I note that the Africa loves to depict the grace of reptiles.

Once you wake up thought in a man, you can never put it to sleep again.

I am not tragically colored. There is no great sorrow dammed up in my soul, nor lurking behind my eyes. I do not mind at all. I do not belong to the sobbing school of Negrohood who hold that nature somehow has given them a lowdown dirty deal and whose feelings are all hurt about it. Even in the helter-skelter skirmish that is my life, I have seen that the world is to the strong regardless of a little pigmentation more or less. No, I do not weep at the world—I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife.

Sweat, sweat, sweat! Work and sweat, cry and sweat, pray and sweat!

The sun, the hero of every day, the impersonal old man that beams as brightly on death as on birth, came up every morning.

It seems like the first law of Nature is that everybody likes to receive things, but nobody likes to feel grateful.

I do not weep at the world I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife.