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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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Again Cry End Gather Reason Revealed Sense Stop Together

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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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What could I dream of that had the barest possibility of coming true?
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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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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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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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Kill them, turn back time to the moment before I had talked so that I could have another chance to save myself.
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Another Back Before Talk Chance Kill Moment Myself Save Turn
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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I was leaving the South to fling myself into the unknown . . .
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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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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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Anything Beyond Breath Denied Else Feel Hunger New
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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Could Death Emotion Mode Must Penalty Place Sad Said Way
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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The spirit I had caught gave me insight into the suffering of others, made me gravitate toward those whose feelings were like my own, made me sit for hours while others told me of their lives, made me strangely tender and cruel, violent and peaceful.
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I could endure the hunger. I had learned to live with hate.
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All literature is protest.
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Hunger has always been more or less at my elbow when I played, but now I began to wake up at night to find hunger standing at my bedside, staring at my gauntly.
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