America sometimes resembles, at least from the point of view of a black man, an exceedingly monotonous minstrel show; the same dances, same music, same jokes. One has done (or been) the show so long that one can do it in one’s own sleep.

The purpose of art is to lay bare the questions that have been hidden by the answers.

One cannot deny the humanity of another without diminishing one's own.

The questions which one asks oneself begin, at least, to illuminate the world, and become one's key to the experience of others.

It seems to be typical of life in America ... that the second generation has no time to talk to the first.

The writer's greed is appalling. He wants, or seems to want, everything and practically everybody, in another sense, and at the same time, he needs no one at all.

I was guilty and irritated and full of love and pain. I wanted to kick him and I wanted to take him in my arms.