A Raisin In The Sun Quotes

Harlem What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore-- And then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over-- like a syrupy sweet? Maybe it just sags like a heavy load. Or does it explode?

I want to fly! I want to touch the sun!" "Finish your eggs first.

What happens to a dream deferred? / Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun?

Beneatha: Love him? There is nothing left to love. Mama: There is always something left to love. And if you ain't learned that, you ain't learned nothing. (Looking at her) Have you cried for that boy today? I don't mean for yourself and for the family 'cause we lost the money. I mean for him: what he been through and what it done to him. Child, when do you think is the time to love somebody the most? When they done good and made things easy for everybody? Well then, you ain't through learning - because that ain't the time at all. It's when he's at his lowest and can't believe in hisself 'cause the world done whipped him so! when you starts measuring somebody, measure him right, child, measure him right. Make sure you done taken into account what hills and valleys he come through before he got to wherever he is.

It's dangerous, son." "What's dangerous?" "When a man goes outside his house to look for peace.

Mama--Mama--I want so many things... I want so many things that they are driving me kind of crazy...

Beneatha: You didn't tell us what Alaiyo means... for all I know, you might be calling me Little Idiot or something... ... Asagai: It means... it means One for Whom Bread--Food--Is Not Enough.

Child, when do you think is the time to love somebody the most? When they done good and made things easy for everybody? Well then, you ain't through learning-because that ain't the time at all...when you starts measuring somebody, measure him right, child, measure him right. Make sure you done taken into account what hills and valleys he come through before he got to wherever he is.

Seem like God didn't see fit to give the black man nothing but dreams -but He did give us children to make them dreams seem worth while.

It isn't a circle--it is simply a long line--as in geometry, you know, one that reaches into infinity. And because we cannot see the end--we also cannot see how it changes. And it is very odd by those who see the changes--who dream, who will not give up--are called idealists...and those who see only the circle we call them the "realists"!

Something always told me I wasn't no rich white woman.

How we gets to the place where we scared to talk softness to each other.

DAMN MY EGGS! DAMN ALL THE EGGS THAT EVER WAS!" -Wilson

[Beneatha Younger:]... He said everybody ought to learn how to sit down and hate each other with good Chrisitan fellowship. [excerpt from Act II, Scene 3]

Perhaps I will be a great man...I mean perhaps I will hold on to the substance of truth and find my way always with the right course

I'm just tired of hearing about God all the time. What has He got to do with anything?... I'm not going to be immoral or commit crimes because I don't believe. I don't even think about that. I just get so tired of Him getting the credit for things the human race achieves through its own effort. Now, there simply is no God. There's only man. And it's he who makes miracles.

Mama, you don’t understand. It’s all a matter of ideas, and God is just one idea I don’t acept. It’s not important. I am not going out and commit crimes or be immoral because I don’t believe in God. I don’t even think about it. It’s just that I get so tired of Him getting credit for all the things the human race achieves through its own stubborn effort. There simply is no God! There is only Man, and it’s he who makes miracles!

What you ain't never understood is that I ain't got nothing, don't own nothing, ain't never really wanted nothing that wasn't for you. There ain't nothing as precious to me...There ain't nothing worth holding on to, money, dreams, nothing else--

MAMA (Quietly, woman to woman) He finally come into his manhood today, didn’t he? Kind of like a rainbow after the rain… RUTH (Biting her lip, lest her own pride explode in front of Mama) Yes, Lena.

Cause sometimes it's hard to let the future begin!

(With feminine vengeance)

Cigars, of course, are made of trail mix, of crushed cashews and Granola and raisins, soaked in maple syrup and dried in the sun. Why not eat one tonight at bedtime?

