I don't know whether the bird you are holding is dead or alive, but what I do know is that it is in your hands. It is in your hands.

In Ohio seasons are theatrical. Each one enters like a prima donna, convinced its performance is the reason the world has people in it.

Our ancestors are an ever widening circle of hope.

In times of dread, artists must never choose to remain silent.

If a Negro got legs he ought to use them. Sit down too long, somebody will figure out a way to tie them up.

...fact was she knew more about them than she knew about herself, having never had the map to discover what she was like. Could she sing? (Was it nice to hear when she did?) Was she pretty? Was she a good friend? Could she have been a loving mother? A faithful wife? Have I got a sister and does she favor me? If my mother knew me would she like me? (140)

The pieces I am, she gather them and gave them back to me in all the right order.