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I did not know if the story was factually true or not, but it was emotionally true […].

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Emotionally Factually Knows Stories True

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Goddamnit, look! We live here and they live there.
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I was leaving the South to fling myself into the unknown . . .
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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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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 endure the hunger. I had learned to live with hate.
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The artist must bow to the monster of his own imagination.
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Kill them, turn back time to the moment before I had talked so that I could have another chance to save myself.
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But to feel that there was feeling denied me, that the very breath of life itself was beyond my reach, that more than anything else hurt, wounded me. I had a new hunger.
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If you’ve a notion of what man’s heart is, wouldn’t you say that maybe the whole effort of man on earth to build a civilization is simply man’s frantic and frightened attempt to hide himself from himself?
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It hugs the easy way of damning those whom it cannot understand, of excluding those who look different, and it salves its conscience with a self-draped cloak of righteousness
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The holy and the evil, the high and the low, the white and the black; our America is frightened of fact, of history, of processes, of necessity.
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Men can starve from a lack of self-realization as much as they can from a lack of bread.
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No matter how much he would long for them to forget him, they would not be able to. His family was a part of him, not only in blood, but in spirit.
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I did not know if the story was factually true or not, but it was emotionally true […].
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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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Reading was like a drug, a dope. The novels created moods in which I lived for days.
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