In The Invincible And Indescribable Squalor Of

If All You Want To Do Is Make Money, The Very Last Thing You Need Is Imagination.

I Was In His Hands, He Called Me By The Thunder At My Ear. I Was In His Hands: I Was Being Changed; All That I Could Do Was Cling To Him. I Did Not Realize, Until I Realized It, That I Was Also Kissing Him, That Everything Was Breaking And Changing And Turning In Me And Moving Toward Him.

To Be Black And Conscious In America Is To Be In A Constant State Of Rage.

Unless A Writer Is Extremely Old When He Dies, In Which Case He Has Probably Become A Neglected Institution, His Death Must Always Seem Untimely.

Everything In Life Depends On How That Life Accepts Its Limits.