When one’s dead, one’s dead… This squirrel will become earth all in his time. And still later on, there’ll grow new trees from him, with new squirrels skipping about in them. Do you think that’s so very sad?

“Moominpappa missed his family and his veranda. He suddenly got the feeling that only there could he be as free and as adventurous as a good father should be.”

‘If you’re sore, you’re sore,’ observed Little My, peeling her potatoes with her teeth. ‘You have to be angry sometimes. Every little creep has a right to be angry.’

But that’s how it is when you start wanting to have things. Now, I just look at them, and when I go away I carry them in my head. Then my hands are always free, because I don’t have to carry a suitcase.

Walking had been easy, because his knapsack was nearly empty and he had no worries on his mind. He felt happy about the wood and the weather, and himself. Tomorrow and yesterday were both at a distance, and just at present the sun was shining brightly between the birches, and the air was cool and soft.

One can’t be too dangerous, if they like to eat pancakes. Especially with jam on it.

The Hemulen woke up slowly and recognised himself and wished he had been someone he didn’t know.

One by one, the snowflakes floated down on to his warm snout, and melted. He reached out to grab them so he could admire them for a fleeting moment. He looked towards the sky and watched them drift down towards him, more and more, soft and light as a feather. ‘So that’s how it works,’ thought Moomintroll. ‘And I thought somehow that the snow grew from the ground up!

“I do not understand why the heroine in the book is always prettier than the one at home.”

‘I’m frightened’, whispered the smallest little one, pulling on Snufkin’s sleeve.
‘Keep hold of me. Everything will be all right,’ comforted Snufkin.
‘It’s all over now, Sniff’ said Snufkin. ‘Don’t cry, dear friend.’

The faint whisper of rain and running water was still there and it had the same tender note of solitude and perfection. But what did the rain mean to him as long as he couldn’t write a song about it

‘Tonight is the night for a song,’ thought Snufkin. ‘I’ll think up a new song that is one part anticipation, two parts pining for spring, and the rest a joyous declaration of how wonderful it is to be alone and at peace with yourself.’

“Making a journey by night is more wonderful than anything in the world.”

I knew nothing, but I believed a lot.