If the word has the potency to revive and make us free, it has also the power to bind, imprison and destroy.

Good fiction is made of that which is real, and reality is difficult to come by.

Light confirms my reality, gives birth to my form...without light I am not only invisible but formless as well; and to be unaware of one's form is to live a death...the truth is the light and light is the truth.

I am an invisible man. No, I am not a spook like those who haunted Edgar Allan Poe; nor am I one of your Hollywood-movie ectoplasms.

America is woven of many strands. I would recognise them and let it so remain. Our fate is to become one, and yet many. This is not prophecy, but description.

What and how much had I lost by trying to do only what was expected of me instead of what I myself had wished to do?

Man's hope can paint a purple picture, can transform a soaring vulture into a noble eagle or moaning dove.