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Every morning the world flung itself over and exposed the town to the sun.

Zora Neale Hurston

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Zora Neale Hurston
Age: 69 †
Born: 1891
Born: January 7
Died: 1960
Died: January 28
Anthropologist
Civil Rights Advocate
Film Director
Folklorist
Historian
Journalist
Novelist
Playwright
Writer
Zora N. Hurston
Sun
Morning
Every
World
Flung
Exposed
Town
Towns

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When one is too old for love, one finds great comfort in good dinners.
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So the brother in black offers to these United States the source of courage that endures, and laughter.
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The very best place to be in all the world is St. Mary's parish, Jamaica. And the best spot in St. Mary's is Port Maria, though all of St. Mary's is fine. Old Maker put himself to a lot of trouble to make that part of the island of Jamaica, for everything there is perfect.
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The man who interprets Nature is always held in great honor.
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There is nothing to make you like other human beings so much as doing things for them.
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Look lak she been livin' through uh hundred years in January without one day of spring.
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...she woke up in time to see the sun sending up spies ahead of him to mark out the road through the dark. He peeped up over the door sill of the world and made a little foolishness with red.
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Nothing that God ever made is the same thing to more than one person.
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Janie looked down on him and felt a self-crushing love. So her soul crawled out from its hiding place.
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Everybody is two beings: one lives and flourishes in the daylight and stands guard. The other being walks and howls at night.
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Research is formalized curiosity. It is poking and prying with a purpose. It is a seeking that he who wishes may know the cosmic secrets of the world and they that dwell therein.
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Mama exhorted her children at every opportunity to 'jump at the sun.' We might not land on the sun, but at least we would get off the ground.
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The sun had become a light yellow yolk and was walking with red legs across the sky.
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The sun, the hero of every day, the impersonal old man that beams as brightly on death as on birth, came up every morning.
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Most things are born in the mothering darkness and most things die. Darkness is the womb of creation, my boy. But the sun with his seven horns of flame is the father of life.
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I am not tragically colored. There is no great sorrow dammed up in my soul, nor lurking behind my eyes. I do not mind at all.
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Light came to me when I realized that I did not have to consider any racial group as a whole. God made them duck by duck and that was the only way I could see them.
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An envious heart makes a treacherous ear.
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Why fear? The stuff of my being is matter, ever changing, ever moving, but never lost so what need of denominations and creeds to deny myself the comfort of all my fellow men? The wide belt of the universe has no need for finger-rings. I am one with the infinite and need no other assurance.
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I have known the joy and pain of friendship. I have served and been served. I have made some good enemies for which I am not a bit sorry. I have loved unselfishly, and I have fondled hatred with the red-hot tongs of Hell. That's living.
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