Gather Together in My Name (Maya Angelou's Autobiography, #2)

by Maya Angelou

A textured guilt was my familiar, my bedmate to whom I had turned my back. My

Self-pity in its early stage is as snug as a feather mattress. Only when it hardens does it become uncomfortable.

The waitresses, in a block, were the least interesting of the club's inhabitants. They were for the most part dull married women, who moved among the colorful patrons like slugs among butterflies. The men showed no interest in them, leading me to believe that virtue is safest in a den of iniquity.