Quotes from Jerry Spinelli

We couldn't say her name often enough. It tickled us to mention her name to strangers and watch the expressions on their faces. Girls liked her. Boys liked her. And-- most remarkable-- the attention came from all kinds of kids: shy mice and princesses, jocks and eggheads.

Don't hate him either. You shouldn't hate anybody ... If you start by hating one or two people, you won't be able to stop. Pretty soon you'll hate a hundred people ... A little hatred goes a long, long way. It grows and grows. And it's hungry. ... You keep feeding it more and more people, and the more it gets, the more it wants. It's never satisfied. And pretty soon it squeezes all the love out of your heart ... and all you'll have left is a hateful heart.

In the utter darkness he felt himself to be nothing but ears and fingertips. He could feel Nipper's heartbeat, putt-putting away behind the toothpick ribs like a tiny motor scooter. He could feel the cold, golden gaze of the trophy pigeon two rooms away. The silence of the house at night was not total. Somewhere a clock was ticking. Cricks and creaks came from nearby and distant quarters, as if the house were twitching in a sleep of its own.

Easier to rearrange the stars than a father's mind.

He pictured them in his room, shadows, dark upon dark, Beans's penlight like a starflake moving in the darkness...

When she dreams of love, she dreams of smashed potatoes.

Sometimes life goes its own way and drags you along.

And Alvina the floor sweeper—she hates herself, and it seems she's got plenty of company. All she's losing is her childhood, her future, a worldful of people who will never be her friends. How would you like to trade places with her?

And where were you last night?" said Beans. It occurred to Palmer that he had a right to questions of his own. "Where was I ? Where were you ?

The setting sun seemed to have ladled its syrupy light over the crusted snow, so that ordinary house parts and backyards in this fading moment seemed a spectacular raspberry dessert.

And the last remaining pace between our lips were gone and i was falling headlong into her eyes, right there on Palo Verde after dinner. And I can tell you, that was no saint kissing me.

Henry was staring at the sky. Palmer saw Henry for what he was: a captive, strong enough to warn him about last night, but too weak to do anything except follow Beans. He saw in Henry something of himself, and worse, what he could become.

Real mothers don't die, said Ferdi. No one had an answer to that. So we talked about oranges. Like mothers, oranges were a common topic. Enos said he had eaten them many times, but Ferdi said they were only made up. What do oranges taste like? I asked Enos. He closed his eyes. Like nothing else. What do they look like? Like a little sun before it sets. Feeding said, Oranges don't exist.

Could life get any worse? She had read that great literature often comes out of great tragedy. If that was true, well, Shakespeare better move over.

He stared at me. She liked you, boy. The intensity of his voice and eyes made me blink. Yes, I said. She did it or you, you know. What? Gave up herself for a while there. She loved you that much. What an incredibly lucky kid you were.

im a puppy unleashed in a meadow of time

You're cheating yourself out of today. Today is calling to you, trying to get your attention, but you're stuck on tomorrow, and today trickles away like water down a drain. You wake up the next morning and that today that you wasted is gone forever. It's now yesterday.

each night I lie down in a graveyard of memories

Was this really happening? Did my stepfather really drag me out of bed at 7:00 in the morning on my summer vacation so I could stand in the kitchen in my underpants and stare down a row of chicken bones?

but my rather said no way was he going

I can't believe it. Summer's almost over. Summer has a funnel shape. It seems real wide at first and deep. Slow. Like it will last forever. You just float on top of it.

And whenever she saw Palmer with them at school, she acted as if she did not know him. Palmer sensed that she was doing this for his sake.

I wish I was back in the sixth grade. I was important there. I'm nothing here. I'm a turd.

They were laughing and playing ball when Palmer, letting fly a long shot from beyond the bed, said, "Do you like my father?" Dorothy watched the ball bounce off the door. "What kind of question is that?" "Do you?" "Sure, why?" "Do you think he's nice?" "Yeah, don't you?" Palmer thought for a moment. "Yeah, he is. I guess that's the problem.