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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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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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Reluctantly, he comes to the conclusion that to account for his book is to account for his life.
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The holy and the evil, the high and the low, the white and the black; our America is frightened of fact, of history, of processes, of necessity.
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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
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The artist must bow to the monster of his own imagination.
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What could I dream of that had the barest possibility of coming true?
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I did not know if the story was factually true or not, but it was emotionally true […].
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I could endure the hunger. I had learned to live with hate.
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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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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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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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If you’ve a notion of what man’s heart is, wouldn’t you say that maybe the whole effort of man on earth to build a civilization is simply man’s frantic and frightened attempt to hide himself from himself?
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Make up your mind, Snail! You are half inside your house, And halfway out!
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If a man confessed anything on his death bed, it was the truth; for no man could stare death in the face and lie.
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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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Whenever my environment had failed to support or nourish me, I had clutched at books.
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