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A strong relationship is an honest relationship, and no honest relationship is all peaches and cream. Love is the key. Where love abides, anger is but a passing visitor.

Jerry Spinelli

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Jerry Spinelli
Age: 83
Born: 1941
Born: February 1
Novelist
Writer
Norristown
Pennsylvania
Honest
Peaches
Strong
Visitors
Love
Cream
Passings
Passing
Anger
Keys
Abides
Relationship
Visitor

More quotes by Jerry Spinelli

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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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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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He doesn't think. He just does. A nonthinking doer.
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You are what you are Which is what? I wondered
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I didn't realize we were being watched. We were all being watched
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The kids who leave their favorite authors behind do not in fact leave us utterly abandoned, but in due time drive children of their own to the bookstore and the post office.
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We long to be found, hoping our searchers have not given up and gone home.
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Her smile put the sunflower to shame.
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Peer pressure is just that: pressure.
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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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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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You haven't lived until you've basked in the adoration of people.
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Each night I lie down in a graveyard of memories. Moonlight spins a shroud about me.
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I’ll still be missing you as much as ever. I’l still smile at the memory of you. I’ll still be - Okay, I’ll say it again - loving you, but I won’t abandon myseld for you. I cannot be faithful to you without being faithful to myself.
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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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You are truly focused when you're so focused that you don't know you're focused.
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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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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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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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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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