In Maycomb, if one went for a walk with no definite purpose in mind, it was correct to believe one's mind incapable of definite purpose.

He turned out the light and went into Jem's room. He would be there all night, and he would be there when Jem waked up in the morning.

The remainder of my schooldays were no more auspicious than the first. Indeed, they were an endless Project that slowly evolved into a Unit, in which miles of construction paper and wax crayon were expended by the State of Alabama in its well-meaning but fruitless efforts to teach me Group Dynamics.

People who write for reward by way of recognition or monetary gain don't know what they're doing. They're in the category of those who write; they are not writers. Writing is simply something you must do. It's rather like virtue in that it is its own reward. Writing is selfish and contradictory in its terms. First of all, you're writing for an audience of one, you must please the one person you're writing for. Yourself.

Cecil Jacobs is a big wet hen!

Remember it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird.

Now...in an abundant society where people have laptops, cell phones, ipods and minds like empty rooms, I still plod along with books.