Quote

Today the mockingbird does not sound very happy. It sounds if it is coming apart. As of the very heart of itself-its song-is breaking into pieces and flying off in a hundred directions.

Jerry Spinelli

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Jerry Spinelli
Age: 83
Born: 1941
Born: February 1
Novelist
Writer
Norristown
Pennsylvania
Happy
Directions
Sound
Breaking
Song
Flying
Doe
Apart
Today
Sounds
Heart
Hundred
Pieces
Coming
Mockingbird

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The blanket was there, but it was the boy's embrace that covered and warmed him.
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Or maybe you’re merely uncomfortable with uncertainty. Like the rest of the human race.
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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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If I get a new idea today—or any day—I won't run from it. I won't trash it. If it's something I really want to do—I'll do it.
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She laughed when there was no joke. She danced when there was no music. She had no friends, yet she was the friendliest person in school.
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Letter from Mr. B: Why does a back scratch feel better coming from somebody else than if you do it yourself?
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You occupied my space. But because you were not in my present, when I looked into my future I saw . . . nothing. Isn't that sad? And stupid?
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Write what you care about. If you do that, you stand the best chance of doing your best writing.
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Where were we? she said. Getting credit, I said. What about it? Well, it's nice to get credit. The spokes of her rear wheel spun behind the curtain of her long skirt. She looked like a photograph from a hundred years ago. She turned her wide eyes on me. Is it? she said.
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Hey, this is it—right now!—the time when you find out who you are and what you can do. And how will you ever know if you don't try new stuff?
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This was the ghetto: where children grow down instead of up.
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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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Live today. Not yesterday. Not tomorrow. Just today. Inhabit your moments. Don't rent them out to tomorrow.
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We live in a silent explosion, Everything is flying away from everything else... flying away... flying away...
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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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We wanted to define her, to wrap her up as we did each other, but we could not seem to get past weird and strange and goofy. Her ways knocked us off balance.
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We long to be found, hoping our searchers have not given up and gone home.
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