Her mind traveled crooked streets and aimless goat paths, arriving sometimes at profundity, other times at the revelations of a three-year-old. Throughout this fresh, if common, pursuit of knowledge, one conviction crowned her efforts: ...she knew there was nothing to fear.

Like any artist without an art form, she became dangerous.

Don't tell us what to believe, what to fear. Show us belief's wide skirt and the stitch that unravels fear's caul.

Lay my head on the railroad line. Train come along; pacify my mind.

Race is the least reliable information you can have about someone. It's real information, but it tells you next to nothing.

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

Nobody loved her and she wouldn’t have liked it if they had, she considered love a serious disability.