Youthful cynicism is sad to observe, because it indicates not so much knowledge learned from bitter experiences as insufficient trust even to attempt the future.
You may write me down in history with your bitter, twisted lies, you may tread me in the very dirt, but still, like dust, I’ll rise.
You may shoot me with your words, you may cut me with your eyes, you may kill me with your hatefulness, but still, like air, I’ll rise.
You may not control all the events that happen to you, but you can decide not to be reduced by them.
You don’t have to think about doing the right thing. If you’re for the right thing, then you do it without thinking.
Words mean more than what is set down on paper. It takes the human voice to infuse them with the shades of deeper meaning.
Who would dare admit a longing for a White nation so full of hate that it drove its citizens of color to madness, to death or to exile? How to confess even to one’s ownself, that our eyes, historically customed to granite buildings, wide paved avenues, chromed cars, and brown, black, beige, pink, and white-skinned people, often ached for those familiar sights?