It was not death she feared. It was misunderstanding.
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.
No man may make another free.
Mystery is the essence of divinity
Look lak she been livin' through uh hundred years in January without one day of spring.
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.