I am no longer sure of anything. If I satiate my desires, I sin but I deliver myself from them; if I refuse to satisfy them, they infect the whole soul.
God has blessed me with the capacity to meditate even while I am talking.
I have learned silence from the talkative, toleration from the intolerant, and kindness from the unkind; yet, strange, I am ungrateful to those teachers.
I am a daughter. My father is an example for me.
I cannot explain it; but when difficulties arise, I am not perplexed or doubtful. I know how to meet them.
What could I wish for the present but to take the greatest pleasure in being what I am?
A journal of the ‘subjective’ kind I have always thought foolish, as nurturing a morbid self -consciousness in the writer; and yet, alone so much as I am, it is well to have some sort of a ventilator from the interior.
I am a mortician who tells you that you don’t necessarily need a mortician.
I am very happy because I have loved the world and not myself.
I speak to the black experience, but I am always talking about the human condition.