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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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Love grows from stable relationships, shared experience, loyalty, devotion, trust.
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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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At the age of twelve I had an attitude toward life that was to endure, that was to make me seek those areas of living that would keep it alive, that was to make me skeptical of everything while seeking everything, tolerant of all and yet critical.
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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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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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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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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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I did not know if the story was factually true or not, but it was emotionally true […].
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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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Whenever my environment had failed to support or nourish me, I had clutched at books.
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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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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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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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I made things happen within. Because my environment was bare and bleak,
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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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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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