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He must have presumed me to be genuine and fair. Like Atticus Finch: dignified and reasonable and wise. Or the closest thing to it in this town. Or, maybe he just knows that I don’t have it in me to ever betray his confidence. Maybe it was a mix of both. Safety and trust. Though I prefer the thought of me sitting up late at night, poring over Mark Twain, while Jasper Jones rushed to me for my poise and wisdom. As though I were Solomon himself. The person you come to when it all goes horribly awry.
‘See, everyone here’s afraid of something and nuthin. This town, that’s how they live, and they don’t even know it. They stick to what they know, what they bin told. They don’t unnerstand that it’s just a choice you make.’
Sal Paradise held up bottles of booze like a housewife in a detergent commercial. Holden Caulfield reached for his cigarettes like an act of faith. Even Huckleberry Finn tapped on his pipe with relief and satisfaction. I can’t trust anything. If sex turns out to be this bad, I’m never reading again.
I wonder where he’s going to go now. If he’s going to go sit someplace quiet and wait for the riot, or if he’s going to go home, if that’s what you would call it.
That’s why he is the most courageous: because he can put those aside and fight on regardless. My point is this: the more you have to lose, the braver you are for standing up. That’s why Batman is superior to Superman,
Bugger it. There is nothing directing this stupid play. There can’t be. If there is, He’s a crueller bastard than they give Him credit for. It’s timing and chance, isn’t it? Shit luck and good luck. You dodge bullets or you get hit.
We’d gone to confront Mad Jack Lionel about murdering Laura Wishart, only to find that he was driving the car that killed Jasper’s mother. This world isn’t right. It’s small and it’s nasty and it’s lousy with sadness.
Jasper Jones fell out of the world and nobody noticed. Nobody cared.
But, like Laura Wishart, they’ll never find him. He’s too smart and too fast for them. He’s too clever and canny.
