black
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The spirit I had caught gave me insight into the suffering of others, made me gravitate toward those whose feelings were like my own, made me sit for hours while others told me of their lives, made me strangely tender and cruel, violent and peaceful.

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Marilyn Monroe Paulo Coelho Abraham Lincoln C. S. Lewis Khalil Gibran Charlie Chaplin Gautama Buddha Isaac Newton

At the age of twelve I had an attitude toward life that was to endure, that was to make me seek those areas of living that would keep it alive, that was to make me skeptical of everything while seeking everything, tolerant of all and yet critical.
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Whenever my environment had failed to support or nourish me, I had clutched at books.
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We black and they white. They got things and we ain’t. They do things and we can’t. It’s just like livin’ in jail.
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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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I was leaving the South to fling myself into the unknown . . .
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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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Don’t leave inferences to be drawn when evidence can be presented.
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I knew that I lived in a country in which the aspirations of black people were limited, marked-off. Yet I felt that I had to go somewhere and do something to redeem my being alive.
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We smelted iron, danced, made music and folk poems; we sculpted, worked in glass, spun cotton and wool, wove baskets and cloth.
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And they do not know why; they are powerless pawns in a blind play of social forces.
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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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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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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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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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I did not know if the story was factually true or not, but it was emotionally true […].
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We invented a medium of exchange, mined silver and gold, made pottery and cutlery, we fashioned tools and utensils of brass, bronze, ivory, quartz, and granite.
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