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Seven to eleven is a huge chunk of life, full of dulling and forgetting. It is fabled that we slowly lose the gift of speech with animals, that birds no longer visit our windowsills to converse. As our eyes grow accustomed to sight they armor themselves against wonder.

Leonard Cohen (1934-?) Canadian poet, novelist, and singer-songwriter.

The childhood shows the man, as morning shows the day.

John Milton (1608-1674) English poet.

What might be taken for a precocious genius is the genius of childhood. When the child grows up, it disappears without a trace. It may happen that this boy will become a real painter some day, or even a great painter. But then he will have to begin everything again, from zero.

Pablo Picasso (1881-1973) Spanish painter.

That great Cathedral space which was childhood.

Virginia Woolf (1882-1941) British novelist and essayist.

Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close upon the growing boy.

William Wordsworth (1770-1850) English Romantic poet.

Heaven lies about us in our infancy and the world begins lying about us pretty soon afterward.

Ambrose Bierce (1842-1914) American newspaperman and short-story writer.