My inspiration for writing music is like Don McLean did when he did "American Pie" or "Vincent". Lorraine Hansberry with "A Raisin in the Sun". Like Shakespeare when he does his thing, like deep stories, raw human needs. I'm trying to think of a good analogy. It's like, you've got the Vietnam War, and because you had reporters showing us pictures of the war at home, that's what made the war end, or that shit would have lasted longer. If no one knew what was going on we would have thought they were just dying valiantly in some beautiful way. But because we saw the horror, that's what made us stop the war. So I thought, that's what I'm going to do as an artist, as a rapper. I'm gonna show the most graphic details of what I see in my community and hopefully they'll stop it quick. I've seen all of that-- the crack babies, what we had to go through, losing everything, being poor, and getting beat down. All of that. Being the person I am, I said no no no no. I'm changing this.

Child, when do you think is the time to love somebody the most? When he’s done good and made things easy for everybody? That ain’t the time at all. It’s when he’s at his lowest……and he can’t believe in himself because the world’s whipped him so!

MAMA: You must not dislike people ’cause they well off, honey. BENEATHA: Why not? It makes just as much sense as disliking people ’cause they are poor, and lots of people do that.

A grape falls off a vine...and dries. Everything happens for a raisin

You aimin' to go the full circle now? How long before I have to come get you up from the sidewalks? You got hurt and pain in you? Well, I used to know a man who knew how to live with his pain and make his hurt work for him. Your daddy died with dignity; there wasn't no bum in him. And he known some hurts in this life you ain't never even heard of!

When you starts measuring somebody, measure him right, child, measure him right. Make sure you done taken into account what hills and valleys he come through before he got to wherever he is.

His name has to be Wrayson. Say it slow. Ray-sin. Rays-in. It's a double meaning--Gil Wrayson is undergoing a transformation. And he has to let the rays of sunlight in--those rays of sunlight coming in the form of Tiny's songs--in order to become his true self--no longer a plum, but a sun-soaked raisin. Don't you see?

Then isn't this rather all a false funeral? Can't it help you to see that there is something wrong when all the dreams in this house-good or bad-had to depend on something that might never have happened if a man had not died? We always say at home: Accident was at the first and will be at the last a poor tree from which the fruits of life may bloom.

You’re a nice-looking girl … all over. That’s all you need, honey, forget the atmosphere.

I will go home and much of what I will have to say will seem strange to the people of my village... But I will teach and work and things will happen, slowly and swiftly. At times it will seem that nothing changes at all... and then again... the sudden dramatic events which make history leap into the future. And then quiet again. Retrogression even. Guns, murder, revolution. And I even will have moments when I wonder if the quiet was not better than all that death and hatred. But I will look about my village at the illiteracy and disease and ignorance and will not wonder long. And perhaps... perhaps I will be a great man... I mean perhaps I will hold on to the substance of truth and find my way always with the right course... and perhaps for it I will be butchered in my bed some night by the servants of empire... ...perhaps the things I believe now for my country will be wrong and outmoded, and I will not understand and do terrible things to have things my way or merely to keep my power. Don't you see that there will be young men and women, not British soldiers then, but my own black countrymen... to step out of the shadows some evening and slit my then useless throat? Don't you see they have always been there... that they always will be. And that such a thing as my own death will be an advance? They who might kill me even... actually replenish me!

I know he's rich. He knows he's rich, too.

RUTH No—I'm just sleepy as the devil. What kind of eggs you want? WALTER Not scrambled. (RUTH starts to scramble eggs)

In my mother's house there is still God." Act 1, Scene 1 ~ A Raisin in the Sun

What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun?

GEORGE : Oh, don’t be so proud of yourself, Bennie—just because you look eccentric. BENEATHA: How can something that’s natural be eccentric? GEORGE: That’s what being eccentric means—being natural. Get dressed.

He listened to the hooting of many metal horns, squealing of brakes, the calls of vendors selling red-purple bananas and jungle oranges in their stalls. Colonel Freeleigh's feet began to move, hanging from the edge of his wheel chair, making the motions of a man walking. His eyes squeezed tight. He gave a series of immense sniffs, as if to gain the odors of meats hung on iron hooks in sunshine, cloaked with flies like a mantle of raisins; the smell of stone alleys wet with morning rain. He could feel the sun bum his spiny-bearded cheek, and he was twenty-five years old again, walking, walking, looking, smiling, happy to be alive, very much alert, drinking in colors and smells.

Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime.” ― Mark Twain, Mark Twain: The Innocents Abroad/Roughing It Dum vivimus vivamus "While we live, let us live". This too shall pass... I Corinthians 10:12 Be still and know... Psalm 46:10 "Damn my eggs. Damn all the eggs there ever was." A Raisin in the Sun Anything is possible, but many things are highly unlikely. Only those who will risk going to far can possibly find out how far one can go. T.S. Eliot Do I dare Disturb the universe? TS Eliot

Even though cultural changes cannot be measured on a day-to-day basis, changes that accrue over decades must be pursued daily.

BENEATHA How can something that’s natural be eccentric? GEORGE That’s what being eccentric means—being natural.

I know, lamb, love is a besquished toad ripening in the sun. But despair not, life in the nunnery is not completely devoid of joy. I was raised by nuns. Once a week you’ll be able to share a sumptuous raisin with your sisters, and then there’s the perpetual flicking of the bean in the dark, for which you’ll have ongoing guilt and repentance during the day, so you’ll stay busy.

The Murchisons are honest-to-God-real-foe-rich colored people, and the only people in the world who are more snobbish than rich white people are rich colored people. I though everybody knew that.

Another piece of Zygo-Gogozizzle 24 ended up landing in a grape vineyard on planet Pinot. The Zygo-Gogozizzle 24 was quickly absorbed into the soil and was subsequently soaked up into the grapes. These grapes, which had until recently been harvested almost to extinction, suddenly became self-aware and super intelligent. They banded together in bunches and rose up to defeat their oppressors. The battle lasted one whole night, but sadly, it ended the next morning when the sun came up. The rebellion shriveled when the poor grapes ran out of juice. Apparently there’s a raisin for everything.

Child, when do you think is the time to love somebody the most? When they done good and made things easy for everybody? Well then, you ain’t through learning—because that ain’t the time at all. It’s when he’s at his lowest and can’t believe in hisself ’cause the world done whipped him so! When you starts measuring somebody, measure him right, child, measure him right. Make sure you done taken into account what hills and valleys he come through before he got to wherever he is.

poet Langston Hughes #6 on top 500 poets Poet's PagePoemsQuotesCommentsStatsE-BooksBiographyVideosShare on FacebookShare on Twitter Poems by Langston Hughes : 21 / 104 « prev. poem next poem » Dream Deferred - Poem by Langston Hughes Autoplay next video What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up Like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore-- And then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over-- like a syrupy sweet? Maybe it just sags like a heavy load. Or does it explode?

They all hushed as Brinny, the one murderess of their crew, told them of the making of her bride cake, with primrose yellow butter and raisins of the sun, fattened on smuggled brandy. The further they sailed from England, the fonder they grew of the pleasures of home: plum trees with bowed branches, brambles in the hedge, cream from a beloved cow.

You see flaws in every face If you look long enough. That’s why I’m so afraid Of the word ‘forever’. Forever is long enough For sunrises to become stale For fire to become tame For a favorite song To become like nails On a chalkboard; Forever is long enough For passion to waste away Like grapes into raisins Under the beating sun Of countless days.

