White people in his experience were far more transparent. The most hateful rarely bothered to conceal their hostility, and when for some reason they did try to hide their feelings, they generally exhibited all the guile of five-year-olds, who cannot imagine that the world sees them other than as they wish to be seen.

What you going to do?” she cried. “You break my neck, and the what? You think I won’t come back and haunt you? Go ahead! Make me a ghost! See what that gets you.

It never fails,” Montrose said. “No matter what they do to you, afterwards it’s like nothing happened. You’re supposed to just be grateful you’re still breathing.

Warren Dandridge had insisted that poker was a Christian game: Players who practiced virtue – learning and respecting the odds, keeping their emotions in check, managing their bankrolls intelligently – tended to prosper, while those who succumbed to vice – chasing long shots, letting passion rule reason – went the way of all unrepentant sinners.

Montrose could have simply forbidden him to read such things. Atticus knew other sons whose fathers had done that, who’d thrown their comic books and Amazing Stories collections into the trash. But Montrose, with limited exceptions, didn’t believe in book-banning. He always insisted he just wanted Atticus to think about what he read, rather than imbibing it mindlessly, and Atticus, if he were being honest, had to admit that was a reasonable goal.

April, she had died. April could still be a very cold month in Ithaca, though it was certainly not the best month for dying of exposure. A depressed person would have a better bet walking along the edge of one of the gorges and “accidentally” falling in. Of course the man Jessop had done neither; hand-making his daughter’s tombstone had probably kept him too occupied to even consider suicide. Yes. That was it; that was the key. An act of creation in the face of loss.

He always insisted he just wanted Atticus to think about what he read, rather than imbibing it mindlessly, and Atticus, if he were being honest, had to admit that was a reasonable goal.

You can’t buy goodwill with money that ain’t yours. It’s not a favor to pay what’s owed.

Something else that puzzles me about other people is that a lot of them don’t know their purpose in life. This usually does bother them – more than not being able to remember being born, anyway – but I can’t even imagine it. Part of knowing who I am is knowing why I am, and I’ve always known who I am, from the first moment.

Atticus tried not to care, telling himself paperbacks were meant to be abused, but it was hard, like watching friends get knocked around.