Why is a picture of something real eventually more exciting than the thing itself?

That is how I came to think that heavy and hard was the beginning of living, real living; and though I might not end up with a mark on my cheek, I had no doubt that I would end up with a mark somewhere.

The past is a room full of baggage and rubbish and sometimes things that are of use, but if they are of real use, I have kept them.

The shadow of my mother danced around the room to a tune that my own shadow sang.

I write out of defiance.

I would never never read a work of fiction and want to know about the person's life.

"Race." I really can't understand it as anything other than something people say. The people who have said that you and I are both "black" and therefore deserve a certain kind of interaction with the world, they make race. I can't take them seriously.