Fifty years from now, strangers discovering this album at some parking-lot flea market would glance at us and flip the page, not even interested enough to wonder who we’d been.

I learned that the world didn't see the inside of you, that it didn't care a whit about the hopes and dreams, and sorrows, that lay masked by skin and bone. It was as simple, as absurd, and as cruel as that.

The discussion of ideas as opposed to the American narcissistic obsession with what&#39;s going on with the self, that&#39;s the general thing people are talking about.

Written By Stanley Crouch

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