Books are meat and medicine and flame and flight and flower steel, stitch, cloud and clout, and drumbeats on the air.

We don't ask a flower any special reason for its existence. We just look at it and are able to accept it as being something different from ourselves.

Exhaust the little moment. Soon it dies. And be it gash or gold it will not come again in this identical guise.

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

Art is a refining and evocative translation of the materials of the world.

I don't like the idea of the black race being diluted out of existence. I like the idea of all of us being here.

beware the easy griefs / that fool and fuel nothing.