Quote

Though you may hear me holler, And you may see me cry-- I'll be dogged, sweet baby, If you gonna see me die.

Langston Hughes

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Langston Hughes
Age: 66 †
Born: 1901
Born: February 1
Died: 1967
Died: May 22
Biographer
Essayist
Journalist
Novelist
Playwright
Poet
Writer
Joplin
Missouri
James Langston Hughes
James Mercer Langston Hughes
Baby
Hear
Dies
Though
Holler
May
Dogged
Cry
Gonna
Sweet

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I asked you, baby, If you understood- You told me that you didn't, But you thought you would.
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Money and art are far apart.
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A world I dream where black or white, Whatever race you be, Will share the bounties of the Earth And every man is free.
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When a man starts out to build a world, He starts first with himself
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Never look for a worm in the apple of your eye.
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Go home and write / a page tonight. / And let that page come out of you - / Then, it will be true.
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I swear to the Lord, I still can't see, why Democracy means, everybody but me.
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Rest at pale evening... A tall slim tree... Night coming tenderly Black like me
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They [the police] learned something from them Harlem riots. They used to beat your head right in public, but now they only beat it after they get you down to the station house.
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I will not take 'but' for an answer. Negroes have been looking at democracy's 'but' too long.
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For my best poems were all written when I felt the worst. When I was happy, I didn't write anything.
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An artist must be free to choose what he does, certainly, but he must also never be afraid to do what he might choose.
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I am the darker brother. They send me to eat in the kitchen when company comes, but I laugh, and eat well, and grow strong.
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What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore-- And then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over-- like a syrupy sweet? Maybe it just sags like a heavy load. Or does it explode?
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I've known rivers: I've known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of human blood in human veins. My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
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Good evening, daddy! Ain't you heard The boogie-woogie rumble Of a dream deferred? Trilling the treble And twining the bass Into midnight ruffles Of cat-gut lace.
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I am a Negro: Black as the night is black, Black like the depths of my Africa.
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Frosting Freedom Is just frosting On somebody else's Cake-- And so must be Till we Learn how to Bake.
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The depression brought everybody down a peg or two. And the Negroes had but few pegs to fall.
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I did not believe political directives could be successfully applied to creative writing . . . not to poetry or fiction, which to be valid had to express as truthfully as possible the individual emotions and reactions of the writer.
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