Vowels were something else. He didn't like them and they didn't like him. There were only five of them, but they seemed to be everywhere. Why, you could go through twenty words without bumping into some of the shyer consonants,… — Jerry Spinelli Copy Share Image
“Vowels were something else. He didn't like them, and they didn't like him. There were only five of them, but they seemed to be everywhere. Why, you could go through twenty words without bumping into some of the shyer consonants,… — Jerry Spinelli Copy Share Image
“He still heard his mother's voice--"Davey"--rise like whisper-dust from unseen corners in the house, but it was no longer the only voice he heard.… — Jerry Spinelli Copy Share
Nobody has the time, the time cannot be owned. The time is free to everyone — Jerry Spinelli Copy Share
You’ll know her more by your questions than by her answers. Keep looking at her long enough. One day you might see someone you… — Jerry Spinelli Copy Share
“When you're inside your own story, you don't see things like a reader. You don't see your life in tidy paragraphs and chapters.” — Jerry Spinelli Copy Share
Nobody knows who said it first, but somebody must have: 'Kid's gotta be a maniac. — Jerry Spinelli Copy Share
“But feelings, they don't care about telling. They just go right on, piling on top of one another like a big sandwich.” — Jerry Spinelli Copy Share
“chewed time like a wad of bubble gum and stretched it across the darkness all the way to dawn, when the light at the… — Jerry Spinelli Copy Share
“When the sun is a bike ride away, I will hear it. It will sound like wind in treetops. I will awaken.” — Jerry Spinelli Copy Share
“I had to get out. Move. I ran through neighborhoods, other lives, other worlds. Solipsism. A man on his lawn mower. Green and yellow.… — Jerry Spinelli Copy Share
He tapped my chest. 'Happy is here.' He tapped his own chest. 'Here.' I looked down past my chin. 'Inside?' 'Inside.' It was getting… — Jerry Spinelli Copy Share
She was elusive. She was today. She was tomorrow. She was the faintest scent of a cactus flower, the flitting shadow of an elf… — Jerry Spinelli Copy Share
