I was given a dictionary when I was seven, and I read it because I had nothing else to read. I read it the way you read a book.

I didn't know it was possible to be successful as a writer, so I wasn't afraid to fail.

A piece of cloth that is called "linen" has more validity than calling you and me "black" or "negro." "Cotton" has more validity as cotton than yours and my being "black."

Something settiled inside me, something heavy and hard. It stayed there, and i could not think of one thing to make it go away. I thought, So this must be living, this must be the beginning of the time people later refer to as 'years ago, when I was young'.

Who you are is a mystery no one can answer, not even you.

Every time I end a book, I look down at myself.

There's a difference between bravery and rash stupidity.