The Happiest peoples, it is said, are those which have no history. Those who have a history, those who have made history seem only to have emphazied through their acomplishments the eternality of struggle. These disappear too eventually, just as those who made no effort, who were content to merely live & enjoy.

Writing is Crude hieroglyphs chiseled in pain & sorrow to commemorate an event which is intransmissible.

The Battle is endless...we who babble and froth at the mouth have been at it since eternity.

The truly great writer does not want to write. He wants the world to be a place in which he can live the life of the imagination.

'I get down for my Grandfather who took my momma/Made her sit in that seat where white folks ain't wanna us to eat/At the tender age of 6 she was arrested for …

Think thou and act; to-morrow thou shalt die Outstretch'd in the sun's warmth upon the shore, Thou say'st: 'Man's measur'd path is all gone o'er: Up all his ye…

And he could not tell why the struggle was worth while, why he had determined to use the utmost himself and his heritage from the personalities he has passed..…