There was a boy called Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and he almost deserved it

For in Calormen, story-telling (whether the stories are true or made up) is a thing you're taught, just as English boys and girls are taught essay-writing. The difference is that people want to hear the stories, whereas I never heard of anyone who wanted to read the essays.

It was like new. I didn't want to throw it away. It stayed in the closet until Clarence called.

Real joy seems to me almost as unlike security or prosperity as it is unlike agony.

The boy, a bare-legged beggarly son of a gun.

To call me a 'boy' several times to my face, he might as well have called me a 'n*****'.