I Love Myself When I Am Laughing.

I Hold That Any Religion That Satisfies The Individual Urge Is Valid For That Person.

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.

The Sun, The Hero Of Every Day, The Impersonal Old Man That Beams As Brightly On Death As On Birth, Came Up Every Morning.

It Is So Easy To Be Hopeful In The Daytime When You Can See The Things You Wish On. But It Was Night, It Stayed Night. Night Was Striding Across Nothingness With The Whole Round World In His Hands . . . They Sat In Company With The Others In Other Shanties, Their Eyes Straining Against Cruel Walls And Their Souls Asking If He Meant To Measure Their Puny Might Against His. They Seemed To Be Staring At The Dark, But Their Eyes Were Watching God.

I Have A Strong Suspicion . That Much That Passes For Constant Love Is A Golded- Up Moment Walking In Its Sleep.