Whether a thought is spoken or not it is a real thing and has powers of reality.
I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.
'My darling,' she said at last, ' are you sure you don't mind being a mouse for the rest of your life?'
‘I don’t mind at all,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t matter who you are or what you look like so long as somebody loves you.’
'If you really want to know,' she said, 'I'm afraid a mouse doesn't live for a very long time.'
‘How long?’ I asked.
‘Well, an ordinary mouse only lives for about three years,’ she said. ‘But you are not an ordinary mouse. You are a mouse-person, and that is a very different matter.’
‘How different?’ I asked. ‘How long does a mouse-person live, Grandmamma?’
‘Longer,’ she said. ‘Much longer.’
‘How much longer?’ I asked.
‘A mouse-person will almost certainly live for three times as long as an ordinary mouse,’ my grandmother said. ‘About nine years.’
‘Good!’ I cried. ‘That’s great! It’s the best news I’ve ever had!’
‘Why do you say that?’ she asked, surprised.
‘Because I would never want to live longer than you,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t stand being looked after by anyone else.’
There was a short silence. She had a way of fondling me behind the ears with the tip of one finger. It felt lovely.
‘How old are you, Grandmamma?’ I asked.
‘I’m eighty-six,’ she said.
‘Will you live another eight or nine years?’
‘I might,’ she said. ‘With a bit of luck.’
‘You’ve got to,’ I said. ‘Because by then I’ll be a very old mouse and you’ll be a very old grandmother and soon after that we’ll both die together.’
‘That would be perfect,’ she said.