They Learned No Compassion From Their Own

A Lie Was Something You Told Because You Were Mean Or A Coward. A Story Was Something You Made Up Out Of Something That Might Have Happened. Only You Didn't Tell It Like It Was, You Told It Like You Thought It Should Have Been.

Francie Was Ten Years Old When She First Found An Outlet In Writing. What She Wrote Was Of Little Consequence. What Was Important Was That The Attempt To Write Stories Kept Her Straight On The Dividing Line Between Truth And Fiction. If She Had Not Found This Outlet In Writing, She Might Have Grown Up To Be A Tremendous Liar.

People Always Think That Happiness Is A Faraway Thing," Thought Francie, "something Complicated And Hard To Get. Yet, What Little Things Can Make It Up; A Place Of Shelter When It Rains - A Cup Of Strong Hot Coffee When You're Blue; For A Man, A Cigarette For Contentment; A Book To Read When You're Alone - Just To Be With Someone You Love. Those Things Make Happiness.

People Always Think That Happiness Is A Faraway Thing … Something Complicated And Hard To Get. Yet, What Little Things Can Make It Up.

No. I Don't Want To Need Anybody. I Want Someone To Need Me ... I Want Someone To Need Me.