It seems that fighting is a game where everybody is the loser.

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

If you want that good feeling that comes from doing things for other folks then you have to pay for it in abuse and misunderstanding.

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.

All my skinfolk ain't kinfolk.

It seemed to me that the human beings I met reacted pretty much the same to the same stimuli. Different idioms,yes. Circumstances and conditions having power to influence, yes. Inherent difference, no.

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.