A Quote by Sylvia Ashton-Warner

As the blackness of the night recedes so does the nadir of yesterday. The child I am forgets so quickly. — © Sylvia Ashton-Warner
As the blackness of the night recedes so does the nadir of yesterday. The child I am forgets so quickly.
I never had a moment of realization about my blackness - I just was. Blackness was a central thread of my experience as a child and as an adolescent, as it is now that I'm an adult.
I am not renouncing my blackness and going on about my day. I am rejecting the legitimacy of the entire racial construct in which blackness functions as one orienting pole.
A child forgets a time of hunger but never forgets the aching want of other things.
Sometimes, I think Bill forgets that I am sixteen. But I am very happy that he does.
The unpurged images of day recede; The Emperor's drunken soldiery are abed; Night resonance recedes, night-walkers' song After great cathedral gong.
Blackness better defines who I am philosophically and socially than whiteness does.
I remember, as a child, the confusion of not knowing what this place was where I was supposed to spend the night: it's a disquieting experience for a child. And what I would do was quickly unpack my books and go back to a book I knew well and make sure the same text and the same illustrations were there.
It is only against the pitch blackness of the night that we see the glory of the stars. And it is only against the pitch blackness of man's radical depravity that we can begin to see the glories of the gospel.
One forgets so quickly one's own youth.
Yesterday and tomorrow cross and mix on the skyline. The two are lost in a purple haze. One forgets, one waits.
What release to write so that one forgets oneself, forgets one's companion, forgets where one is or what one is going to do next to be drenched in sleep or in the sea. Pencils and pads and curling blue sheets alive with letters heap up on the desk.
Life is fleeting. And if you're ever distressed, cast your eyes to the summer sky when when the stars are strung across the velvety night. And when a shooting star streaks through the blackness, turning night into day... make a wish and think of me.
A man who finds himself among others is irritated because he does not know why he is not one of the others. In bed next to a girl he loves, he forgets that he does not know why he is himself instead of the body he touches. Without knowing it, he suffers from the mental darkness that keeps him from screaming that he himself is the girl who forgets his presence while shuddering in his arms.
The Super Bowl is a game. Life is for real. What I went through helped me get to where I am today. I won't forget. I can't forget. Because a man who forgets his past sometimes loses his soul and forgets where to go in the future.
Yeah,I know you're a creature of the night.Bringer of death,sucker of blood, needer of tans,so on and so forth. And oddly enough,I'm still unimpressed." He narrowed his eyes. "How do you know what I am,child?" What is it with paranormals and calling me "child?" I'd be seventeen in Decemder. How about a nice "ma'am" or something?
My paintings are very much about the consumption and production of blackness. And how blackness is marketed to the world.
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