“‘Wendy, Wendy, when you are sleeping in your silly bed you might be flying about with me saying funny things to the stars.'”
…
“Indeed, sometimes when he returned he did not remember them, at least not well. Wendy was sure of it. She saw recognition come into his eyes as he was about to pass them the time of day and go on; once even she had to tell him her name.
“I’m Wendy,’ she said agitatedly.
“He was very sorry. ‘I say, Wendy,’ he whispered to her, ‘always if you see me forgetting you, just keep saying “I’m Wendy,” and then I’ll remember.'”
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Tales of wonder that stick with us have a sort of sadness and fear about them. Sadness because states of wonder and ecstasy cannot easily be sustained in the world we live in — the mundane and the cruel have a way of dampening the soul, of chipping away at it. Fear because we cannot exist for long in the nonsensical and the unstable without losing our mooring completely.
