I try to write something that would interest anybody and keep them turning the page. You must have a plot and good storyline.
We ain’t giving up,” I said. “We done gone this far.
I didn’t want to show it. Because if what he was saying was true, there wasn’t a thing I could do about it. Marshall was too big. If it was just Bonbon who wanted to hurt Marcus, you might be able to prevent that. Bonbon was nothing but a poor white man, and sometimes you could go to the rich white man for help. But where did you go when it was the rich white man? You couldn’t even go to the law, because he was the law. He was police, he was judge, he was jury.
Ain’t we all been hurt by slavery?
We must live with our own conscience. Each and every one of us must live with his own conscience.
It came from a piece of old wood that he found in the yard somewhere. That’s what we all are, Jefferson, all of us on this earth, a piece of drifting wood, until we – each one of us, individually – decide to become something else. I am still that piece of drifting wood, and those out there are no better. But you can be better. Because we need you to be and want you to be.” – Grant.
Writing is too goddamned hard for me to think about a soul in teh world... I don’t think about a soul, but just try to get those goddamned characters to act right.
Go and be fish again.
The sky blue blue, Mr. Wiggins.
Memories wasn’t a place, memories was in the mind.
I spoke to the Old Man a couple of times, but I’m sure He didn’t hear a word I said. He had quit listening to man a million years ago. Now all He does is play chess by Himself or sit around playing solitary with old cards.
The heavier the burden, the longer they look at you. And Miss Julie looked at me a long, long time.
I was not there, yet I was there. No, I did not go to the trial, I did not hear the verdict, because I knew all the time what it would be. Still, I was there. I was there as much as anyone else was there.
Why?” I kept on asking myself. “Why? Who is this boy and why?” I knew that white men bonded colored boys out of jail for a few hundred dollars and worked them until they had gotten all their money back two and three times over. But I was trying to figure out why Marshall Hebert would do this when he already had more people than he needed. Now I knew. This little old lady had the finger on him, too.
Read. Read. Read. Write. Write. Write.
Plege legen toda flag. Ninety state. ‘Merica. Er – er – yeah, which it stand. Visibly. Amen.
You wanted the past changed, Reverend Martin,” she told him. “Even He can’t do that. So that leaves nothing but the future. We work toward the future.
No matter what you do, no matter how hard you work, how much you love, they catch you off guard one day and break you.
That’s what life is about, doing as good as you can. When the times comes for them to lay you down in the long black hole, they can say one thing: ‘He did as good as he could.’ That’s the best thing you can say for a man. Horse breaker or yard sweeper, let them say the poor boy did it good as he could.
Tell Nannan I walked.
My six words of advice to writers are: “Read, read, read, write, write, write.