Atticus, you’ve never laid a hand on her. I admit that. So far I’ve been able to get by with threats. Jack, she minds me as well as she can. Doesn’t come up to scratch half the time, but she tries. That’s not the answer, said Uncle Jack. No, the answer is she knows I know she tries. That’s what makes the difference.
Bayan Caroline, un çuvalından dikilmiş etek ve kot gömlek giyen bu kılıksız birinci sınıf öğrencilerinin hayal ürünü edebiyata yabancı olduklarını, çoğunun ilk yürümeye başladıkları günden beri pamuk tarlalarında ot temizlediklerini, domuzlara yem verdiklerini bilmiyordu. Öykünün sonuna gelince, "Ah, ne güzeldi değil mi?" diye sordu.
If your father’s anything, he’s civilized in his heart. Marksmanship’s a gift of God, a talent – oh, you have to practise to make it perfect, but shootin’s different from playing the piano or the like. I think maybe he put his gun down when he realized that God had given him an unfair advantage over most living things. I guess he decided he wouldn’t shoot till he had to, and he had to today.’ ‘Looks like he’d be proud of it,’ I said. ‘People in their right minds never take pride in their talents,’ said Miss Maudie. We
If she found a blade of nut-grass in her yard it was like the Second Battle of the Marne: she swooped down upon it with a tin tub and subjected it to blasts from beneath with a poisonous substance she said was so powerful it’d kill us all if we didn’t stand out of the way. ‘Why can’t you just pull it up?’ I asked, after witnessing a prolonged campaign against a blade not three inches high. ‘Pull it up, child, pull it up?’ She picked up the limp sprout and squeezed her thumb up its tiny stalk. Microscopic grains oozed out. ‘Why, one sprig of nut-grass can ruin a whole yard. Look here. When it comes fall this dries up and the wind blows it all over Maycomb County!
I’m no idealist to believe firmly in the integrity of our courts and in the jury system—that is no ideal to me, it is a living, working reality. Gentlemen, a court is no better than each man of you sitting before me on this jury. A court is only as sound as its jury, and a jury is only as sound as the men who make it up. I am confident that you gentlemen will review without passion the evidence you have heard, come to a decision, and restore this defendant to his family. In the name of God, do your duty. Atticus’s
Jem, I asked, what’s a mixed child? Half white, half colored. You’ve seen ’em, Scout. You know that red-kinky-headed one that delivers for the drugstore. He’s half white. They’re real sad. Sad, how come? They don’t belong anywhere. Colored folks won’t have ’em because they’re half white; white folks won’t have ’em ’cause they’re colored, so they’re just in-betweens, don’t belong anywhere.
Miss Maudie stopped rocking, and her voice hardened. You are too young to understand it, she said, but sometimes the Bible in the hand of one man is worse than a whiskey bottle in the hand of—oh, of your father. I was shocked. Atticus doesn’t drink whiskey, I said. He never drunk a drop in his life—nome, yes he did. He said he drank some one time and didn’t like it. Miss Maudie laughed. Wasn’t talking about your father, she said. What I meant was, if Atticus Finch drank until he was drunk he wouldn’t be as hard as some men are at their best. There are just some kind of men who—who’re so busy worrying about the next world they’ve never learned to live in this one, and you can look down the street and see the results. Do
Atticus, you must be wrong. . . . How’s that? Well, most folks seem to think they’re right and you’re wrong. . . . They’re certainly entitled to think that, and they’re entitled to full respect for their opinions, said Atticus, but before I can live with other folks I’ve got to live with myself. The one thing that doesn’t abide by majority rule is a person’s conscience. When
Mr. Tate blinked again, as if something had suddenly been made plain to him. Then he turned his head and looked around at Tom Robinson. As if by instinct, Tom Robinson raised his head. Something had been made plain to Atticus also, and it brought him to his feet. Sheriff, please repeat what you said. It was her right eye,
– Я бы предпочёл, чтобы ты стрелял на огороде по жестянкам, но знаю, ты начнёшь бить птиц. Если сумеешь попасть в сойку, стреляй их сколько угодно, но помни: убить пересмешника большой грех.Я впервые слышала, чтоб Аттикус про что-нибудь сказал - грех, и спросила мисс Моди, почему грех.– Твой отец прав, - сказала мисс Моди. - Пересмешник - самая безобидная птица, он только поёт нам на радость. Пересмешники не клюют ягод в саду, не гнездятся в овинах, они только и делают, что поют для нас свои песни. Вот поэтому убить пересмешника - грех.
Beautiful things floated around in his dreamy head. He could read two books to my one, but he preferred the magic of his own inventions. He could add and subtract faster than lightning, but he preferred his own twilight world, a world where babies slept, waiting to be gathered like morning lilies. He was slowly talking himself to sleep and taking me with him, but in the quietness of his foggy island there rose the faded image of a grey house with sad brown doors.
It’s not necessary to tell all you know. It’s not ladylike—in the second place, folks don’t like to have somebody around knowin’ more than they do. It aggravates ’em. You’re not gonna change any of them by talkin’ right, they’ve got to want to learn themselves, and when they don’t want to learn there’s nothing you can do but keep your mouth shut or talk