The Bean Trees

by Barbara Kingsolver

I had decided early on that if I couldn’t dress elegant, I’d dress memorable.

There were two things about Mama. One is she always expected the best out of me. And the other is that then no matter what I did, whatever I came home with, she acted like it was the moon I had just hung up in the sky and plugged in all the stars. Like I was that good.

Whatever you want the most, it’s going to be the worst thing for you.”

There is no point in treating a depressed person as though she were just feeling sad, saying, There now, hang on, you’ll get over it. Sadness is more or less like a head cold—with patience, it passes. Depression is like cancer.

Do I think it would be interesting, maybe even enjoyable in the long run, to share my life with this kid and give her my best effort and maybe, when all’s said and done, end up with a good friend.”

If either I or the state of Arizona was going to instill in this child a sense of security, discussing her future and ownership as though she were an item of commerce wasn’t the way to do it. The more I thought about this, the madder I got.

“Mi’ija, in a world as wrong as this one, all we can do is to make things as right as we can.”

“I don’t think blood’s the only way kids come by things honest. Not even the main way. It’s what you tell them,