We know You love us. We love You, too. I mean, six, seven thousand years from now . . . won’t make no difference, will it? Everybody gonna be so mixed up by then that...

August in Mississippi is different from July. As to heat, it is not a question of degree but of kind. July heat is furious, but in August the heat has killed even itself and lies...

Just look what happens to poets,” I used to tell my honors class on the first day of school. “Half the time they go mad. And you know why I think that happens? Too much...

When she thinks a book is very good, what she says to herself is: yes, that’s how things are. I hadn’t thought of it before, but that’s how things are.

But the book! The siren song of the book!

But courage was growing in me too. Little by little it was getting harder and harder for me not to speak out.

She was always saying things like that but I let her be my best friend anyway.

Libraries are about books. Books have no color. And they don’t care who reads them.

It was spring when it happened and the schoolroom windows were open all day long, and every afternoon after Billy left we had milk from little waxy cartons and Mrs. Jansma would read us chapters...

She wore heavy sandals, with socks. No kid in the entire state of Mississippi wore black socks in the summer. Shoot, if I wasn’t standing smack-dab in the middle of the library, I wouldn’t be...

Cuddle up. Rain always stops. It always stops. It always does. -The Brown Cape

I walked straight to the library. Mrs. Bloom, the librarian, always knows everything.

We were running all over the front lawn and under the rainspouts, barefooted, in our underpants, with the rain pelting down, straight cold gray rain of Delta summers, wonderful rain. -Mexico

For the rest of the afternoon, Miss Bloom smiled almost as bright as the big yellow sun shining through the front picture window. Her library was filled up with people who loved books.

Reading, for pleasure and knowledge, has always been, will always be one of my favorite things to do. (Larry Brown: A Writer’s Life by Jean W. Cash)

I had never read a book written by an African-American. I didn’t know that black people could write books. I didn’t know that blacks had done any great things. I was always conscious of my...

All my life, the library has always been one of my favorite places to go. (Larry Brown: A Writer’s Life by Jean W. Cash)

His house to me was a child was a heart of happiness. If there is a wonder childhood possesses which makes it forever superior to what shall come after, it is the happy and uncritical...

I told him. We got a library here. Got plenty of good books, too. -Larry Brown, Dirty Work

He read it over twenty times and though the darkness that sang on held steady about him, the unhurried words fell bright through his mind, going down golden through deep water, and when one passed...