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. . . Jess Believed, That She Thought He Was The Best. It Was Not The Kind Of Best That Counted Either At School Or At Home, But It Was A Genuine Kind Of Best. He Kept The Knowledge Of It Buried Inside Himself Like A Pirate Treasure. He Was Rich, Very Rich, But No One Could Know About It For Now Except His Fellow Outlaw, Julia Edmunds.

-Katherine Paterson

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. . . Jess

Katherine Paterson

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. . . Jess Believed, That She Thought He Was The Best. It Was Not The Kind Of Best That Counted Either At School Or At Home, But It Was A Genuine Kind Of Best. He Kept The Knowledge Of It Buried Inside Himself Like A Pirate Treasure. He Was Rich, Very Rich, But No One Could Know About It For Now Except His Fellow Outlaw, Julia Edmunds.

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What I Have Come To Believe Is That Joy Is The Twin Sister Of Gratitude. I Am Most Joyful When I Am Most Grateful.

Lord, Let Me Heed The Angels You Put In My Path.

I'm Sure My First Nine Years Have Had A Powerful Influence On The Kind Of Books I Write.

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I Love Revision. Where Else Can Spilled Milk Be Turned Into Ice Cream?

A Friend Of Mine Who Writes History Books Said To Me That He Thought That The Two Creatures Most To Be Pitied Were The Spider And The Novelist - Their Lives Hanging By A Thread Spun Out Of Their Own Guts. But In Some Ways I Think Writers Of Fiction Are The Creatures Most To Be Envied, Because Who Else Besides The Spider Is Allowed To Take That Fragile Thread And Weave It Into A Pattern? What A Gift Of Grace To Be Able To Take The Chaos From Within And From It To Create Some Semblance Of Order.

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I Realize, Of Course, That I Wasn't Born Knowing How To Read. I Just Can't Imagine A Time When I Didn't Know How.

A Good Story Is Alive, Ever Changing And Growing As It Meets Each Listener Or Reader In A Spirited And Unique Encounter, While The Moralistic Tale Is Not Only Dead On Arrival, It's Already Been Embalmed. It's Safer That Way. When A Lively Story Goes Dancing Out To Meet The Imagination Of A Child, The Teller Loses Control Over Meaning. The Child Gets To Decide What The Story Means.

The Children's Book World Has Given Me Wonderful Friendships And An Unbelievably Rich Life.

We Book People Are Always Preaching About Reading Aloud To Children, But Unless You Do, You Can't Realize How It Enriches Family Life.

This Is What Art Is All About. It Is Weaving Fabric From The Feathers You Have Plucked From Your Own Breast. But No One Must Ever See The Process - Only The Finished Bolt Of Goods. They Must Never Suspect That That Crimson Thread Running Through The Pattern Is Blood.

I Am Called To Listen To The Sound Of My Own Heart -- To Write The Story Within Myself That Demands To Be Told At That Particular Point In My Life. And If I Do This Faithfully, Clothing That Idea In The Flesh Of Human Experience And Setting It In A True Place, The Sound From My Heart Will Resound In The Reader's Heart.

Death Is Very Mysterious To Us. One Moment Someone Is There With Us, And The Next Moment They're Not.

The Challenge For Those Of Us Who Care About Our Faith And About A Hurting World Is To Tell Stories Which Will Carry The Words Of Grace And Hope In Their Bones And Sinews And Not Wear Them Like Fancy Dress.

You Think It's So Great To Die And Make Everyone Cry And Carry On. Well It Ain't.

I Guess Real Maturity, Which Most Of Us Never Achieve, Is When You Realize That You're Not The Center Of The Universe.

Mandarin Ducks Mate For Life And Will Die Of Loneliness If Separated From Their Chosen Mate.

Sitting In Cold Wet Britches For An Hour Was No Fun Even In A Magic Kingdom.

That Was The Rule That You Never Mixed Up Troubles At Home With Life At School. When Parents Were Poor Or Ignorant Or Mean, Or Even Just Didn't Believe In Having A Tv Set, It Was Up To Their Kids To Protect Them.

A Dream Without A Plan Is Just A Wish

If You Could Hold Your Nose To Avoid A Stink, Or Close Your Eyes To Cut Out A Sight, Why Not Shut Off Your Brain To Avoid A Thought?

Sometimes It Seemed To Him That His Life Was Delicate As A Dandelion. One Little Puff From Any Direction, And It Was Blown To Bits.

Still, I Kept Writing. I Had No Guarantee That I Would Someday Win Awards For Writing. Heavens, The Only Person During That Time Who Seemed To Think I Could Write Something Worth Publishing Was My Loyal Husband. But I Always Remembered The Professor From Graduate School Who Urged Me To Write And Who Recommended Me For That First Writing Assignment In 1964. When I Protested To Sara Little That I Didn't Want To Add Another Mediocre Writer To The World, She Gently Reminded Me That If I Didn't Dare Mediocrity, I Would Never Write Anything At All.

