Okonkwo Quotes

Perhaps down in his heart Okonkwo was not a cruel man. But his whole life was dominated by fear, the fear of failure and of weakness. It was deeper and more intimate that the fear of evil and capricious gods and of magic, the fear of the forest, and of the forces of nature, malevolent, red in tooth and claw. Okonkwo’s fear was greater than these. It was not external but lay deep within himself.

At the most one could say that his chi or ... personal god was good. But the Ibo people have a proverb that when a man says yes his chi says yes also. Okonkwo said yes very strongly; so his chi agreed.

Then listen to me,' he said and cleared his throat. 'It's true that a child belongs to its father. But when a father beats his child, it seeks sympathy in its mother's hut. A man belongs to his fatherland when things are good and life is sweet. But when there is sorrow and bitterness he finds refuge in his motherland. Your mother is there to protect you. She is buried there. And that is why we say that mother is supreme. Is it right that you, Okonkwo, should bring your mother a heavy face and refuse to be comforted? Be careful or you may displease the dead. Your duty is to comfort your wives and children and take them back to your fatherland after seven years. But if you allow sorrow to weigh you down and kill you, they will all die in exile.

The world is large,” said Okonkwo. “I have even heard that in some tribes a man’s children belong to his wife and her family.” “That cannot be,” said Machi. “You might as well say that the woman lies on top of the man when they are making the babies.

Knowledge is like an endless resource; a well of water that satisfies the innate thirst of the growing human soul. Therefore never stop learning... because the day you do, you will also stop maturing.

I do not know how to thank you.' 'I can tell you,' said Obierika. 'Kill one of your sons for me.' 'That will not be enough,' said Okonkwo. 'Then kill yourself,' said Obierika.

Okonkwo was ruled by one passion -- to hate everything that his father Unoka had loved. One of those things was gentleness and another was idleness.

And immediately Okonkwo's eyes were opened and he saw the whole matter clearly. Living fire begets cold, impotent ash. He sighed again, deeply.

If ever a man deserved his success, that man was Okonkwo. At an early age he had achieved fame as the greatest wrestler in all the land. That was not luck. At the most one could say that his chi or personal god was good. But the Ibo people have a proverb that when a man say yes his chi says yes also. Okonkwo said yes very strongly; so his chi agreed. And not only his chi but his clan too, because it judged a man by the work of his hands.

I live more than a thousand lives... through the eyes of the characters I read in books.

The world is large,” said Okonkwo. “I have even heard that in some tribes a man’s children belong to his wife and her family.” “That cannot be,” said Machi. “You might as well say that the woman lies on top of the man when they are making the babies.

Harlem had been hit by a hurricane: It was raining cats and jazz.

According to Okonkwo, the British via its indirect rule system ensured that Africans saw their native leaders as the demons who betrayed their people. He called it a demonocracy

How can a man who has killed five men in a battle fall to pieces because he has added a boy to their family number? Okonkwo, you have become a woman indeed.

But there was a young lad who had been captivated. His name was Nwoye, Okonkwo's first son. It was not the mad logic of the Trinity that captivated him. He did not understand it. It was the poetry of the new religion, something felt in the marrow. The hymn about brothers who sat in darkness and in fear seemed to answer a vague and persistent question that haunted his young soul--the question of the twins crying in the bush and the question of Ikemefuna who was killed. He felt a relief within as the hymn poured into his parched soul. The words of the hymn were like the drops of frozen rain melting on the dry palate of the panting earth. Nwoye's callow mind was greatly puzzled.

I'm a time traveler... I travel through time to create and write stories.

Forgiveness was like charity: You could dispense it, or not. And, as with charity, the one dispensing held the power.

You can be anywhere you want in the world, meet different people and learn more than a hundred things in a matter of minutes… all you have to do is READ!

Paris. Bright miracle. But behind every bright thing creeps its shadows. The moon had its shadows and Paris had hers.They lurked in her back streets and back alleys, in parks and in basements.

