A man gazing on the stars is proverbially at the mercy of the puddles in the road.
There is no longer a way out of our present situation except by forging a road toward our objective, violently and by force, over a sea of blood and under a horizon blazing with fire.
With their souls of patent leather, they come down the road. Hunched and nocturnal, where they breathe they impose, silence of dark rubber, and fear of fine sand.
Standing in the middle of the road is very dangerous; you get knocked down by the traffic from both sides.
There is no road of flowers leading to glory.
We have seen from experience that, if we are in the habit of walking regularly on the same road, we are able to think about other things while walking, without paying attention to our steps.
Merely by describing yourself as black you have started on a road towards emancipation, you have committed yourself to fight against all forces that seek to use your blackness as a stamp that marks you out as a subservient being.
Poetry and progress are like two ambitious men who hate one another with an instinctive hatred, and when they meet upon the same road, one of them has to give place.
The need for change bulldozed a road down the center of my mind.
Occasionally it’s been a long and bumpy road – one I’m still travelling – but I’ve always felt like my home town has been solidly behind me and I’m both grateful and proud.