Don't miss the bus, boy. You're missing a lot of things in the world, better not miss that bus.

— Robert Cormier

Everybody sins, Francis. The terrible thing is that we love our sins. We love the thing that makes us evil.

— Robert Cormier

Family life was wonderful. The streets were bleak. The playgrounds were bleak. But home was always warm. My mother and father had a great relationship. I always felt 'safe' there.

— Robert Cormier

He hated to think of his own life stretching ahead of him that way, a long succession of days and nights that were fine - not good, not bad, not great, not lousy, not exciting, not anything.

— Robert Cormier

He was intrigued by the power of words, not the literary words that filled the books in the library but the sharp, staccato words that went into the writing of news stories. Words that went for the jugular. Active verbs that danced and raced on the page.

— Robert Cormier

I have always had a sense that we are all pretty much alone in life, particularly in adolescence.

— Robert Cormier

I wonder if it's a special sin to lie to a nun

— Robert Cormier

The beautiful part of writing is that you don't have to get it right the first time, unlike, say, a brain surgeon.

— Robert Cormier

The cheese stands alone The cheese stands aloneHeigh-ho the merry-the cheese stands alone

— Robert Cormier

The Goober was beautiful when he ran. His long arms and legs moved glowingly and flawlessly, his body floating as if his feet weren’t touching the ground. When he ran, he forgot about his acne and his awkwardness and the shyness that paralyzed him when a girl looked his way. Even his thoughts became sharper, and things were simple and uncomplicated—he could solve math problems when he ran or memorize football play patterns. Often he rose early in the morning, before anyone else, and poured himself liquid through the sunrise streets, and everything seemed beautiful, everything in its proper orbit, nothing impossible, the entire world attainable. When he ran, he even loved the pain, the hurt of the running, the burning in his lungs and the spasms that sometimes gripped his calves. He loved it because he knew he could endure the pain, and even go beyond it. He had never pushed himself to the limit, but he felt all this reserve strength inside of him: more than strength actually—determination. And it sang in him as he ran, his heart pumping blood joyfully through his body.

— Robert Cormier