I Was Born In A Negro Town.

When We Sing The Blues, We're Singin' Out Our Hearts, We're Singing Out Our Feelings. Maybe We're Hurt And Just Can't Answer Back, Then We Sing Or Maybe Even Hum The Blues.

Research Is Formalized Curiosity. It Is Poking And Prying With A Purpose.

Tea Cake, The Son Of The Evening Sun, Had To Die For Loving Her.

Now, Suppose A Negro Does Something Really Magnificent, And I Glory, Not In The Benefit To Mankind, But In The Fact That The Doer Was A Negro. Must I Not Also Go Hang My Head In Shame When A Member Of My Race Does Something Execrable? . . . The White Race Did Not Go Into A Laboratory And Invent Incandescent Light. That Was Edison. . . . If You Are Under The Impression That Every White Man Is An Edison, Just Look Around A Bit.

I Know That Nothing Is Destructible; Things Merely Change Forms.