I wasn't looking to make friends; there had been too much animosity between us in the past, and maybe the guy had a zinger waiting on me.
Send succours (lords), and stop the rage betime, Before the wound do grow uncurable; For being green, there is great hope of help."
The sight of his scared face, his starts and pallors and sudden harkenings, unstrung me […]
In white America, the printed word — the literary tradition — and its attendant values, are revered. In the Negro community, more power resides in the spoken word and oral tradition — good talkers abound and the best gain power and prestige, but good writers are scarce.
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