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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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Aspiration Black Country Limited Live People Redeem Something Somewhere

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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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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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Whenever my environment had failed to support or nourish me, I had clutched at books.
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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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Each day when you see us black folk upon the dusty land of your farm or upon the hard pavement of your city streets.
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Black Cities City Dusty Farm Folk Hard Land Pavement Street Thinking Upon
What could I dream of that had the barest possibility of coming true?
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Somewhere in the dead of the southern night my life had switched onto the wrong track and without my knowing it.
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Dead Know might Something Southern Switch Track Wrong
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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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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Age Aread Attitude Endure Everything Life Living Others Peaceful Spekticle Suffering Twelve
I was taking a part of the South to transplant in alien soil, to see if it could grow differently, if it could drink of new and cool rains, bend in strange winds, respond to the warmth of other suns and, perhaps, to bloom
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But the color of a Negro’s skin makes him easily recognizable, makes him suspect, converts him into a defenseless target
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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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Integrity Men Realization Self Strive
He had lived and acted on the assumption that he was alone, and now he saw that he had not been. What he had done made others suffer.
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In me was shaping a yearning for a kind of consciousness.
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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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Ait Blink Collision Down Fill Heading Heedless Red Rush Scream Steep
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.
RICHARD WRIGHT

Aspiration Black Country Limited Live People Redeem Something Somewhere
I was not leaving the south to forget the south, but so that some day I might understand it
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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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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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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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Alive Best Book Cultural Keep Manage Me More Support Transfusion Vicarious
Violence is a personal necessity for the oppressed…It is not a strategy consciously devised. It is the deep, instinctive expression of a human being denied individuality.
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Expression Individuality Oppressed Personal Strategy Violence
Is not life exactly what it ought to be, in a certain sense? Isn’t it only the naive who find all of this baffling?
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You usually take it for granted and think you know us, but our history is far stranger than you suspect, and we are not what we seem.
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there are times when life’s ends are so raveled that reason and sense cry out that we stop and gather them together again before we can proceed
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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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Pity can purge us of hostility and arouse feelings of identification with the characters, but it can also be a consoling reassurance which leads us to believe that we have understood, and that, in pitying, we have even done something to right a wrong.
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