Already I am no longer looked at with lechery or love.

at a certain moment in social proceedings, I am on FIRE to leave: I have a leaving-FIT.

Live not for Battles Won. Live not for The-End-of-the-Song. Live in the along.

What, what am I to do with all of this life?

I don't want people running around saying Gwen Brooks's work is intellectual. That makes people think instantly about obscurity. It shouldn't have to mean that, but it often seems to.

It frightens me to realize that, if I had died before the age of fifty, I would have died a 'Negro' fraction.

Writing is a delicious agony.