There are people who are born deaf and grow up deaf who don’t speak at all, and some of them have told me that they resent a little bit that I do speak. But, you know, I have to be myself. I have to do what I’m comfortable doing.
I was angry with my friend: I told my wrath, my wrath did end. I was angry with my foe: I told it not, my wrath did grow.
The first decade of the twentieth century was not a great time to be born black and poor and female in St. Louis, Missouri, but Vivian Baxter was born black and poor, to black and poor parents. Later she would grow up and be called beautiful. As a grown woman she would be known as the butter-colored lady with the blowback hair.
Out of difficulties grow miracles.
As I grow older, the idea takes increasing hold in me that we’ve misunderstood our own delicacy and diversity as human beings.
When you grow up in an extended family, or in a stable neighborhood with two or three generations of families who live there, you feel seen. Not just the good things you’ve done, the stuff you put on your resume. You know they’ve seen you in your dark times, when you’ve messed up – but they’re still there.
The world is full of magical things patiently waiting for our wits to grow sharper.
Zeal is a volcano, the peak of which the grass of indecisiveness does not grow.
Doubts never end. If one doubt is removed, another takes its place. It is like removing the leaves of a tree one by one. Even if all the leaves are clipped off, new ones grow. The tree itself must be uprooted.
The artist finds, that the more he can confine his attention to a particular part of any work, his productions are the more perfect, and grow under his hands in the greater quantities.