Folklore is the boiled-down juice, or pot-likker, of human living.

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

Everybody has some special road of thought along which they travel when they are alone to themselves. And his road of thought is what makes every man what he is.

Love makes your soul crawl out from its hiding place.

Lack of power and opportunity passes off too often for virtue.

Night came walking through Egypt swishing her black dress.

..she began to stand around the gate and expect things. What things? She didn't know exactly. Her breath was gusty and short. She knew things that nobody ever told her. For instance, the words of the trees and the wind. .. She knew the world was a stallion rolling in the blue pasture of ether. She knew that God tore down the old world every evening and built a new one by sun-up. It was wonderful to see it take form with the sun and emerge from the gray dust of its making.