W.E.B. Du Bois: “Lunch rooms either don't serve niggers or serve them at some dirty and ill-attended hole in the wall.”

He would not bleach his Negro soul in a flood of white Americanism, for he knows that Negro blood has a message for the world.

And yet, being a problem is a strange experience,—peculiar even for one who has never been anything else, save perhaps in babyhood and in Europe.

Fully ninety-four per cent have struggled for land and failed, and half of them sit in hopeless serfdom.

The first decade was merely a prolongation of the vain search for freedom, the boon that seemed ever barely to elude their grasp,—like a tantalizing will-o’-the-wisp, maddening and misleading the headless host.