Quotes from Laurie Halse Anderson

He says a million things without saying a word I have never head a more eloquent silence -Melinda

Don't be so hard on yourself. Art is about making mistakes and learning from them.

I head for my closet after school. I want to take the poster of Maya Angelou home, and I'd like to keep some of my tree pictures and my turkey-bone sculpture. The rest of the stuff can stay, so long as it doesn't have my name on it. Who knows, some other kids may need a safe place to run to next year.

When people don't express themselves, they die one piece at a time. You'd be shocked at how many adults are really dead inside -- walking through their days with no idea who they are, just waiting for a heart attack or cancer or a Mack truck to come along and finish the job. It's the saddest thing I know.

When people don't express themselves, they die one piece at a time.

The whole class yells at Rachel/Rachelle in the hall. That's what you get for speaking up.

AS THE GENERAL IS INFORMED, THAT NUMBERS OF FREE NEGROES ARE DESIROUS OF INLISTING, HE GIVES LEAVE TO THE RECRUITING OFFICERS TO ENTERTAIN THEM, AND PROMISES TO LAY THE MATTER BEFORE THE CONGRESS, WHO HE DOUBTS NOT WILL APPROVE OF IT. —GENERAL ORDERS OF GEORGE WASHINGTON T

When we get off the bus on Valentine's Day, a girl with white-blond hair bursts into tears. 'I Love You, Anjela!' is spray-painted into the snowbank along the parking lot. I don't know if Angela is crying because she is happy or because her heart's desire can't spell. Her honey is waiting with a red rose. They kiss right there in front of everybody. Happy Valentine's Day.

It means, 'You are my heart.'" I leaned forward, took her hands in mine, and whispered into her ear. "You have always been my heart, Country." Before I could kiss her, Isabel kissed me.

I feel like any minute a guy in a lavender suit will burst into the room with a microphone and bellow, Another alternate-reality moment brought to you by Adolescence!

A member of the Archery Club tries to say that we are all foreigners and we should give the country back to the Native Americans, but she's buried under disagreement.

Mother and Father apologize. They sing a show tune: 'What are we to do? What are we to do? She's so blue, we're just two. What, oh what, are we supposed to do?' In my headworld they jump on Principal Principal's desk and perform a tap-dance routine. A spotlight flashes on them. A chorus line joins in, and the guidance counselor dances around a spangled cane. I giggle. Zap. Back in their world.

I can grow. I look at my homely sketch. It doesn't need anything. Even through the river in my eyes I can see that. It isn't perfect and that makes it just right.

I sniff again and wipe my eyes on my arm. The bruises are vivid, but they will fade.

IT WOULD BE USELESS FOR US TO DENOUNCE THE SERVITUDE TO WHICH THE PARLIAMENT OF GREAT BRITAIN WISHES TO REDUCE US, WHILE WE CONTINUE TO KEEP OUR FELLOW CREATURES IN SLAVERY JUST BECAUSE THEIR COLOR IS DIFFERENT FROM OURS. —SIGNER OF THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE DR. BENJAMIN RUSH, WHO PURCHASED WILLIAM GRUBBER IN 1776 AND DID NOT FREE HIM UNTIL 1794 O

Picasso sure had a thing for naked women. Why not draw them with their clothes on? Who sits around without a shirt on, plucking a mandolin? Why not draw naked guys, just to be fair? Naked women is art, naked guys is a no-no, I bet. Probably because most painters are men.

our culture has the expectation that the memories of a happy childhood will somehow ground you and prepare you for adult life. But what about the memories that cut, that wound, that won't heal?

This is how terrorists get started, this kind of harmless fun.

Dr. Kerr rose off the bed. "Damned fool," he growled. "Excuse me?" I said. "Rowley, the imposter. Autumnal fever indeed. Your mother has yellow fever. There's no doubt at all.

I bet they'd be divorced by now if I hadn't been born. I'm sure I was a huge disappointment. I'm not pretty or smart or athletic. I'm just like them—an ordinary drone dressed in secrets and lies. I can't believe we have to keep playacting until I graduate. It's a shame we can't just admit that we have failed family living, sell the house, split up the money, and get on with our lives.

that's pretty good, for a young girl from Fever 1793

David stares at Mr. Neck, looks at the flag for a minute, then picks up his books and walks out of the room. He says a million things without saying a word. I make a note to study David Petrakis. I have never heard a more eloquent silence.

Principal Principal stormed in yesterday, smelling pleasure. His mustache moved up and down, a radar sweep for all things unruly. An unseen hand turned off the radio as he crossed the threshold, and bags of potato chips vanished, leaving the faint scent of salt to mix with vermilion oil paint and wet clay.

And so, with extra Leslie help and a chorus of angels disguised as teachers and librarians for years unstinting with love and hours of practice, those ants finally marched in straight lines for me shaped words, danced sentences, constructed worlds for a girl finally learning how to read I unlocked the treasure chest and swallowed the key.