“We don’t all dig Shakespeare uniformly, or even ‘Little Red Riding Hood.’ The understanding of art depends finally upon one’s willingness to extend one’s humanity and one’s knowledge of human life.”

Words are your business, boy. Not just the word. Words are everything. The key to the rock, the answer to the question.

Eclecticism is the word. Like a jazz musician who creates his own style out of the styles around him, I play by ear.

I remember that I’m invisible and walk softly so as not awake the sleeping ones. Sometimes it is best not to awaken them; there are few things in the world as dangerous as sleepwalkers.

Life is to be lived, not controlled, and humanity is won by continuing to play in face of certain defeat.

It takes a deep commitment to change and an even deeper commitment to grow.

All novels are about certain minorities: the individual is a minority. The universal in the novel-and isn’t that what we’re all clamoring for these days?-is reached only through the depiction of the specific man in a specific circumstance.

Please, a definition: A hibernation is a covert preparation for a more overt action.

Without the possibility of action, all knowledge comes to one labeled ‘file and forget.’

America is woven of many strands. I would recognise them and let it so remain. Our fate is to become one, and yet many. This is not prophecy, but description.

Who knows but that, on the lower frequencies, I speak for you?

Having tried to give pattern to the chaos which lives within the pattern of your certainties, I must come out, I must emerge.

You start Saul, and end up Paul,’ my grandfather had often said. ‘When you’re a youngun, you Saul, but let life whup your head a bit and you starts to trying to be Paul – though you still Sauls around on the side.

My hole is warm and full of light.

I denounce because though implicated and partially responsible, I have been hurt to the point of abysmal pain, hurt to the point of invisibility. And I defend because in spite of it all, I find that I love.

America is woven of many strands. I would recognize them and let it so remain.

To hell with being ashamed of what you liked.

You’re a work of art only just framed by my eager fingertips.

Its painful to see when your own people doesn’t support your artistic calibre. The very quality strangers call you extraordinary for.

I mastered the art of not caring and wow it made me more daring.

Thoughts on a tapestry. Colour or black and white. A brush, a pen, A flash of light. Ideas flowing soon, about to take flight.

The art of being a slave is to rule one’s master.

You thought you could take advantage of my heart. But I’ve mastered revenge and made it an art.

He took the pieces of my broken heart and turned them into a mosaic for his own viewing pleasure.

Dear hands, Don’t let them tell you art is a hopeless pursuit art my friends is pursuing light for the hopeless.