A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

by Betty Smith

Francie was glad for Saturday and hated to end it by going to sleep. Already the dread of the week to come made her uneasy.

There had to be the dark and muddy waters so that the sun could have something to background its flashing glory.

It doesn’t take long to write things of which you know nothing. When you write of actual things, it takes longer, because you have to live them first.

“Maybe,” thought Francie, “she doesn’t love me as much as she loves Neeley. But she needs me more than she needs him and I guess being needed is almost as good as being loved. Maybe better.”

“The men have all the fun and women, the pain.”

She grasped the idea that nothing was ever lost or destroyed.

Every time you fall in love it will be because something in the man reminds you of him.”