinx, the Pyramids, the stone temples are, all of them, ultimately, as flimsy as London Bridge; our cities but tents set up in the cosmos. We pass. But what the bee knows, the wisdom that sustains our passing life — however much we deny or ignore it — that for ever remains.

The Dolphins were after it in a second, two dark striving shapes rippling through the water. Jane and Michael could hardly breathe. Which would win the prize? Or would the prize escape?