Justin Rava

“Everything, decided Francie after that first lecture, was vibrant with life and there was no death in chemistry. She was puzzled as to why learned people didn't adopt chemistry as a religion.”
― Betty Smith, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

“Helen was lost and isolated, unable to participate with the rest of
the group. She was outside the circle with no sense of any connection
to a Creator, and no concept of what unconditional love might feel
like. If any type of God had indeed created her, then that Deity had
made a mistake too cruel to forgive.”
― Candace L. Talmadge, Stoneslayer: Book One Scandal

“I am me, a unique individual who aspires to be happier than she already is.”
― L.C. Conn

“Aunt Lotty had gone, and Laura and Mary were tired and cross. They were at the woodpile, gathering a pan of chips to kindle the fire in the morning. They always hated to pick up chips, but every day they had to do it. Tonight they hated it more than ever.
Laura grabbed the biggest chip, and Mary said:
“I don’t care. Aunt Lotty likes my hair best, anyway. Golden hair is lots prettier than brown.”
Laura’s throat swelled tight, and she could not speak. She knew golden hair was prettier than brown. She couldn’t speak, so she reached out quickly and slapped Mary’s face.
Then she heard Pa say, “Come here, Laura.”
She went slowly, dragging her feet. Pa was sitting just inside the door. He had seen her slap Mary.
“You remember,” Pa said, “I told you girls you must never strike each other.”
Laura began, “But Mary said--”
“That makes no difference,” said Pa. “It is what I say that you must mind.”
Then he took down a strap from the wall, and he whipped Laura with the strap.
Laura sat on a chair in the corner and sobbed. When she stopped sobbing, she sulked. The only thing in the whole world to be glad about was that Mary had to fill the chip pan all by herself.
At last, when it was getting dark, Pa said again, “Come here, Laura.” His voice was kind, and when Laura came he took her on his knee and hugged her close. She sat in the crook of his arm, her head against his shoulder and his long brown whiskers partly covering her eyes, and everything was all right again.
She told Pa all about it, and she asked him, “You don’t like golden hair better than brown, do you?”
Pa’s blue eyes shone down at her, and he said, “Well, Laura, my hair is brown.”
She had not thought of that. Pa’s hair was brown, and his whiskers were brown, and she thought brown was a lovely color. But she was glad that Mary had had to gather all the chips.”
― Laura Ingalls Wilder, Little House in the Big Woods