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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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I was not leaving the south to forget the south, but so that some day I might understand it
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The artist must bow to the monster of his own imagination.
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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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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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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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Our too-young and too-new America, lusty because it is lonely, aggressive because it is afraid, insists upon seeing the world in terms of good and bad.
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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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I listened, vaguely knowing now that I had committed some awful wrong that I could not undo, that I had uttered words I could not recall even though I ached to nullify them.
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I could think of nothing. And, slowly, it was upon exactly that nothingness that my mind began to dwell, that constant sense of wanting without having, of being hated without reason.
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It made me love talk that sought answers to questions that could help nobody, that could only keep alive in me that enthralling sense of wonder and awe in the face of the drama of human feeling which is hidden by the external drama of life.
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Whenever my environment had failed to support or nourish me, I had clutched at books.
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I endowed it with unlimited potentialities, redeemed it for the sake of my own hungry and cloudy yearning.
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