On our life map, he drew a bright circle around twelve through eighteen. This was the abyss where, unguided, black boys were swallowed whole, only to reemerge on corners and prison tiers.

I thank my mother (Ma, you're only second cause you got the dedication), who used to make me write essays whenever I got into trouble, explaining exactly what I'd done and why I'd done it.

No matter was the professional talkers tell you, I never met a black boy who wanted to fail.

This is one of those stories where the feeling of the moment stands in for visual details.

An atheist is someone who is certain that God doesn't exist, someone who has compelling evidence against the existence of God. I know of no such compelling evidence.

His lack of education is more than compensated for by his keenly developed moral bankruptcy.

If some student came up and wanted to know where to study painting, you'd want to suggest someplace, but there's no place. I wouldn't know where to send a student to study.

The great courage is to stare as squarely at the light as at death.

Craving security is the cause of insecurity. Freedom is knowing that the only point of arrival is now.

We have a right to defend ourselves, but we don't have a right to aggress.

Writers really live in the mind and in hotels of the soul.

The question of whether I, as a whistleblower, should be pardoned, is not for me to answer.

A Republican in my state of Arkansas feels about as out of place as Michael Vick at the West Minister dog show.

Very depressed today. Unable to write a thing. Menacing gods. I feel outcast on a cold star, unable to feel anything but an awful helpless numbness.