'I'm not beautiful, I'm pretty!' (Angrily at age 2 and a half. After getting into his sister's toy makeup case and being called beautiful...)

The roaring of the wind is my wife and the stars through the window pane are my children. The mighty abstract idea I have of beauty in all things stifles the more divided and minute domestic happiness.

Every man sees in his relatives, and especially in his cousins, a series of grotesque caricatures of himself.

“If we call these foothills, can we call the little trees 'foot trees?''' (While driving in the foothills.)

I hope they get here soon. The kids are biting at the chomp.