Best 38 quotes of P. L. Travers on MyQuotes

And all the time he was enjoying his badness, hugging it to him as though it were a friend, and not caring a bit.

A writer is, after all, only half his book. The other half is the reader and from the reader the writer learns.

Child and serpent, star and stone — all one.

Children's books are looked on as a sideline of literature. A special smile. They are usually thought to be associated with women. I was determined not to have this label of sentimentality put on me so I signed by my intials, hoping people wouldn't bother to wonder if the books were written by a man, woman or kangaroo.

Could it be ... that the hero is one who is willing to set out, take the first step, shoulder something? Perhaps the hero is one who puts his foot upon a path not knowing what he may expect from life but in some way feeling in his bones that life expects something of him.

For me there are no answers, only questions, and I am grateful that the questions go on and on. I don't look for an answer, because I don't think there is one. I'm very glad to be the bearer of a question.

I don't think that children, if left to themselves, feel that there is an author behind a book, a somebody who wrote it. Grown-ups have fostered this quotient of identity, particularly teachers. Write a letter to your favorite author and so forth. When I was a child I never realized that there were authors behind books. Books were there as living things, with identities of their own.

If you want to find Cherry-Tree Lane all you have to do is ask the Policeman at the cross-roads.

I hate being good. -Mary Poppins

I think that Mary Poppins needs a subtle reader, in many respects, to grasp all its implications, and I understand that these cannot be translated in terms of the film.

I think the idea of Mary Poppins has been blowing in and out of me, like a curtain at a window, all my life.

It may be that to eat and be eaten are the same thing in the end. My wisdom tells me that this is probably so. We are all made of the same stuff, remember, we of the Jungle, you of the City. The same substance composes us-the tree overhead, the stone beneath us, the bird, the beast, the star-we are all one, all moving to the same end. Remember that when you no longer remember me, my child.

I've felt that if I just used initials nobody would know whether I was a man or a woman, a dog or a tiger. I could hide from view, like a bat on the underside of a branch.

Perhaps we are born knowing the tales of our grandmothers and all their ancestral kin continually run in our blood repeating them endlessly, and the shock they give us when we first bear them is not of surprise but of recognition.

Stories are like birds flying, here and gone in a moment.

Tea is balm for the soul, don't you agree?

The Irish, as a race, have the oral tradition in their blood. A direct question to them is an anathema, but in other cases, a mere syllable of a hero's name will elicit whole chapters of stories.

The same substance composes us--the tree overhead, the stone beneath us, the bird, the beast, the star--we are all one, all moving to the same end.

What I want to know is this: Are the stars gold paper or is the gold paper stars?

When I was a child, love to me was what the sea is to a fish: something you swim in while you are going about the important affairs of life.

Who are you?" she inquired, as the cat passed by. I'm the cat that looked at a king," he replied. And I," she remarked with a toss of her head, "am the cow that jumped over the moon." Is that so?" said the cat. "Whatever for?" The cow stared. She had never been asked that question before. And suddenly it occured to her that there might something else to do than jumping over moons.

With the word creative we stand under a mystery. And from time to time that mystery, as if it were a sun, sends down upon one head or another, a sudden shaft of light - by grace, one feels, rather than deserving, for it always is something given, free, unsought, unexpected.

You do not chop off a section of your imaginative substance and make a book specifically for children, for, if you are honest, you have no idea where childhood ends and maturity begins. It is all endless and all one.

Aceeași substanță ne compune pe toți - copacul de deasupra capului, piatra de sub noi, pasărea, fiara, steaua, una suntem cu toții și cu toții ne îndreptăm spre aceeași țintă.

And what's more, he'll go and live with his friend unless his friend is allowed to come in and live with him...His friend must have a silk cushion just like his and sleep in your room too. Otherwise he will go and sleep in the coal-cellar with his friend

And when, at last, .... I stood in London with ten pounds in my hand - five of which I promptly lost - the ancestors dwelling in my blood who, all my life, had summoned me with insistent eldritch voices, murmured together, like contented cats.

A very excellent and worthy person, thoroughly reliable in every particular.

But at the very moment she was thinking these thoughts, adventure, as she afterwards told my Mother, was stalking her.

Gently, please, gently!” she warned, as they crowded about her. “This is a baby, not a battle-ship!

It was not very long afterwards that Michael woke up one morning with a curious feeling inside him. He knew, the moment he opened his eyes, that something was wrong but he was not quite sure what it was. "What is today, Mary Poppins?" He enquired, pushing the bedclothes away from him. "Tuesday," said Mary Poppins. "Go and turn on your bath. Hurry!" she said, as he made no effort to move. He turned over and pulled the bedclothes up over his head and the curious feeling increased. "What did I say?" said Mary Poppins in that cold, clear voice that was always a Warning. Michael knew now what was happening to him. He knew he was going to be naughty.

Mary Poppins is not a fairy-tale." "She's even better!" said Alfred loyally. "She's a fairy-tale come true.

Michael, "I never expected the wish to come true." The Trout, "Great Oceans! Why bother to wish it, then? I call that simply a waste of time.

Once we have accepted the story we cannot escape the story's fate.

Thank you, ma’am,” said Mary Poppins with icy politeness. “But I bring the children up in my own way and take advice from nobody,

That's coral!" she cried in astonishment. "We must be down in the deeps of the sea!" Well, wasn't that what you wanted?" said the trout. "I thought you wished you could see the sea!" I did," said Jane, looking very surprised. "But I never expected the wish to come true." Great oceans! Why bother to wish it then? I call that simply a waste of time. But come on! Mustn't be late for the party!

This is the way the wheel turns, coming at last to full circle, with wild as well as tame at he crib; lion and turtle-dove together an barnyard beasts lying down with the fox. For wild and tame are but two hlaves and here, where all begins and ends, everything must be whole. And always, among the sleepers, there must be somebody waking - somewhere, someone, waking and watchful. Or what would happen to the world..?

We're on the brink of an Adventure. Don't spoil it by asking questions!

You should trust the children; they can stand more than we can.