Writing is a process of self-discipline you must learn before you can call yourself a writer. There are people who write, but I think they’re quite different from people who must write.
Shut up, Jean Louise. I’m trying to make you see his motive:.
I was bored, so I began a letter to Dill. Miss Caroline caught me writing and told me to tell my father to stop teaching me. “Besides,” she said. “We don’t write in the first grade, we print. You won’t learn to write until you’re in the third grade.
Jem said Mr. Avery misfigured, Dill said he must drink a gallon a day, and the ensuing contest to determine relative distances and respective prowess only made me feel left out again, as I was untalented in this area.
You are using frightful means to justify ends that you think are for the good of the most people. Your ends may well be right – I think I believe in the same ends – but you cannot use people as your pawns, Atticus. You cannot.
Mr. O’Hanlon’s not prejudiced, Jean Louise. He’s a sadist.” “Then why did you all let him get up there?” “Because he wanted to.” “Sir?” “Oh yes,” said her father vaguely. “He goes about addressing citizens’ councils all over the state. He asked permission to speak to ours and we gave it to him. I rather think he’s paid by some organization in Massachusetts –.
Amazing grace how sweet thuh sound That saved a wretch like me; I once was lost but now I’m found, Was blind, but now I see. A-men.” Jem.
Atticus – ” said Jem bleakly. He turned in the doorway. “What, son?” “How could they do it, how could they?” “I don’t know, but they did it. They’ve done it before and they did it tonight and they’ll do it again and when they do it – seems that only children weep. Good night.” But.
All we had was Simon Finch, a fur-trapping apothecary from Cornwall whose piety was exceeded only by his stinginess.
He didn’t forget his lunch, he didn’t have any. He had none today nor would he have any tomorrow or the next day. He had probably never seen three quarters together at the same time in his life.
It’s alive!” she screamed. The.
She could not comprehend the attitudes of young people these days. Not that they needed understanding – young people were the same in every generation – but this cockiness, this refusal to take seriously the gravest questions of their lives, nettled and irritated her. Jean Louise was about to make the worst mistake of her life, and she glibly quoted those people at her, she mocked her.
Sometimes I just don’t vote my convictions, that’s all.
The Finch doorbell was a mystical instrument; it was possible to tell the state of mind of whoever pushed it. When it said dee-ding! Jean Louise knew Henry was outside bearing down happily. She hurried to the door.
There was a time, long ago, when the only peaceful moments of her existence were those from the time she opened her eyes in the morning until she attained full consciousness, a matter of seconds until when finally roused she entered the day’s wakeful nightmare. She.
When I pointed to him his palms slipped slightly, leaving greasy sweat streaks on the wall, and he hooked his thumbs in his belt. A strange small spasm shook him, as if he heard fingernails scrape slate, but as I gazed at him in wonder the tension slowly drained from his face. His lips parted into a timid smile, and our neighbor’s image blurred with my sudden tears. “Hey, Boo,” I said.
An oppressive odor met us when we crossed the threshold, an odor I had met many times in rain-rotted gray houses where there are coal-oil lamps, water dippers, and unbleached domestic sheets. It always made me afraid, expectant, watchful.
First thing you learn when you’re in a lawin’ family is that there ain’t any definite answers to anything.
Mr. Tate. “He’s good and dead. He won’t hurt these children again.
She did not stand alone, but what stood behind her, the most potent moral force in her life, was the love of her father.
Mrs. Merriweather played her voice like an organ; every word she said received its full measure:.