“I’m one hell of a public speaker, baby. I’m going to let them see the pain, but if you turn around and start treating me like some damaged little victim, I will murder you. In your sleep.”

“I’m going to walk over to you,” I say, taking one step at a time in her direction like I’m talking down a jumper. “I’m going to put my arms around you and I’m going to hold you,” I pause before taking the last step, “and you’re going to let me.”

“I’m not going to bed after all. Somebody around here hath murdered sleep. Good for him.”

“No, I’m not an American. I’m one of 22 million black people who are the victims of Americanism. One of the … victims of democracy, nothing but disguised hypocrisy. So I’m not standing here speaking to you as an American, or a patriot, or a flag-saluter, or a flag-waver – no, not I! I’m speaking as a victim of this American system. I don’t see any American dream; I see an American nightmare!”

“I wish to God I had an answer for you right now. All I know is that…I’m not turning this car around. I’m going home with you…and we’ll see what happens from there.”

“See, I know what they think about me. That I’m some project. And, yeah, I’ll accept their help. But I’m gonna pay my way. ’Cause you can’t let people like that give you anything. They think they own you then. And you know what? Nobody’s ever going to own me.”