Childhood was an illusion  and the illusion was this: everything was bigger. No, I mean everything, not just houses and shops and grown-ups, but colors and flowers and journeys, especially journeys which seemed endless. "Are we there yet, Daddy?" Funfairs   were huge things that spread for miles around you with noise and lights and exciting danger. Rainy days at home when you were ill seemed to last for ever. Being a grown-up yourself was an unthinkable distant possibility. Every sound was louder, every game was grander, every pain unbearable. As I've grown old, life has become smaller. Tastes have dulled. Surprises have turned into shocks. Days go by unnoticed. How can I regain childhood when it was an illusion? I have only one repeatable and wonderful way and even in this way I can regain only part of that larger world. I can play upon the stage like a child and make the crowd laugh and laugh with them, sometimes helplessly like a child, and then, even though I'm a sixty-one-year-old man, I can almost catch the colors and sounds and stillness of those bigger years when I was little. The author thinks that everything was bigger in childhood because   _
children could not make proper judgments. children were curious and eager about life things appeared really big in children's eyes to grow up seemed so long for children