Turtles Don't Feel, Stupid," Said Jem. "were

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.

It Was Times Like These When I Thought My Father, Who Hated Guns And Had Never Been To Any Wars, Was The Bravest Man Who Ever Lived.

Writing Is Simply Something You Must Do. It's Rather Like Virtue In That It Is Its Own Reward.

It’s Never An Insult To Be Called What Somebody Thinks Is A Bad Name. It Just Shows You How Poor That Person Is, It Doesn’t Hurt You.

Any Writer Worth His Salt Writes To Please Himself...it's A Self-exploratory Operation That Is Endless. An Exorcism Of Not Necessarily His Demon, But Of His Divine Discontent.