My natural elasticity was crushed, my intellect languished, the disposition to read departed, the cheerful spark that lingered about my eye died; the dark night of slavery closed in upon me; and behold a man transformed into a brute!
For it is not light that is needed, but fire; it is not the gentle shower, but thunder. We need the storm, the whirlwind, and the earthquake.
Food, to the indolent lounger, is poison, not sustenance.
The balsam was not more healing to the wound in my head, than her kindness was healing to the wounds in my spirit.
At a time like this, scorching irony, not convincing argument, is needed.