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A dream deferred is a dream denied.

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
Deferred
Denied
Dream

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Hard as I try, daddy-o, I really do not like concert singers. They are always singing in some foreign language.
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If you want to honor me, give some young boy or girl who's coming along trying to create arts and write and compose and sing and act and paint and dance and make something out of the beauties of the Negro race-give that child some help.
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Blues had the pulse beat of the people who keep on going.
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My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
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Words Like Freedom There are words like Freedom Sweet and wonderful to say. On my heartstrings freedom sings All day everyday. There are words like Liberty That almost make me cry. If you had known what I know You would know why.
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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 I were a young man, I used to play baseball and steal bases just like Jackie Robinson. If the empire would rule me out, I would get mad and hit the empire.
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Well, when Christ comes back this time, I hope He comes back mad His own self. I hope He drives the Jim Crowers out of their high places, every living last one of them from Washington to Texas.
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I loved my friend He went away from me There's nothing more to say The poem ends, Soft as it began- I loved my friend.
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Everything there is but lovin' leaves a rust on your old soul
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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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Life is a big sea full of many fish. I let down my nets and pulled. I'm still pulling.
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This morning I paid seventy cents for two little old dried-up slivers of bacon and one cockeyed egg. It took me till noon to get my appetite back.
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This is the mountain standing in the way of any true Negro art in America - this urge within the race toward whiteness, the desire to pour racial individuality into the mold of American standardization, and to be as little Negro and as much American as possible.
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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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Money and art are far apart.
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Politics in any country in the world is dangerous. For the poet, politics in any country had better be disguised as poetry. Politics can be the graveyard of the poet. And only poetry can be his resurrection.
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What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? ... Or does it explode?
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To create a market for your writing you have to be consistent, professional, a continuing writer - not just a one-article or a one-story or a one-book man.
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Misery is when you heard on the radio that the neighborhood you live in is a slum but you always thought it was home.
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