We looked at each other, and I could see in those big reddened eyes that he was not going to scream. He was full of anger - and who could blame him? - but he was no fool. He needed me, and he wanted me here, if only to insult me.

We wait till now? Now, when we're old men, we get to be brave?

Now, about that mulatto teacher and me. There was no love there for each other. There was not even respect. We were enemies if anything. He hated me, and I knew it, and he knew I knew it. I didn't like him, but I needed him, needed him to tell me something that none of the others could or would.

Today I must write a paragraph or a page better than I did yesterday.

I write with as much objectivity as I can.

The mark of fear is not easily removed.

How do people come up with a date and a time to take life from another man? Who made them God?