So Janie waited a bloom time, and a green time and an orange time.

Silence is all the genius a fool has.

I was born in a Negro town.

Grown people know that they do not always know the way of things, and even if they think they know, they do not know where and how they got the proof.

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

She starched and ironed her face, forming it into just what people wanted to see.

And I can't die easy thinking maybe the menfolks white or black is making a spit cup out of you. Have some sympathy for me. Put me down easy, Janie, I'm a cracked plate.