WALTER (Gathering him up in his arms) You know what, Travis? In seven years you going to be seventeen years old. And things is going to be very different with us in seven years, Travis. … One day when you are seventeen I’ll come home—home from my office downtown somewhere— TRAVIS You don’t work in no office, Daddy. WALTER No—but after tonight. After what your daddy gonna do tonight, there’s going to be offices—a whole lot of offices.… TRAVIS What you gonna do tonight, Daddy? WALTER You wouldn’t understand yet, son, but your daddy’s gonna make a transaction … a business transaction that’s going to change our lives. … That’s how come one day when you ’bout seventeen years old I’ll come home and I’ll be pretty tired, you know what I mean, after a day of conferences and secretaries getting things wrong the way they do … ’cause an executive’s life is hell, man—(The more he talks the farther away he gets) And I’ll pull the car up on the driveway … just a plain black Chrysler, I think, with white walls—no—black tires. More elegant. Rich people don’t have to be flashy … though I’ll have to get something a little sportier for Ruth—maybe a Cadillac convertible to do her shopping in. … And I’ll come up the steps to the house and the gardener will be clipping away at the hedges and he’ll say, “Good evening, Mr. Younger.” And I’ll say, “Hello, Jefferson, how are you this evening?” And I’ll go inside and Ruth will come downstairs and meet me at the door and we’ll kiss each other and she’ll take my arm and we’ll go up to your room to see you sitting on the floor with the catalogues of all the great schools in America around you. … All the great schools in the world! And—and I’ll say, all right son—it’s your seventeenth birthday, what is it you’ve decided? … Just tell me where you want to go to school and you’ll go. Just tell me, what it is you want to be—and you’ll be it. … Whatever you want to be—Yessir! (He holds his arms open for TRAVIS) YOU just name it, son … (TRAVIS leaps into them) and I hand you the world!

It’s all a matter of ideas, and God is just one idea I don’t accept. It’s not important. I am not going out and be immoral or commit crimes because I don’t believe in God. I don’t even think about it. It’s just that I get tired of Him getting credit for all the things the human race achieves through its own stubborn effort. There simply is no blasted God—there is only man and it is he who makes miracles!

I almost never like things some people think everyone likes. I do not like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I do not like paddling a kayak in the hot sun. I do not like Santa Claus. I do not like it when someone takes out a guitar and everyone has to sing. I do not like standing in a cheering crowd, particularly if the crowd is watching people whose job it is to throw a ball throw a ball. I do not like a picture of a man on a horse. I do not like it when everybody is doing the same thing and someone is standing with a stopwatch waiting to give a prize to the person who finishes doing it first. I do not like hot chocolate and I do not like wearing a shirt or a hat with the name of a place written on it so everyone knows you have been to that place, and I am not a fan of raisins, so I am often frowning at the music in the supermarket.

An illness called nostalgia, which often is cured with a sprinkle of love, some lemon, a few raisins and many slices of avocado. Wine is a yellow sun in a crystal goblet. One taste of Chile's earth and sky could delight the entire world. Maybe once you are an exile, you always are an exile. Always missing somewhere else, always carrying a bit from here and a bit from there and always with a bit of a broken heart. A refugee - a beautiful word, a beautiful thing. An exile. That means I am a traveler of the world and I belong to nothing but the things I love.

Suenos. Dulces Suenos. He must be painting upstairs. I can feel it. I remember when his father was just a baby and I called her Mama for the first time and she became Mama for all of us; Mama de la casa and his father would wake up in the middle of the night and scream in his crib and nothing would make him stop, nada, and Mama would get so exhausted she would turn her back to me and cry in her pillow. I would smooth her hair-it was black, Basilio, as black as an olive-and I would turn on the radio (electricity, Basilio, in the middle of the night), to maybe calm the baby and listen to something besides the screaming. Mama liked the radio, Basilio, and we listened while your father cried-cantante negra, cantante de almas azules-and it made us feel a little better, helped us make it through. I had to get up early to catch the streetcar to the shipyard, but when the crying finally stopped sometimes the sun would be ready to pop and Mama's breathing would slow down and her shoulders would move like gentle waves, sleeping but still listening, like I can hear her now on this good bed, and Basilio-Mira, hombre, I will not tell you this again-if I moved very close and kissed her shoulders, she would turn to face me and we would have to be quiet Basilio, under the music, very, very quiet.... So this I want to know, Basilio. This, if you want to live on Macon Street for another minute. Can you paint an apple baked soft in the oven, an apple filled with cinnamon and raisins? Can you paint such a woman? Are you good enough yet with those brushes so that she will step out of your pictures to turn on the radio in the middle of the night? Will she visit an old man on his death bed? If you cannot do that, Basilio, there is no need for you to live here anymore.

