Maycomb was a tired old town, even in 1932 when I first knew it. Somehow, it was hotter then. Men's stiff collars wilted by nine in the morning. Ladies bathed before noon after their three o'clock naps, and by nightfall were like soft teacakes with frosting from sweating and sweet talcum. The day was twenty-four hours long, but it seemed longer. There's no hurry, for there's nowhere to go and nothing to buy... and no money to buy it with.

I'm still old-fashioned. I love dusty old books and libraries.

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.

Atticus had said it was the polite thing to talk to people about what they were interested in, not about what you were interested in.

There are just some kind of men…who’re so busy worrying about the next world they’ve never learned to live in this one.

You can pet him, Mr. Arthur. He's asleep.

Let the dead bury the dead.