Now it surged up again and I hungered for books, new ways of looking and seeing. Blues, spirituals, and folk tales recounted from mouth to mouth . The artist must bow to the monster of his own imagination. I would hurl words into the darkness and wait for an echo. If an echo sounded, no matter how faintly, I would send other words to tell, to march, to fight.
Men can starve from lack of self-realization as much as they can from lack of bread.
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