It's becoming very much like 1979 again.
I'd like to see the bay cleaned up before I die.
The artist must bow to the monster of his own imagination.
Don't leave inferences to be drawn when evidence can be presented.
Men simply copied the realities of their hearts when they built prisons.
Men can starve from a lack of self-realization as much as they can from a lack of bread.
The impulse to dream was slowly beaten out of me by experience. Now it surged up again and I hungered for books, new ways of looking and seeing.
I would hurl words into this darkness and wait for an echo, and if an echo sounded, no matter how faintly, I would send other words to tell, to march, to fight, to create a sense of hunger for life that gnaws in us all.
If this country can’t find its way to a human path, if it can’t inform conduct with a deep sense of life, then all of us, black
as well as white, are going down the same drain… I picked up a pencil and held it over a sheet of white paper, but my feelings stood in the way of my words. Well, I would wait, day and night, until I knew what to say. Humbly now, with no vaulting dream of achieving a vast unity, I wanted to try to build a bridge of words between me and that world outside, that world which was so distant and elusive that it seemed unreal. I would hurl words into this darkness and wait for an echo, and if an echo sounded, no matter how faintly, I would send other words to tell, to march, to fight, to create a sense of the hunger for life that
gnaws in us all, to keep alive in our hearts a sense of the inexpressibly human.