When I Search For Man In The

I Came Into This World Anxious To Uncover The Meaning Of Things, My Soul Desirous To Be At Origin Of The World, And Here I Am An Object Among Other Objects.

When People Like Me, They Like Me "in Spite Of My Color." When They Dislike Me; They Point Out That It Isn't Because Of My Color. Either Way, I Am Locked In To The Infernal Circle.

To Speak A Language Is To Take On A World, A Culture.

I Am Black; I Am In Total Fusion With The World, In Sympathetic Affinity With The Earth, Losing My Id In The Heart Of The Cosmos -- And The White Man, However Intelligent He May Be, Is Incapable Of Understanding Louis Armstrong Or Songs From The Congo. I Am Black, Not Because Of A Curse, But Because My Skin Has Been Able To Capture All The Cosmic Effluvia. I Am Truly A Drop Of Sun Under The Earth.

Introducing Someone As A "negro Poet With A University Degree" Or Again, Quite Simply, The Expression, "a Great Black Poet." These Ready-made Phrases, Which Seem In A Common-sense Way To Fill A Need-or Have A Hidden Subtlety, A Permanent Rub.