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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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Marilyn Monroe Paulo Coelho Abraham Lincoln C. S. Lewis Khalil Gibran Charlie Chaplin Gautama Buddha Isaac Newton

If a man confessed anything on his death bed, it was the truth; for no man could stare death in the face and lie.
RICHARD WRIGHT

Anything Bed Confess Face Lie Lying Man Men Stare
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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Whenever my environment had failed to support or nourish me, I had clutched at books.
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It was not a matter of believing or disbelieving what I read, but of feeling something new, of being affected by something that made the look of the world different.
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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
RICHARD WRIGHT

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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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We smelted iron, danced, made music and folk poems; we sculpted, worked in glass, spun cotton and wool, wove baskets and cloth.
RICHARD WRIGHT

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It hugs the easy way of damning those whom it cannot understand, of excluding those who look different, and it salves its conscience with a self-draped cloak of righteousness
RICHARD WRIGHT

Conscience Damm Drape Easy Hug Righteousness Salvie Self
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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Again Cry End Gather Reason Revealed Sense Stop Together
Make up your mind, Snail! You are half inside your house, And halfway out!
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Goddamnit, look! We live here and they live there.
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I was leaving the South to fling myself into the unknown . . .
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It would have been impossible for me to have told anyone what I derived from these novels, for it was nothing less than a sense of life itself.
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Abiding Anyone Book Derive Impossible Less Novel Support Told
The artist must bow to the monster of his own imagination.
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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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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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Black Country Jail Living People Thing White

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