Es posible que en el fondo Okonkwo no fuera cruel. Pero toda su vida estaba dominada por el temor, el temor al fracaso y a la debilidad. Era algo más profundo y más íntimo que el temor a los dioses malignos y caprichosos y a la magia, que el temor a la selva y a las fuerzas de la naturaleza, malévolas, de dientes y garras rojos. Los temores de Okonkwo eran peores que todo eso. No eran externos, sino que yacían en lo más hondo de su ser.

He so often felt as though he hailed from a different species, not quite human. He’d always been different, had never fit. Negroes looked at him askance, questioning his credentials as a Negro man. Whites did, too. For both groups, he wasn’t Negro enough.

But there was a young man who had been captivated. His name was Nwoye, Okonkwo's first son. It was not the mad logic of the Trinity that captivated him. He did not understand it. It was the poetry of the new religion, something felt in the marrow. The hymn about brothers who sat in darkness and in fear seemed to answer the vague and persistent question that haunted his young soul--the question of the twins crying in the bush and the question of Ikemefuna who was killed.He felt a relief within him as the hymn poured into his parched soul. The words of the hymn were like the drops of frozen rain melting on the dry palate of the panting earth.

All the umunna were invited to the feast, all the descendants of Okolo, who had lived about two hundred years before. The oldest member of this extensive family was Okonkwo's uncle, Uchendu. The kola nut was given him to break, and he prayed to the ancestors. He asked them for health and children. "We do not ask for wealth because he that has health and children will also have wealth. We do not pray to have more money but to have more kinsmen. We are better than animals because we have kinsmen. An animal rubs its itching flank against a tree, a man asks his kinsman to scratch him." He prayed especially for Okonkwo and his family. He then broke the kola nut and threw one of the lobes on the ground for the ancestors.

According to Okonkwo, the British via its indirect rule system ensured that Africans saw their native leaders as the demons who betrayed their people. He called it a demonocracy and that was the first time I had seen him become so passionate about issues that affect Africa as a people and continent.

Having nothing to lose liberates.

His lover. His muse. Admirer. Critic. His antagonist. His protector. Defender. His savior. His.

Interest - a ruling beast. Therein lies the key to convincing man.

Why, he cried in his heart, should he, Okonkwo, of all people, be cursed with such a son. He saw clearly in it the finger of his personal god or chi. For how else could he explain his great misfortune and exile and now his despicable son’s behavior? Now that he had time to think of it, his son’s crime stood out in its stark enormity. To abandon the gods of one’s father and go about with a lot of effeminate men clucking like old hens was the very depth of abomination. Suppose when he died all his male children decided to follow Nwoye’s steps and abandon their ancestors? Okonkwo felt a cold shudder run through him at the terrible prospect, like the prospect of annihilation.

Your mother is there to protect you. She is buried there. And that is why we say that mother is supreme. Is it right that you, Okonkwo, should bring to your mother a heavy face and refuse to be comforted? Be careful or you may displease the dead. Your duty is to comfort your wives and children and take them back to your fatherland after seven years. But if you allow sorrow to weigh you down and kill you they will all die in exile." He paused for a long while. "These are now your kinsmen." He waved at his sons and daughters. "You think you are the greatest sufferer in the world? Do you know that men are sometimes banished for life? Do you know that men sometimes lose all their yams and even their children? I had six wives once. I have none now except that young girl who knows not her right from her left. Do you know how many children I have buried--children I begot in my youth and strength? Twenty-two. I did not hang myself, and I am still alive. If you think you are the greatest sufferer in the world ask my daughter, Akueni, how many twins she has borne and thrown away. Have you not heard the song they sing when a woman dies? "'For whom is it well, for whom is it well? There is no one for whom it is well.' "I have no more to say to you.

