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I'm just kind of sick of music. I don't know what I want to do. It's not that I feel suicidal or anything, but I just want to end this life. I just want to be somebody else now. Sometimes I feel like that. You always think, "If I just cut my hair really short and dye it brown and put on a little goatee, no one would know it was me, and I could. . . "

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Anzia Yezierska

Poverty was an ornament on a learned man like a red ribbon on a white horse.

Horse, Man, Men, Ornament, Poverty, White
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When I only begin to read, I forget I'm on this world. It lifts me on wings with high thoughts.

Forget, Read, Thoughts, Wings, World

As one of the dumb, voiceless ones I speak. One of the millions of immigrants beating, beating out their hearts at your gates for a breath of understanding.

Dumb, Gates, Heart, Immigrants, Understanding

At last I came to college. I rushed for it with the outstretched arms of youth's aching hunger to give and take of life's deepest, and highest, and I came against the solid wall of the well-fed, well-dressed world - the frigid whitewashed wall of cleanliness. . . . How I pinched, and scraped, and starved myself, to save enough to come to college! Every cent of the tuition fee I paid was drops of sweat and blood from underpaid laundry work. And what did I get for it? A crushed spirit, a broken heart, a stinging sense of poverty that I never felt before.

Blood, College, Disappointment, Education, Frigid, Wall

Without comprehension, the immigrant would forever remain shut-a stranger in America. Until America can release the heart as well as train the hand of the immigrant, he would forever remain driven back upon himself, corroded by the very richness of the unused gifts within his soul.

America, Back, Hand, Hands, Heart, Remain

Like all people who have nothing, I lived on dreams.

Dream, Dreams, Like, Lived, People
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