Writing Is Agony For Me. I Work

I Can Only Tell You That When Long Soul-searching And A Combination Of Circumstances Delivered Me Of My Last Prejudices, There Was An Exalted Sense Of Liberation. It Was Not The Negro Who Became Free, But I.

No Man Should Have Proprietary Rights Over Land Who Does Not Use That Land Wisely And Lovingly.

Ants In The House Seem To Be, Not Intruders, But The Owners.

...a Pie So Delicate, So Luscious, That I Hope To Be Propped Up On My Dying Bed And Fed A Generous Portion. Then I Think That I Should Refuse Outright To Die, For Life Would Be Too Good To Relinquish.

It Seems To Me That The Earth May Be Borrowed But Not Bought. It May Be Used But Not Owned. We Are Tenants, Not Possessors, Lovers And Not Masters.