She was afraid to suggest to him that to most people, nothing "happens." That most people merely live from day to day until they die. That, after he had been dead a year, doubtless fewer than five people would think of him oftener than once a year. That there might even come a year when no one on earth would think of him at all.

Very early in life I became fascinated with the wonders language can achieve. And I began playing with words.

I tell poets that when a line just floats into your head, don't pay attention 'cause it probably has floated into somebody else's head.

She was learning to love moments. To love moments for themselves.

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

When you love a man, he becomes more than a body. His physical limbs expand, and his outline recedes, vanishes. He is rich and sweet and right. He is part of the world, the atmosphere, the blue sky and the blue water.

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