Characters Make Their Own Plot.

Atticus Said That Jem Was Trying Hard To Forget Something, But What He Was Really Doing Was Storing It Away For A While, Until Enough Time Passed. Then He Would Be Able To Think About It And Sort Things Out. When He Was Able To Think About It, Jem Would Be Himself Again.

When I Pointed To Him His Palms Slipped Slightly, Leaving Greasy Sweat Streaks On The Wall, And He Hooked His Thumbs In His Belt. A Strange Spasm Shook Him, As If He Heard Fingernails Scrape Slate, But As I Gazed At Him In Wonder The Tension Slowly Drained From His Face. His Lips Parted Into A Timid Smile, And Our Neighbor’s Image Blurred With My Sudden Tears. “hey, Boo,” I Said. “mr. Arthur, Honey,” Said Atticus, Gently Correcting Me. “jean Louise, This Is Mr. Arthur Radley. I Believe He Already Knows You.

Jen And I Were Accustomed To Our Father's Last-will-and-testament Diction, And Were At Times Free To Interrupt Atticus For A Translation When It Was Beyond Our Understanding.

As I Inched Sluggishly Along The Treadmill Of The Maycomb County School System, I Could Not Help Receiving The Impression That I Was Being Cheated Out Of Something. Out Of What I Knew Not, Yet I Did Not Believe That Twelve Years Of Unrelieved Boredom Was Exactly What The State Had In Mind For Me.

Writing Is Something You'll Never Learn In Any University Or At Any School. It's Something That Is Within You, And If It Isn't There, Nothing Can Put It There.