“Jealousy is perhaps the most involuntary of all strong emotions. It steals consciousness, it lies deeper than thought. It is always there, like a blackness in the eye, it discolours the world.”

A bad review is even less important than whether it is raining in Patagonia.

How different each death is, and yet it leads us into the self-same country, that country which we inhabit so rarely, where we see the worthlessness of what we have long pursued and will so soon return to pursuing.

For most of us, for almost all of us, truth can be attained, if at all, only in silence. It is in silence that the human spirit touches the divine.

Time, like the sea, unties all knots.

As we live our precarious lives on the brink of the void, constantly coming closer to a state of nonbeing, we are all too often aware of our fragitlity.

One of the secrets of a happy life is continous small treats.

Love is the Extremely difficult realization that something other than oneself is real.

White magic is black magic. A less than perfect meddling in the spiritual world can breed monsters for other people, and demons used for good can hang around and make mischief afterwards.

I have nobody in the world. I’ll kill myself. That’s best. Everyone will say, It’s for the best that she killed herself, she’s better off dead. I hate myself so much I could spend hours and hours just screaming with hatred and with the pain of it, oh the pain of it.

I’ve felt as if I didn’t exist, as if I were invisible, miles away from the world, miles away. You can’t imagine how much alone I’ve been all my life.

There is no beyond, there is only here, the infinitely small, infinitely great and utterly demanding present.

How huge it is, how empty, this great space for which I have been longing all my life. Still no letters.

Those who hope, by retiring from the world, to earn a holiday from human frailty, in themselves and others, are usually disappointed.

Let us not waste love, it is rare enough.

I think being a woman is like being Irish, Everyone says you’re important and nice, but you take second place all the time.

There is no substitute for the comfort supplied by the utterly taken-for-granted relationship.

Only the foolish, blinded by language’s conventions, think of fire as red or gold. Fire is blue at it’s melancholy rim, green in it’s envious heart. It may burn white, or even, in it’s greatest rages, black.

Which is probably the reason why I work exclusively in black and white to highlight that contrast.

What seems to me white, I will believe black if the hierarchical Church so defines.

I do remember being teased by my cousins on my mom’s side for not being black enough. And then I’d spend the summer with my dad and be sent to all white summer camps where I was ‘that black girl.’

I’ve changed the way I look a bit but not intentionally. I’ve cut my hair. I’ve got a bit of pink in it and lately I’ve become a bit monochrome, wearing a lot of black and white.

Blue green orange red. I could eat all the colors of the rainbow and still see life in black-and-white reruns I’ve watched a thousand times. – rumination.

I don’t like the idea of the black race being diluted out of existence. I like the idea of all of us being here.

We Negro writers, just by being black, have been on the blacklist all our lives. Censorship for us begins at the color line.