The One Thing That Doesn't Abide By

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.

You Know, Many Writers Really Don't Like To Write. I Think This The Chief Complaint Of So Many. They Hate To Write; They Do It Under The Compulsion That Makes Any Artist The Victim He Is, But They Loathe The Process Of Sitting Down Trying To Turn Thoughts Into Reasonable Sentences.

Nothin’s Real Scary Except In Books.

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.

Being Southerners, It Was A Source Of Shame To Some Members Of The Family That We Had No Recorded Ancestors On Either Side Of The Battle Of Hastings.