...i Just Gave Up Trying To Be A Christian... Let's Face It, I Ain't Got The Knack For Holiness. Besides, I Didn't Have The Slightest Little Desire To Join The Likes Of Reverend Pelham At The Dinner Table For Fourteen Minutes, Much Less At The Banquet Table Of Heaven Eternally. Eternity Is A Mighty Long Time To Be Stuck With People Who Judge Every Word You Say And Think And Condemn Most Of What You Do. It Struck Me As Pretty Miserable Company. And If Reverend Pelham Was The Kind Of Company God Preferred To Keep, Well, I Just Hoped They'd Be Happy Together.

I Cannot, Will Not, Withhold From My Young Readers The Harsh Realities Of Human Hunger And Suffering And Loss, But Neither Will I Neglect To Plant That Stubborn Seed Of Hope That Has Enabled Our Race To Outlast Wars And Famines And The Destruction Of Death.

Crazy People Who Are Judged To Be Harmless Are Allowed An Enormous Amount Of Freedom Ordinary People Are Denied.

It's Such A Thrill When An Adult Comes Up To Me And Says, 'i Read Your Book As A Child And Really Loved It.' That's A Tremendous Compliment.

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If You're A Kid Who Is Always On The Outside Hoping To Be On The Inside, You're Watching A Lot. You're Trying To Figure Out How To Become A Normal Person In A Society That Considers You Weird.

It's Like The Smarter You Are, The More Things Can Scare You.

It Wasn't So Much That He Minded Telling Leslie That He Was Afraid To Go; It Was That He Minded Being Afraid. It Was As Though He Had Been Made With A Great Piece Missing - One Of May Belle's Puzzles With This Huge Gap Where Somebody's Eye Should Have Been. Lord, It Would Be Better To Be Born Without An Arm Than To Go Through Life With No Guts.

Everything Comes In Useful Once In A Hundred Years.

I Woke Up One Morning And Realized That What I Wanted To Say To Everyone - Children, Young People, Adults - Was: Read For Your Life.

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If We Marvel At The Artist Who Has Written A Great Book, We Must Marvel More At Those People Whose Lives Are Works Of Art And Who Don't Even Know It, Who Wouldn't Believe It If They Were Told. However Hard Work Good Writing May Be, It Is Easier Than Good Living.

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. . . Jess Believed, That She Thought He Was The Best. It Was Not The Kind Of Best That Counted Either At School Or At Home, But It Was A Genuine Kind Of Best. He Kept The Knowledge Of It Buried Inside Himself Like A Pirate Treasure. He Was Rich, Very Rich, But No One Could Know About It For Now Except His Fellow Outlaw, Julia Edmunds.

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We All Learn Here By The Honorable Path Of Horrible Mistakes.

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Church Always Seemed The Same. Jess Could Tune It Out The Same Way He Tuned Out School, With His Body Standing Up And Sitting Down In Unison With The Rest Of The Congregation But His Mind Numb And Floating, Not Really Thinking Or Dreaming But At Least Free.

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I Was Behaving, Just Like I Promised, But Fate Intervened.

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The Name We Give To Something Shapes Our Attitude Toward It.

Miss Edmunds Was One Of His Secrets. He Was In Love With Her. Not The Kind Of Silly Stuff Ellie And Brenda Giggled About On The Telephone. This Was Too Real And Too Deep To Talk About, Even To Think About Very Much.

Peace Is Not Won By Those Who Fiercely Guard Their Differences, But By Those Who With Open Minds And Hearts Seek Out Connections.

It Was Up To Him To Pay Back To The World In Beauty And Caring What Leslie Had Loaned Him In Vision And Strength.

A Novel Is Not Born Of A Single Idea. The Stories I've Tried To Write From One Idea, No Matter How Terrific An Idea, Have Sputtered Out And Died By Chapter Three. For Me, Novels Have Invariably Come From A Complex Of Ideas That In The Beginning Seemed To Bear No Relation To Each Other, But In The Unconscious Began Mysteriously To Merge And Grow. Ideas For A Novel Are Like The Strong Guy Lines Of A Spider Web. Without Them The Silken Web Cannot Be Spun.

The Work Reveals The Creator - And As Our Universe In Its Vastness, Its Orderliness, Its Exquisite Detail, Tells Us Something Of The One Who Made It, So A Work Of Fiction, For Better Or Worse, Will Reveal The Writer.

You Have To Believe It And You Hate It. I Don't Have To And I Think It's Beautiful.

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