We live in our own world, A world that is too small For you to stoop and enter Even on hands and knees, The adult subterfuge.

Our very worries become our comfort zone. We hide in them.

Our world is made up of a myriad of microcosms, of tiny worlds, each with its own habitues, every one known to the others.

The bigger you are, the smaller your world becomes.

directing their narrow little lives by narrow little formulas — herd-creatures, flocking together and patterning their lives by one another’s opinions, failing of being individuals and of really living life because of the childlike formulas by which they were enslaved.

The world still terrifies us. We're told to write what we know. We write what we're afraid of. Only then is our fear made small by what we love.

The world is shrinking together; it is finding itself neighbor to itself in strange, almost magic degree.

if a man would make his world large, he must be always making himself small.

The inhabitants of all those worlds are trapped in little bubbles where nothing they do can have more than a local effect. Naturally these societies degenerate into savagery.

The problem with the world is that we draw the circle of our family too small.

Where I live, everything is very small.

It's a small world after all

We live at home, quiet, confined, and our feelings prey upon us.

Everything we can measure seems small.