Mary E. Pearson (born August 14, 1955) is an American children's writer best known for young adult fiction.
It can take years to mold a dream. It takes only a fraction of a second for it to be shattered.
Pieces. Isn't that what all of life is anyway? Shards. Bits. Moments. Am I less because I have fewer, or do the few I have mean more?
I don't want five hundred billion neural chips. I want guts.
Escape is not about moving from one place to another. It's about becoming more.
it is amazin, she thinks, how simple appearances can be created - a rush, a smile, a new coat of paint, a slow, calm voice, a hug, a new dress - a resolve to keep out questions and cling to secrets
He believes me. But that is nothing new. He always did because I was a rule follower. I played by the rules he understood. But there are new rules now, ones he doesn't know yet. He'll learn. Just as I'm learning.
Words have longer lives than people.
I think that maybe forgiveness is like change - it comes in small steps. (256)
My timing is off. But I had to get it out. Some things you have to tell, no matter how stupid they may sound. Some things you can't save for later. There might not be a later.
On a small planet, where minute follows minute, day follows day, year follows year, where tradition marches on with a deafening, orderly beat -sometimes the order is disturbed by a dreamer, an artist, a scribbler - sometimes the beat is changed one person at a time.
A single gentle rain makes the grass many shades greener. So our prospects brighten. . .
But I am more than a name. More than they tell me
I thought grandmothers had to like you. It’s a law or something.
Maybe we all have a dark place inside of us, a place where dark thoughts and darker dreams live, but it doesn't have to become who we are.
When is a cell finally too small to hold our essence?