It Is Not Death That Kills Us,

Information Can Be Passed From One To Another, Like A Silver Dollar. There's Absolutely No Wisdom Except What You Learn For Yourself.

Writing Is Agony For Me. I Work At It Eight Hours Every Day, Hoping To Get Six Pages, But I Am Satisfied With Three.

No Case Of Libel By A Negro Against A White Would Even Reach A Southern Court.

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.

Cross Creek Belongs To The Wind And The Rain, To The Sun And The Seasons, To The Cosmic Secrecy Of Seed, And Beyond All, To Time.