I Regret All Of My Books.

Justice, Like Beauty, Is In The Eye Of The Beholder.

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

The Liquor Of Statecraft Is Distilled From The Mash You Got.

Someone Is Always At My Elbow Reminding Me That I Am The Grand-daughter Of Slaves. It Fails To Register Depression With Me. Slaver Y Is Sixty Years In The Past. The Operation Was Successful And The Patient Is Doing Well, Thank You. The Terrible Struggle That Made Me An American Out Of A Potential Slave Said "on The Line!" The Reconstruction Said "go!" I Am Off To A Flying Start And I Must Not Halt In The Stretch To Look Behind And Weep.

She Starched And Ironed Her Face, Forming It Into Just What People Wanted To See.