Tea Cake, The Son Of

People Can Be Slave-ships In Shoes.

Love, I Find, Is Like Singing.

Everybody Is Two Beings: One Lives And Flourishes In The Daylight And Stands Guard. The Other Being Walks And Howls At Night.

When The People Sat Around On The Porch And Passed Around The Pictures Of Their Thoughts For The Others To Look At And See, It Was Nice. The Fact That The Thought Pictures Were Always Crayon Enlargements Of Life Made It Even Nicer To Listen To.

I Am Not Tragically Colored. There Is No Great Sorrow Dammed Up In My Soul, Nor Lurking Behind My Eyes. I Do Not Mind At All. I Do Not Belong To The Sobbing School Of Negrohood Who Hold That Nature Somehow Has Given Them A Lowdown Dirty Deal And Whose Feelings Are All Hurt About It. Even In The Helter-skelter Skirmish That Is My Life, I Have Seen That The World Is To The Strong Regardless Of A Little Pigmentation More Or Less. No, I Do Not Weep At The World—i Am Too Busy Sharpening My Oyster Knife.