Maud Martha

Once she had taken him to a library. While occupied with the card cases she had glanced up, had observed that he, too, was busy among the cards. “Do you want a book?” “No-o. I’m just curious about something. I wondered if there could be a man in the world named Bastard. Sure enough, there is.”

It might be nursing personal regrets. No more the mysterious shadows of the kitchenette, the uncharted twists, the unguessed halls. No more the sweet delights of the chase, the charms of being unsuccessfully hounded, thrown at.

Annie Allen (1949) won the Pulitzer Prize in 1950, making her the first ever Black author to do so;

He wanted a dog. A good dog. No mongrel. An apartment—well-furnished, containing a good bookcase, filled with good books in good bindings. He wanted a phonograph, and records. The symphonies. And Yehudi Menuhin. He wanted some good art. These things were not extras. They went to make up a good background. The kind of background those guys had.

“I am not a pretty woman,” said Maud Martha. “If you married a pretty woman, you could be the father of pretty children. Envied by people. The father of beautiful children.” “But I don’t know,” said Paul. “Because my features aren’t fine. They aren’t regular. They’re heavy. They’re real Negro features. I’m light, or at least I can claim to be a sor

The name “New York” glittered in front of her like the silver in the shops on Michigan Boulevard. It was silver, and it was solid, and it was remote: it was behind glass, it was behind bright glass like the silver in the shops. It was not for her. Yet.

Annie Allen had won Brooks the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1950.

She looked at the trees, she looked at the grass, she looked at the faces of the passers-by. It had been interesting, it had been rather good, and it was still rather good. But really, she was ready. Since the time had come, she was ready. Paulette would miss her for a long time, Paul for less, but really, their sorrow was their business, not hers.

There were no roughnecks here. These people knew what whiskies were good, what wine was “the thing” with this food, that food, what places to go, how to dance, how to smoke, how much stress to put on love, how to dress, when to curse, and did not indulge (for the most part) in homosexuality but could discuss it without eagerness, distaste, curiosit