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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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A mode of being that the way of life about me had said could not be, must not be, and upon which the penalty of death had been placed.
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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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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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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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We had our own civilization in Africa before we were captured and carried off to this land.
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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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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 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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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 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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Love grows from stable relationships, shared experience, loyalty, devotion, trust.
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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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