And if sun comes how shall we greet him? shall we not dread him, shall we not fear him after so lengthy a session with shade?
GWENDOLYN BROOKSShe was learning to love moments. To love moments for themselves.
More Gwendolyn Brooks Quotes
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What, what am I to do with all of this life?
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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.
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I believe we should all know each other, we human carriers of so many pleasurable differences. To not know is to doubt, to shrink from, sidestep or destroy.
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Art is a refining and evocative translation of the materials of the world.
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It is brave to be involved. To be not fearful to be unresolved.
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There are no magics or elves or timely godmothers to guide us. We are lost, must wizard a track through our own screaming weed.
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Beware the easy griefs / that fool and fuel nothing.
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Art hurts. Art urges voyages – and it is easier to stay at home.
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I am a writer perhaps because I am not a talker.
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When I start writing a poem, I don’t think about models or about what anybody else in the world has done.
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I like the concentration, the crush; I like working with language, as others like working with clay, or notes.
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People are so in need, in need of help. People want so much that they do not know.
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The music is in minors.
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Good health is a duty to yourself, to your contemporaries, to your inheritors, to the progress of the world.
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There can be no whiter whiteness than this one: An insurance man’s shirt on its morning run.
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I tell poets that when a line just floats into your head, don’t pay attention ’cause it probably has floated into somebody else’s head.
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Be yourself. Don’t imitate other poets. You are as important as they are.
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Writing is a delicious agony.
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When you love a man, he becomes more than a body. His physical limbs expand, and his outline recedes, vanishes. He is rich and sweet and right. He is part of the world, the atmosphere, the blue sky and the blue water.
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Even if you are not ready for day it cannot always be night.
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The forties and fifties were years of high poet-incense; the language-flowers were thickly sweet. Those flowers whined and begged white folks to pick them, to find them lovable. Then the ’60s: Independent fire!
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Sometimes you have to deal / Devilishly with drowning men in order to swim them to shore.
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Goodness begins simply with the fact of life itself.
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With melted opals for my milk, Pearl-leaf for my cracker.
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Already I am no longer looked at with lechery or love.
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I know that the Black emphasis must be not against white but FOR Black.
GWENDOLYN BROOKS