hold your head high and keep those fists down - Atticus Finch

Talking to Francis gave me the sensation of settling slowly to the bottom of the ocean.

Jen and I were accustomed to our father's last-will-and-testament diction, and were at times free to interrupt Atticus for a translation when it was beyond our understanding.

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 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. “Mr. Arthur, honey,” said Atticus, gently correcting me. “Jean Louise, this is Mr. Arthur Radley. I believe he already knows you.

I came to the conclusion that people were just peculiar, I withdrew from them, and never thought about them until I was forced to.

Ladies in bunches always filled me with vague apprehension and a firm desire to be elsewhere.

Until I feared I would lose it, I never loved to read. One does not love breathing.