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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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In me was shaping a yearning for a kind of consciousness.
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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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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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I did not know if the story was factually true or not, but it was emotionally true […].
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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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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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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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They hate because they fear, and they fear because they feel that the deepest feelings of their lives are being assaulted and outraged.
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I made things happen within. Because my environment was bare and bleak,
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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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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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Anything seemed possible, likely, feasible, because I wanted everything to be possible… Because I had no power to make things happen outside of me in the objective world.
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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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