I am trying to say it all in one sentence, between one cap and one period.

I suppose that people, using themselves and each other so much by words, are at least consistent in attributing wisdom to a still tongue.

It is the writer's privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart.

For every Southern boy fourteen years old, not once but whenever he wants it, there is the instant when it's still not yet two o'clock on that July afternoon in 1863...

Facts and truth really don't have much to do with each other.

Memory believes before knowing remembers. [Light in August]

Because there is something in the touch of flesh with flesh which abrogates, cuts sharp and straight across the devious intricate channels of decorous ordering, which enemies as well as lovers know because it makes them both:---touch and touch of that which is the citadel of the central I-Am's private own: not spirit, soul; the liquorish and ungirdled mind is anyone's to take in any any darkened hallway of this earthly tenement. But let flesh touch with flesh, and watch the fall of all the eggshell shibboleth of caste and color too.