If a man confessed anything on his death bed, it was the truth; for no man could stare death in the face and lie.

Men can starve from a lack of self-realization as much as they can from a lack of bread.

I listened, vaguely knowing now that I had committed some awful wrong that I could not undo, that I had uttered words I could not recall even though I ached to nullify them, kill them, turn back time to the moment before I had talked so that I could have another chance to save myself.

Each day when you see us black folk upon the dusty land of your farm or upon the hard pavement of your city streets, you usually take it for granted and think you know us, but our history is far stranger than you suspect, and we are not what we seem.

I knew that I lived in a country in which the aspirations of black people were limited, marked-off. Yet I felt that I had to go somewhere and do something to redeem my being alive.

I was not leaving the south to forget the south, but so that some day I might understand it

If a man confessed anything on his death bed, it was the truth; for no man could stare death in the face and lie.