Every Heart Has Its Graveyard.

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

It Seems To Me That Trying To Live Without Friends Is Like Milking A Bear To Get Cream For Your Morning Coffee. It Is A Whole Lot Of Trouble, And Then Not Worth Much After You Get It.

Friendship Is A Mysterious And Ocean-bottom Thing. Who Can Know The Outer Ranges Of It? Perhaps No Human Being Has Ever Explored Its Limits.

Research Is Formalized Curiosity. It Is Poking And Prying With A Purpose. It Is A Seeking That He Who Wishes May Know The Cosmic Secrets Of The World And They That Dwell Therein.

I Am Not Tragically Colored. There Is No Great Sorrow Dammed Up In My Soul, Nor Lurking Behind My Eyes. I Do Not Mind At All. I Do Not Belong To The Sobbing School Of Negrohood Who Hold That Nature Somehow Has Given Them A Lowdown Dirty Deal And Whose Feelings Are All Hurt About It. Even In The Helter-skelter Skirmish That Is My Life, I Have Seen That The World Is To The Strong Regardless Of A Little Pigmentation More Or Less. No, I Do Not Weep At The World—i Am Too Busy Sharpening My Oyster Knife.