There Is Nothing Worse Than War In

Seasons Passed, Fall And Winter And Spring And Summer. Leaves Blew In Through The Open Door Of Lucius Clarke’s Shop, And Rain, And The Green Outrageous Hopeful Light Of Spring. People Came And Went, Grandmothers And Doll Collectors And Little Girls With Their Mothers. Edward Tulane Waited. The Seasons Turned Into Years. Edward Tulane Waited. He Repeated The Old Doll’s Words Over And Over Until They Wore A Smooth Groove Of Hope In His Brain: Someone Will Come; Someone Will Come For You.

All Of That Loneliness And Longing In My Heart Got Transferred Into The Book Because Of Winn-dixie, I Guess.

The Closest I Can Get To Describing What Happens Is That Voices Come To Me. I Feel Like I'm Accessing Something That Is Deeper And Richer Than Me.

There's A Notion Of Art In This Country That You Have To Be Nutty Or Special Or "called" In Order To Be An Artist. I Believe The Questions Everyone Should Ask Themselves Are, "do You Want To Do It? Are You Willing To Do It Poorly? Are You Willing To Do The Work Of Doing It? Are You Willing To Persist When Everybody Tells You It's Silly?" If You're Willing To Do That, Then You Can Do It.

There Ain't No Way You Can Hold Onto Something That Wants To Go, You Understand? You Can Only Love What You Got While You Got It.