But I liked Yeats! That wild Irishman. I really loved his love of language, his flow. His chaotic ideas seemed to me just the right thing for a poet. Passion! He was always on the right side. He may be wrongheaded, but his heart was always on the right side. He wrote beautiful poetry.

Those whose kernels were cracked by benevolent spirit should not forget to be humble.

Whenever I try to do anything on a typewriter, it's like having this machine between me and the words; what comes out is not quite what would come out if I were scribbling.

A man who calls his kinsmen to a feast does not do so to save them from starving. They all have food in their own homes. When we gather together in the moonlit village ground it is not because of the moon. Every man can see it in his own compound. We come together because it is good for kinsmen to do so.

This is why I find racism impossible, because this is against humanity.

The writer cannot expect to be excused from the task of reeducation and regeneration that must be done. In fact, he should march right in front.

Living fire begets cold, impotent ash.