I was born in a Negro town.
To me, bitterness is the under-arm odor of wishful weakness. It is the graceless acknowledgment of defeat.
When I pitched headforemost into the world I landed in the crib of Negroism.
The North has no interest in the particular Negro, but talks of justice for the whole. The South has not interest, and pretends none, in the mass of Negroes but is very much concerned about the individual.
I note that the Africa loves to depict the grace of reptiles.
I thought that when they said Atlantic Charter, that meant me and everybody in Africa and Asia and everywhere. But it seems like the Atlantic is an ocean that does not touch anywhere but North America and Europe.
Like the dead-seeming, cold rocks, I have memories within that came out of the material that went to make me. Time and place have had their say.
The whole matter revolves around the self-respect of my people. How much satisfaction can I get from a court order for somebody toassociate with me who does not wish me near them?
Most things are born in the mothering darkness and most things die. Darkness is the womb of creation, my boy. But the sun with his seven horns of flame is the father of life.
To avoid the consequences of posterity the mulattos give the blacks a first class letting alone. There is a frantic stampede white-ward to escape from Jamaica’s black mass.
I am her friend, and her tongue is in my mouth. I can speak her sentiments for her, though Ethel Waters can do very well indeed in speaking for herself.
Perhaps love is a compelling necessity imposed on man by God that has something to do with suffering.
Slogans can be worse than swords if they are only put in the right mouths.
I wish I could buy you for what you are really worth and sell you for what you think you’re worth. I sure would make money on the deal.
I hold that any religion that satisfies the individual urge is valid for that person.
The liquor of statecraft is distilled from the mash you got.
Distance is the only cure for certain diseases.
But any man who walks in the way of power and property is bound to meet hate.
The sun, the hero of every day, the impersonal old man that beams as brightly on death as on birth, came up every morning.
Work is the nearest thing to happiness that I can find.