Harper Lee

When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken

at the elbow.

There are just some kind of men who—who’re so busy worrying about the next world they’ve never learned to live in this one, and you can look down the street and see the results

You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view—”
“Sir?”
“—until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.”

With him, life was routine; without him, life was unbearable.

I said I would like it very much, which was a lie, but one must lie under certain circumstances and at all times when one can’t do anything about them.

“Atticus, are we going to win it?”

“No, honey.”

“Then why—”

“Simply because we were licked a hundred years before we started is no reason for us not to try to win,” Atticus said

Dill said striking a match under a turtle was hateful.

“Ain’t hateful, just persuades him—‘s not like you’d chunk him in the fire,” Jem growled.

“How do you know a match don’t hurt him?”

“Turtles can’t feel, stupid,” said Jem.

“Were you ever a turtle, huh?”

I never looked forward more to anything in my life.

Hours of wintertime had found me in the treehouse

Inside the house lived a malevolent phantom.