A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

by Betty Smith

It was what God or whatever is His equivalent puts into each soul that is given life—the one different thing such as that which makes no two fingerprints on the face of the earth alike.

“the child must have a valuable thing which is called imagination. The child must have a secret world in which live things that never were. It is necessary that she believe. She must start out by believing in things not of this world. Then when the world becomes too ugly for living in, the child can reach back and live in her imagination.

In teaching your child, do not forget that suffering is good too. It makes a person rich in character.”

And it’s strong because its hard struggle to live is making it strong.

The sad thing was in the knowing that all their nerve would get them nowhere in the world and that they were lost as all people in Brooklyn seem lost when the day is nearly over and even though the sun is still bright, it is thin and doesn’t give you warmth when it shines on you.

From that time on, the world was hers for the reading. She would never be lonely again, never miss the lack of intimate friends.

And always, there was the magic of learning things.

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.