Books are meat and medicine and flame and flight and flower steel, stitch, cloud and clout, and drumbeats on the air.
We don't ask a flower any special reason for its existence. We just look at it and are able to accept it as being something different from ourselves.
The forties and fifties were years of high poet-incense; the language-flowers were thickly sweet. Those flowers whined and begged white folks to pick them, to find them lovable. Then the '60s: Independent fire!
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