It was lovely. Not to be stared at, not seen, but being pulled into view by the interested, uncritical eyes of the other.
Alice thought, No. It wasn’t the War and the disgruntled veterans; it wasn’t the droves and droves of colored people flocking to paychecks and streets full of themselves. It was the music. The dirty, get-on-down music the women sang and the men played and both danced to, close and shamelesss or apart and wild…It made you do unwise disorderly things. Just hearing it was like violating the law.
But the truth was she could not bear to be around thier undead,healthy children.More than envy she felt that each laughing redcheeked child of thiers was an accusation of failure,a mockery of her own.
What he might call cowardice other people called common sense.
It’s gonna hurt, now,
What’s fair ain’t necessarily right.
Anger is better. There is a sense of being in anger. A reality and presence. An awareness of worth. It is a lovely surging.
I wrote my first novel because I wanted to read it.
Let me tell you right now the one important thing you’ll ever need to know: Own things. And let the things you own own other things. Then you’ll own yourself and other people too.
No more running-from nothing. I will never run from another thing on this Earth. I took one journey and I paid for the ticket, but let me tell you something, Paul D. Garner: it cost too much!