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

When I turn on my radio, when I hear that Negroes have been lynched in America, I say that we have been lied to: Hitler is not dead; when I turn on my radio, when I hear that Jews have been insulted, mistreated, persecuted, I say that we have been lied to: Hitler is not dead; when, finally, I turn on my radio and hear that in Africa forced labor has been inaugurated and legalized, I say that we have certainly been lied to: Hitler is not dead.

It is no use painting the foot of the tree white, the strength of the bark cries out from beneath the paint.

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

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. . . .