I like melancholy. I like to pretend that I'm alone in the world and I'm just sort of abandoned.

Children like their mothers especially to be standing still and watching them, even if they are sleeping. At least that's how I felt. There's nothing wrong with the self-interest of children; it's just the way they are.

People only say I'm angry because I'm black and I'm a woman. But all sorts of people write with strong feeling, the way I do.

I like cooking, but I think someone else ought to do the dishes.

I have no credentials. I have no money. I literally come from a poor place. I was a servant. I dropped out of college. The next thing you know I'm writing for the 'New Yorker,' I have this sort of life, and it must seem annoying to people.

What distinguished my life from my brother's is that my mother didn't like me. When I became a woman, I seemed to repel her.