Hey, Mr. Cunningham. How's your entailment gettin' along?

Where are your pants, son?

I just thought you'd like to know I can read. You got anything needs readin' I can do it.

As I made my way home, I thought Jem and I would get grown but there wasn't much else for us to learn, except possibly algebra.

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.

With him, life was routine; without him, life was unbearable.

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.