I didn't expect the book to sell in the first place. I was hoping for a quick and merciful death at the hands of reviewers but at the same time I sort of hoped that maybe someone would like it enough to give me encouragement. Public encouragement. I hoped for a little, as I said, but I got rather a whole lot, and in some ways this was just about as frightening as the quick, merciful death I'd expected.

That boy is your company. And if he wants to eat up that tablecloth, you let him, you hear?

I'm gonna be a new kind of clown. I'm gonna stand in the middle of the ring and laugh at the folks.

Now that I was compelled to think about it, reading was something that just came to me, as learning to fasten the seat of my union suit without looking around, or achieving two bows from a snarl of shoelaces.

Atticus told me to delete the adjectives and I'd have the facts.

It's not necessary to tell all you know.

Let the dead bury the dead.