“These notices had been written by Christopher Robin, who was the only one in the forest who could spell; for Owl, wise though he was in many ways, able to read and write and spell his own name WOL, yet somehow went all to pieces over delicate words like MEASLES and BUTTEREDTOAST.”

“Here was a man who could not spell, and did not care to read — who had the habits and the cunning of a boor: whose aim in life was pettifogging: who never had a taste, or emotion, or enjoyment, but was sordid and soil; and yet he had rank, and honors, and power, somehow: and was dignitary of the land, and a pillar of the state.”

“He respects owl, because you can't help respecting anybody who can spell TUESDAY, even if he doesn't spell it right.”

“And he respects Owl, because you can't help respecting anyone who can spell Tuesday, even if he doesn't spell it right; but spelling isn't everything. There are days when spelling Tuesday simply doesn't count.”

“Anyone who can only think of one way to spell a word obviously lacks imagination.”

“I don't give a damn for a man who can only spell a word one way.”

“And so he was reading the story as if it were a spell and the words of it, spoken aloud, could make magic happen.”

“Out of five hundred who speak glibly of love, not one can spell the first letter of his name.”

“It's a damn poor mind that can only think of one way to spell a word.”

“Then Christopher Robin and Winnie the Pooh walked hand in hand down the forest path and they said goodbye. So they went off together. But wherever they go, and whatever happens to them on the way, in that enchanted place on the top of the forest a little boy and his bear will always be playing and waiting.”