Dilsey stroked Ben's head, slowly and steadily, smoothing the bang upon his brow. He wailed quietly, unhurriedly. 'Hush,' Dilsey said. 'Hush, now. We be gone in a minute. Hush, now.' He wailed quietly and steadily.

Then Ben wailed again, hopeless and prolonged. It was nothing. Just sound. It might have been all time and injustice and sorrow become vocal for an instant by …

Because no battle is ever won, he said. They are not even fought. The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and victory is an illusion of philos…

For every Southern boy fourteen years old, not once but whenever he wants it, there is the instant when it's still not yet two o'clock on that July afternoon i…

Who ran to help me when I fell, And would some pretty story tell, Or kiss the place to make it well? My mother.

Writing...is an art; and artists...are human beings. As a human being stands, so a human being is....

When your mother has grown older, When her dear, faithful eyes No longer see life as they once did, When her feet, grown tired, No longer want to carry her as …