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In me was shaping a yearning for a kind of consciousness.

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We had our own civilization in Africa before we were captured and carried off to this land.
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The artist must bow to the monster of his own imagination.
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I could endure the hunger. I had learned to live with hate.
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I didn’t know I was really alive in this world until I felt things hard enough to kill for ’em.
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Our too-young and too-new America, lusty because it is lonely, aggressive because it is afraid, insists upon seeing the world in terms of good and bad.
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It was not a matter of believing or disbelieving what I read, but of feeling something new, of being affected by something that made the look of the world different.
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Don’t leave inferences to be drawn when evidence can be presented.
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The more closely the author thinks of why he wrote, the more he comes to regard his imagination as a kind of self-generating cement which glued his facts together, and his emotions as a kind of dark and obscure designer of those facts.
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Anything seemed possible, likely, feasible, because I wanted everything to be possible… Because I had no power to make things happen outside of me in the objective world.
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The locomotive of my heart was rushing down a dangerously steep slope, heading for a collision, heedless of the warning red lights that blinked all about me, the sirens and the ells and the screams that filled the air.
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Hunger has always been more or less at my elbow when I played, but now I began to wake up at night to find hunger standing at my bedside, staring at my gauntly.
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Reluctantly, he comes to the conclusion that to account for his book is to account for his life.
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Whenever my environment had failed to support or nourish me, I had clutched at books.
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It had been only through books-at best, no more than vicarious cultural transfusions-that I had managaed to keep myself alive in a negatively vital way.
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If a man confessed anything on his death bed, it was the truth; for no man could stare death in the face and lie.
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I could think of nothing. And, slowly, it was upon exactly that nothingness that my mind began to dwell, that constant sense of wanting without having, of being hated without reason.
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