Quotes from Annie Barrows

I am a grown woman-- mostly-- and I can guzzle champagne with whomever I choose.

Reading good books ruins you for enjoying bad books.

It suddenly struck me that Dawsey is a lonesome person. I think it may be that he has always been lonely, but he didn't mind before, and now he minds.

You know how I love talking about books, and you know how I adore receiving compliments.

We could have gone on longing for one another and pretending not to notice forever. This obsession with dignity can ruin your life if you let it.

The first rule of snooping is to come at it sideways--when you began writing me dizzy letters about Alexander, I didn't ask if you were in love with him, I asked what his favorite animal was. And your answer told me everything I needed to know about him--how many men would admit that they loved ducks?

Mary Ann could no more endure a day without reading than she could grow feathers.

The wonderful thing about books--and the thing that made them such a refuge for the islanders during the Occupation--is that they take us out of our time and place and understanding, and transport us not just into the world of the story, but into the world of our fellow readers, who have stories of their own.

I've learned that history is the autobiography of the historian, that ignoring the past is the act of a fool, and that loyalty does not mean falling into line, but stepping out of it for the people you love.

There had been a problem in Bean's house. The problem was staples. Bean loved staples. She loved them so much that she had stapled things that weren't supposed to be stapled. The things looked better stapled, but her mother didn't think so, and now Bean was outside. She was going to be outside for a long time.

I have since wondered, of course, how my life would have been different if I'd decided to stay home that morning. This is what's called the enigma of history, and it can drive you out of your mind if you let it.

Ivy! It's a natural disaster! You have to be there!

If you had duct tape, you were prepared for anything.

Time softened on Sundays; it stretched itself out in vast rubbery lengths, and by two o'clock, there was more of it than would ever be needed for anything. There was no point in reading a book, writing a letter, or playing a game, because time was too flaccid ever to proceed to the moment in which the plot would twist, the letter would be sent, or the game would be won.

A hint: perhaps in this case, you should refrain from throwing the book at the audience when you finish.

When grown-ups asked you to sit in a circle, they were usually about to tell you something you didn't want to hear. Ms. Aruba-Tate, Ivy and Bean's second-grade teacher, was forever gathering them in a circle for bad news. Like, the class fish died over the weekend. Or, everyone has to start using real punctuation. Or, the pencil sharpener is off-limits. Circles meant trouble.

You are so weird sometimes.

Reading good books spoils you for enjoying bad books.

You're right, Jottie, but what good is it? Rightness is nothing. You can't live on it. You might as well eat ashes. I glanced at Father, his bloodshot eyes and the stain on his pants. I loved him so. Once more, I tried to explain. This is all we can do; it's all we're allowed. We can't go back. The only thing time leaves for us to decide -- I picked up Father's hand and held it tight-- is whether or not we're going to hate each other.

That meant that Nancy was the grown-up, the one who got to decide everything. And it meant that Bean was the little, boring, poopy baby who didn't get to decide anything.

He was lying; I could hear it the way you hear a tune and you know how it goes. I wondered how many times I'd heard him lie, to know so well what it sounded like.

Bean decided to pay attention to what Ms. Aruba-Tate was saying. Today, class, we are having a special science lesson. Science! Bean stopped thinking about Colorado. Science was usually dirt or fish, and Bean liked both of them.

All of us see a story according to our own lights. None of us is capable of objectivity. You

And she's certainly a good cook." Miss Betts sighed. "The epitaph of the spinster.