No matter what all your teeth and wet fingers anticipated, there was no accounting for the way that simple joy could shake you.

I know the world is bruised and bleeding, and though it is important not to ignore its pain, it is also critical to refuse to succumb to its malevolence. Like failure, chaos contains information that can lead to knowledge - even wisdom. Like art.

Freeing yourself was one thing; claiming ownership of that freed self was another.

All the books that were being published by African-American guys were saying 'screw whitey', or some variation of that. Not the scholars but the pop books. And the other thing they said was, 'You have to confront the oppressor.' I understand that. But you don't have to look at the world through his eyes. I'm not a stereotype; I'm not somebody else's version of who I am. And so when people said at that time black is beautiful – yeah? Of course. Who said it wasn't? So I was trying to say, in The Bluest Eye, wait a minute. Guys. There was a time when black wasn't beautiful. And you hurt.

We die. That may be the meaning of life. But we do language. That may be the measure of our lives.

We're all surrounded by what I call faux language, fake language of commerce, of news media.

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