Every Heart Has Its Graveyard.

The Game Of Keeping What One Has Is Never So Exciting As The Game Of Getting.

I Had Hundreds Of Books Under My Skin Already. Not Selected Reading, All Of It. Some Of It Could Be Called Trashy. I Had Been Through Nick Carter, Horatio Alger, Bertha M. Clay And The Whole Slew Of Dime Novelists In Addition To Some Really Constructive Reading. I Do Not Regret The Trash. It Has Harmed Me In No Way. It Was A Help, Because Acquiring The Reading Habit Early Is The Important Thing. Taste And Natural Development Will Take Care Of The Rest Later On.

Here Was Peace. She Pulled In Her Horizon Like A Great Fish-net. Pulled It From Around The Waist Of The World And Draped It Over Her Shoulder. So Much Of Life In Its Meshes! She Called In Her Soul To Come And See.

From Barren Brown Stems To Glistening Leaf-buds; From The Leaf-buds To Snowy Virginity Of Bloom…it Was Like A Flute Song Forgotten In Another Existence And Remembered Again. What? How? Why? This Singing She Heard That Had Nothing To Do With Her Ears. The Rose Of The World Was Breathing Out Smell. It Followed Her Through All Her Waking Moments And Caressed Her In Her Sleep.

I Maintain That I Have Been A Negro Three Times--a Negro Baby, A Negro Girl And A Negro Woman. Still, If You Have Received No Clear Cut Impression Of What The Negro In America Is Like, Then You Are In The Same Place With Me. There Is No The Negro Here. Our Lives Are So Diversified, Internal Attitudes So Varied, Appearances And Capabilities So Different, That There Is No Possible Classification So Catholic That It Will Cover Us All, Except My People! My People!