Whiskey Just Naturally Likes Me But Beer

What Happens To A Dream Deferred? Does It Dry Up Like A Raisin In The Sun? Or Fester Like A Sore-- And Then Run? Does It Stink Like Rotten Meat? Or Crust And Sugar Over-- Like A Syrupy Sweet? Maybe It Just Sags Like A Heavy Load. Or Does It Explode?

It Is The Duty Of The Younger Negro Artist . . . To Change Through The Force Of His Art That Old Whispering "i Want To Be White," Hidden In The Aspirations Of His People, To "why Should I Want To Be White? I Am A Negro - And Beautiful!"

To Create A Market For Your Writing You Have To Be Consistent, Professional, A Continuing Writer - Not Just A One-article Or A One-story Or A One-book Man.

The Rain Plays A Little Sleep Song On Our Roof At Night And I Love The Rain.

We Younger Negro Artists Who Create Now Intend To Express Our Individual Dark-skinned Selves Without Fear Or Shame. If White People Are Pleased We Are Glad. If They Aren?t It Doesn?t Matter.