Memory in America suffers amnesia.

Money is only money, beans tonight and steak tomorrow. So long as you can look yourself in the eye.

The people always know that some of the grain will be good, some of the crop will be saved, some will return and bear the strength of the kernel, that from the bloodiest year some survive to outfox the frost.

The history of an oppressed people is hidden in the lies and the agreed myth of its conquerors.

It was the bumble bee and the butterfly who survived, not the dinosaur.

Literature must spring from the deep and submerged humus of our life.

An abyss seems to have opened between the intellectual cosmopolites of culture and the people, hungry for word and meaning.