“The critics never ever one time fairly criticized my son.”

That’s what Tupac and I got from my dad – the rebellion and the need to fight back and be recognized for being different.

That’s just the way life is. We have to be willing to pay the price. You have to be willing to pay the price for what’s right – and for what we do wrong. That’s one of the things that I love about my son. My son was always willing to take his weight.

I miss my son every day a little bit more, but I thank God every day for every second that he was here.

I wasn’t available to do the right things for my son. If not for the arts, my child would’ve been lost.

I believe it is our responsibility to make sure that Tupac’s entire body of work is made available for his fans.

Tupac loved to read! Books were a constant part of his life.

I think what it was is that Tupac was extremely passionate, very honest and raw in his approach to communicating. He understood communicating. And I think he just did it from a deep place within.

Pac was special. He was articulate. I trained him. Punishment for him was reading The New York Times.

I live with truth.

I never wanted to he just a housewife. I was too restless.

I have respect for my son because he had sense enough to take responsibility for his own actions.

We must recognize that anger only agitates and incites. It cannot squelch or satisfy the hunger for justice.

The Woodruff Library Archives has done a phenomenal job archiving my son’s materials.

I’m grateful my son was – as any mother would say, I had a very good son.

I think people have gotten to know Tupac much better since he’s been gone than they did when he was here.

Black history won’t stop no bullets.

Please criticize me, but how can you accuse me of something like fixing a cricket game after all that the game has given me.

The criticism of religion is, therefore, in embryo, the criticism of that vale of tears of which religion is the halo.

If you mind criticism, I think you can’t protect people’s lives.

We’re fragile, fragmented souls who are very sensitive to criticism.

Most of my critics don’t even listen to me; they are clueless. They just go to Web sites that report what I say out of context.

Critics haven’t taught me my cricket, and they don’t know what my body and mind are up to.

Art is to look at not to criticize.

Paranoiac-critical activity makes the world of delirium pass onto the plane of reality.