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I think of the flower in the bud: huddled, compressed, dark. Yet somehow it feels the night, knows moon from sun. It waits...waits.

Jerry Spinelli

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Jerry Spinelli
Age: 83
Born: 1941
Born: February 1
Novelist
Writer
Norristown
Pennsylvania
Feels
Waits
Think
Somehow
Thinking
Sun
Moon
Flower
Waiting
Huddled
Dark
Compressed
Night
Bud

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In that moonlit hour, I acquired a sense of the otherness of things. I liked the feeling the moonlight gave me, as if it wasn't the opposite of day, but its underside, its private side, when the fabulous purred on my snow-white sheet like some dark cat come in from the desert.
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So, he said, we ourselves will be the candle flames. He put his hands on his chest. Feel your hearts, how warm they are.
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This was the ghetto: where children grow down instead of up.
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How much better might human communication be if words were as precious as diamonds? If each of us were allotted only 100 words per day?
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Live today. Not yesterday. Not tomorrow. Just today. Inhabit your moments. Don't rent them out to tomorrow.
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Maybe it was the angle, but her fawn's eyes, looking up at me, seemed larger than ever. I had to make an effort to keep my balance lest I fall into them.
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We were awash in tiny attentions. Small gestures, words, empathies thought to be extinct came to life... We discovered the color of each other's eyes.
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