A Raisin in the Sun should have been called Get Out,

Students often complain that white teachers assume falsely that students of color know everything there is to know about their own history. Some teachers assume all students of color have the same experiences with poverty, single-parent families, and uneducated elders. For example, with Lorraine Hansberry’s A Raisin in the Sun, African American students told me they felt so uncomfortable when their teacher assumed that they understood the Black family’s poverty that they either refused to continue reading the play or refused to participate in class discussions. We should approach our students as people with their own opinions and ideas, without imposing racial stereotypes.

must have saffron to colour the warden pies; mace; dates?— none, that’s out of my note; nutmegs, seven; a race or two of ginger, but that I may beg; four pound of prunes, and as many of raisins o’ the sun. THE WINTER’S TALE, 4.3 DURING THE Middle Ages and into Elizabethan times, foods such as Shakespeare’s pear, or “warden” pie, were often colored yellow with saffron or sandalwood. Other dishes were colored green with parsley or spinach juice, white with ground almonds, rice, or milk, and black with prunes. In this recipe the baguettes are brushed with saffron-infused oil to give a hint of color and flavor.

Gorp- Good Old Raisins and Peanuts, aka trail mix. HYOH- Hike Your Own Hike - A very common phrase that hikers tell each other. Hiker Box- A box full of unwanted food and gear, free for hikers. Hiker Midnight- When the sun goes down, usually the time hikers go to bed. Nalgene Bottle- A virtually indestructible plastic bottle that holds a liter of water Nero- Near Zero - A low mileage day NOBO- North Bound aka headed north. Northern terminus- Where the trail ends/starts in Maine, on the peak of Mount Katahdin Pack Out- Items brought with hikers out on the trail. PCT- Pacific Crest Trail is longest of the three trails, and grated for horses.

Light and smooth was the name of our game. Quick, but easy. Desert hiking demands that you submit to paradoxes. You must move hastily through the sun and the heat, yet slowly enough to avoid producing too much heat of your own. You need to ration the water you haul on your back but not so much that you are burdened by its weight. Move too fast under the scorching sun and you’ll go through your water so quickly that you’ll wind up with dehydration and heatstroke. Carry too little water and you’ll shrivel up like a raisin, and the desert floor will swallow you whole. Out there, balance isn’t just a beautiful idea; it’s necessary for survival.

The Sun raises to a raisin and rises in my latter Fall.

What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore— And then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over— like a syrupy sweet? Maybe it just sags like a heavy load. Or does it explode?

MAMA Well, little boys’ hides ain’t as tough as Southside roaches. You better get over there behind the bureau. I seen one marching out of there like Napoleon yesterday.

He called her his farfalla and I wonder if he meant that she flits from flower to flower or meant something deeper, a caterpillar who grows beautifully patterned wings, like a woman who discovers her own power and chooses independence and flies into the sun

I’m exhausted,” she said. “This fall weather makes me tired. Hot in the sun, cold in the shade, I close the door of my office and take a twenty-minute nap, then wake up and eat some chocolate-covered raisins and it’s like I’m a new woman.

There is always something left to love.

Caitlin Ross was a pretty blonde white girl in a room full of pretty blonde white girls. She looked over the sea of heart-shaped faces and sighed. Every open call was the same, a swarm of female actors putting the lie to all of her father’s ungrammatical assurances that Caitlin was “very unique.” The audition was for an all-white musical adaptation of A Raisin in the Sun, which the producers were re-titling Caucrasian. It would undoubtedly be horrible and it didn’t pay, but Caitlin hadn’t been working lately and was getting desperate to appear in something. When she had emailed the company her headshot and résumé she had claimed that a reviewer had once described her as “like a young, white Debbie Allen,” and almost immediately she was asked to come in and read for the part of Beneatha. She