“It was much pleasanter at home,’ thought poor Alice, ‘when one wasn’t always growing larger and smaller, and being ordered about by mice and rabbits. I almost wish I hadn’t gone down that rabbit-hole —and yet — and yet — it’s rather curious, you know, this sort of life! I do wonder what CAN have happened to me! When I used to read fairy-tales, I fancied that kind of thing never happened, and now here I am in the middle of one! There ought to be a book written about me, that there ought! And when I grow up, I’ll write one — but I’m grown up now,’ she added in a sorrowful tone; ‘at least there’s no room to grow up any more HERE.”
Let me give myself up entirely to the sweetness of conversing with my soul, since that is only thing men cannot take away from me.
-Jean-Jacques Rousseau, from The Reveries of the Solitary Walker