There is an incredible amount of magic and feistiness in black men that nobody has been able to wipe out. But everybody has tried.

I wrote my first novel because I wanted to read it.

...a habit that had become one of those necessary things for the night... surely a body-friendly if not familiar-lying next to you. Someone whose touch is a reassurance, not an affront or a nuissance. Whose heavy breathing neither enrages nor discusts you, but amuses you like that of a cherished pet.

Unless carefree, mother love was a killer.

My theory is that the world is a difficult place to live in and distraction is the name of the game.

If you surrendered to the air, you could ride it.

There is a loneliness that can be rocked. Arms crossed, knees drawn up, holding, holding on, this motion, unlike a ship's, smooths and contains the rocker. It's an inside kind--wrapped tight like skin. Then there is the loneliness that roams. No rocking can hold it down. It is alive. On its own. A dry and spreading thing that makes the sound of one's own feet going seem to come from a far-off place.