All My Skinfolk Ain't Kinfolk.

Tain't No Use In You Cryin' . . . But Folks Is Meant To Cry 'bout Somethin' Or Other. Better Leave Things De Way Dey Is. Youse Young Yet. No Tellin' Whut Mout Happen Befo' You Die.

I Had Hundreds Of Books Under My Skin Already. Not Selected Reading, All Of It. Some Of It Could Be Called Trashy. I Had Been Through Nick Carter, Horatio Alger, Bertha M. Clay And The Whole Slew Of Dime Novelists In Addition To Some Really Constructive Reading. I Do Not Regret The Trash. It Has Harmed Me In No Way. It Was A Help, Because Acquiring The Reading Habit Early Is The Important Thing. Taste And Natural Development Will Take Care Of The Rest Later On.

The Game Of Keeping What One Has Is Never So Exciting As The Game Of Getting.

Someone Is Always At My Elbow Reminding Me That I Am The Granddaughter Of Slaves. It Fails To Register Depression With Me.

There Is Something About Poverty That Smells Like Death. Dead Dreams Dropping Off The Heart Like Leaves In A Dry Season And Rotting Around The Feet; Impulses Smothered Too Long In The Fetid Air Of Underground Caves. The Soul Lives In Sickly Air. People Can Be Slaveships In Shoes.