There is something about poverty that smells like death. Dead dreams dropping off the heart like leaves in a dry season and rotting around the feet; impulses smothered too long in the fetid air of underground caves. The soul lives in sickly air. People can be slaveships in shoes.

I hold that any religion that satisfies the individual urge is valid for that person.

Love makes your soul crawl out from its hiding place.

It would be against all nature for all the Negroes to be either at the bottom, top, or in between. We will go where the internal drive carries us like everybody else. It is up to the individual.

You got to go there to know there.

You heard me. You ain't blind.

People can be slave-ships in shoes.