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Who are you if you lose your favorite person? Can you lose your favorite person without losing yourself? I reach for Stargirl and she's gone. I'm not me anymore.

Jerry Spinelli

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Jerry Spinelli
Age: 83
Born: 1941
Born: February 1
Novelist
Writer
Norristown
Pennsylvania
Gone
Persons
Person
Favorite
Without
Anymore
Reach
Losing
Lose
Loses

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Each night I lie down in a graveyard of memories. Moonlight spins a shroud about me.
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You are what you are Which is what? I wondered
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I seem to have a natural tendency to want to share my own observations and feelings with other people, and writing seems to be the way I'm best equipped to do that.
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I didn't realize we were being watched. We were all being watched
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Nobody has the time, the time cannot be owned. The time is free to everyone
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Do not follow me! Let's just be fabulously where we are and who we are. You be you and I'll be me, today and today and today, and let's trust the future to tommorrow. Let the stars keep track of us. Let us ride our own orbits and trust that they will meet. May our reunion be not a finding but a sweet collision of destinies!
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This was the start of a period that blurs as I try to recall it. Incidents seem to cascade and merge. Events become feelings, fellings become events. Head and heart are contrary historians.
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Live today like there's no tomorrow!
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Because life doesn't always happen according to a timetable or calendar. And feelings can't be scheduled.
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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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I think of the flower in the bud: huddled, compressed, dark. Yet somehow it feels the night, knows moon from sun. It waits...waits.
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She was bendable light: she shone around every corner of my day.
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Did I ever tell you my pet peeve?' No,' I said. People who dress up their pets to look like Little Lord Fauntleroys or cowboys, clowns, ballerinas. As if it's not enough just to be a dog or cat or turtle.
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Because that's what you do, you stand up for your best friend. And you eat lunch with him and talk with him and share secrets and laugh a lot and go places and do stuff, and when you wake up in the morning, he's the first person you think of.
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It was different with you, Leo. In the eyes and ears of my heart, you and the magic are one and the same.
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Whom do I write for? I write for the story. Each story, it seems to me, knows best how it should be told. As I once put my ear to the railroad track, I listen now for the voice of my story.
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Amanda took the torn page from Maniac. To her, it was the broken wing of a bird, a pet out in the rain.
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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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He doesn't think. He just does. A nonthinking doer.
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This was the ghetto: where children grow down instead of up.
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