W.E.B. Du Bois: “Have all the lies and thefts and hates-- Is this Thy Crucifixion, God, And not that funny, little cross, With vinegar…”

Away with the black man’s ballot, by force or fraud,—and behold the suicide of a race!

This, then, is the end of his striving: to be a co-worker in the kingdom of culture, to escape both death and isolation, to husband and use his best powers and his latent genius.

It is a peculiar sensation, this double-consciousness, this sense of always looking at one’s self through the eyes of others, of measuring one’s soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity.

But they should not keep these prizes, I said; some, all, I would wrest from them.