I suspect that all the agony that goes into writing is borne precisely because the writer longs for acceptance-but it must be acceptance on his own terms.

We look too much to museums. The sun coming up in the morning is enough.

I am not ashamed of my grandparents for having been slaves. I am only ashamed of myself for having at one time being ashamed.

Eclecticism is the word. Like a jazz musician who creates his own style out of the styles around him, I play by ear.

I am nobody but myself.

And I knew that it was better to live out one's absurdity than to die for that of others.

America is woven of many strands. I would recognize them and let it so remain.