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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 was not leaving the south to forget the south, but so that some day I might understand it
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Is not life exactly what it ought to be, in a certain sense? Isn’t it only the naive who find all of this baffling?
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Whenever my environment had failed to support or nourish me, I had clutched at books.
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I listened, vaguely knowing now that I had committed some awful wrong that I could not undo, that I had uttered words I could not recall even though I ached to nullify them.
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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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Goddamnit, look! We live here and they live there.
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Reading was like a drug, a dope. The novels created moods in which I lived for days.
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It made me love talk that sought answers to questions that could help nobody, that could only keep alive in me that enthralling sense of wonder and awe in the face of the drama of human feeling which is hidden by the external drama of life.
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I could endure the hunger. I had learned to live with hate.
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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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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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The artist must bow to the monster of his own imagination.
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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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Don’t leave inferences to be drawn when evidence can be presented.
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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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