There's room for everyone at the rendezvous of victory.

Poetic knowledge is born in the great silence of scientific knowledge.

Reason, I sacrifice you to the evening breeze.

Africa, help me to go home, carry me like an aged child in your arms. Undress me and wash me. Strip me of all of these garments, strip me as a man strips off dreams when the dawn comes. . . .

Beware, my body and my soul, beware above all of crossing your arms and assuming the sterile attitude of the spectator, for life is not a spectacle, a sea of griefs is not a proscenium, and a man who wails is not a dancing bear.

A man screaming is not a dancing bear. Life is not a spectacle.

In the whole world no poor devil is lynched, no wretch is tortured, in whom I too am not degraded and murdered.