“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.”
Photography: Strangers in Parisian Parks
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