The forties and fifties were years of high poet-incense; the language-flowers were thickly sweet. Those flowers whined and begged white folks to pick them, to find them lovable. Then the '60s: Independent fire!

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

I've always thought of myself as a reporter. When people ask why I don't stop writing, I say, `Look at what's happening in this world. Every day there's something exciting or disturbing to write about.’ With all that's going on, how could I stop?

I shall create! If not a note, a hole./If not an overture, a desecration.

And if sun comes / How shall we greet him? / Shall we not dread him, / Shall we not fear him / After so lengthy a / Session with shade?

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.

Art hurts. Art urges voyages - and it is easier to stay at home.