As they stood there together, Ekwefi's mind went back to the days when they were young. She had married Anene because OKonkwo was too poor then to marry. Two years after her marriage to Anene she could bear it no longer and she ran away to Okonkwo. It had been early in the morning. The moon was shining. She was going to the stream to fetch water. Okonkwo's house was on the way to the stream. She went in and knocked at his door and he came out. Even in those days he was not a man of many words. He just carried her into his bed and in the darkness began to feel around her waist for the loose end of her cloth.

Okonkwo was not a cruel man. But his whole life was dominated by fear, the fear of failure and of weakness. It was deeper and more intimate than the fear of evil and capricious gods and of magic, the fear of the forest, and of the forces of nature, malevolent, red in tooth and claw. Okonkwo’s fear was greater than these. It was not external but lay deep within himself. It was the fear of himself, lest he should be found to resemble his father.

Okonkwo never showed any emotion openly, unless it be the emotion of anger. To show affection was a sign of weakness; the only thing worth demonstrating was strength.

I tell you this is Okonkwo. As it was in the beginning so it will be in the end. That is what your religion tells us.” “It does not tell you that dead men return.

As the man who had cleared his throat drew up and raised his machete, Okonkwo looked away. He heard the blow. The pot fell and broke in the sand. He heard Ikemefuna cry, “My father, they have killed me!” as he ran towards him. Dazed with fear, Okonkwo drew his machete and cut him down. He was afraid of being thought weak.

Let us not reason like cowards,” said Okonkwo. “If a man comes into my hut and defecates on the floor, what do I do? Do I shut my eyes? No! I take a stick and break his head. That is what a man does. These people are daily pouring filth over us, and Okeke says we should pretend not to see.

He was handsome. For a white guy.

Strings were out. Jazz was in.

Kindness and talent and love ain’t the same as strength.

The first time I heard jazz, I had just moved to New York. One day I was wandering around Manhattan, looking for work, and there were these two guys on a corner. One played the banjo; the other was on the clarinet, improvising. There was a hat for people to drop coins in, but I was the only one paying them any attention. Even though I didn’t know a thing about jazz I could tell they were amateurs. But there was something about the music. It was sweet. And spicy. Kind of complicated. A little low-down. And intricate. And a little naughty.

A sidewalk café. Coffee. Beignets. A favorite book of poems, the pages edged in gilt. A serenading band. Wistful jazz. Happy jazz. Glo. Gin. A poem dancing off the nib of his pen. The sun and moon holding hands in the sky. A tickle of champagne. A stroke of reefer.

The light and the heat tantalize, but stray too close and face obliteration.

There are other ways of being intimate besides sex.

You can only know you are cared about if you are told and shown.

It’s better to die with your worst enemy in the room than to die all alone, right?

Falling in love. As if love was some awful pit and the inevitable direction was down. Why not rise in love instead of fall? And even that was inaccurate because love didn’t do either. It unfolded, like a story. It had plotlines and plot points and points of view; was populated with supporting roles.

He did not want to crush their unfolding story. But he hoped he was not in love with love. That was like wanting to read, but only good news. Love could fill, but not make whole; it could cushion loneliness, not cure it. What it did was broaden your circumference of concern beyond yourself to encompass another person. Even if—when—that person caused you grief.

You could have love, or you could have pleasure, and rarely did the two commingle. Love was difficult. Pleasure was not.

Good shooting,’ Okonkwo remarked respectfully. I decided not to point out that the grenades were guided and that Geany was lucky he hadn’t died himself at such close range.

Au fond de son cœur, Okonkwo n'était peut-être pas un être cruel. Mais sa vie tout entière était dominée par la crainte de l'échec et de la faiblesse. Elle était plus profonde et plus ancrée en lui que la crainte des dieux méchants et capricieux et la crainte de la magie, la peur de la forêt et celle des forces malveillantes de la nature qui le menaçaient de leurs crocs et de leurs griffes ensanglantées. Mais la véritable crainte d'Okonkwo était plus grande que toutes celles-ci. Elle était en lui, enfouie au plus profond. C'était sa crainte de lui-même, sa peur qu'on ne le trouve semblable à son père.