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

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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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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We had our own civilization in Africa before we were captured and carried off to this land.
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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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What could I dream of that had the barest possibility of coming true?
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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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Reluctantly, he comes to the conclusion that to account for his book is to account for his life.
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Don’t leave inferences to be drawn when evidence can be presented.
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We had our own literature, our own systems of law, religion, medicine, science, and education.
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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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We smelted iron, danced, made music and folk poems; we sculpted, worked in glass, spun cotton and wool, wove baskets and cloth.
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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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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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In me was shaping a yearning for a kind of consciousness.
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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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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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