I think I know how to raise a kid. You just play catch with 'em. You just talk about life, and you distract them by throwing the ball. They don't even notice that you're filling up their heads with your theories.
The black arrowed swoop of the moment swung high into the unceilinged future, ten, fifty, sixty years, may be: then, past seeing, up to that warmthless unconsidered mock-time, when nothing shall be left but the memorial that fits all (except, if there be, the most unhappiest) of human kind: I was not, I lived and loved, I am not.