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

Gods always behave like the people who make them.

every heart has its graveyard.

When Janie looked out of her door she saw the drifting mists gathered in the west -- that cloud field of the sky -- to arm themselves with thunders and march forth against the world. Louder and higher and lower and wider the sound and motion spread, mounting, sinking, darking.

The morning air was like a new dress. That made her feel the apron tied around her waist. She untied it and flung it on a low bush beside the road and walked on, picking flowers and making a bouquet… From now on until death she was going to have flower dust and springtime sprinkled over everything.

anytime you catch folks lying, they scared of something!

Someone is always at my elbow reminding me that I am the granddaughter of slaves. It fails to register depression with me.