An identity would seem to be arrived at by the way in which the person faces and uses his experience.

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.

All racists are irresponsible.

An American Negro, however deep his sympathies, or however bright his rage, ceases to be simply a black man when he faces a black man from Africa.

Employment is my right my destiny.

A society must assume that it is stable, but the artist must know, and he must let us know, that there is nothing stable under heaven.

Do I really want to be integrated into a burning house?