All that stuff about Father Earth, it's just stories to explain what's wrong with the world. Like those weird cults that crop up from time to time. I heard of one that asks an old man in the sky to keep them alive every time they go to sleep. People need to believe there's more to the world than there is.

— N.K. Jemisin

And once upon a time I wondered: Is writing epic fantasy not somehow a betrayal? Did I not somehow do a disservice to my own reality by paying so much attention to the power fantasies of disenchanted white men? But. Epic fantasy is not merely what Tolkien made it. This genre is rooted in the epic — and the truth is that there are plenty of epics out there which feature people like me. Sundial’s badass mother. Divya, warrior queen of the Amazing. The Rain Queens. The Minor Warriors. Hatshepsut’s reign. Everything Harriet Tubman ever did. And more, so much more, just within the African components of my heritage. I haven’t even begun to explore the non-African stuff. So given all these myths, all these examinations of the possible… how can I not imagine more? How can I not envision an epic set somewhere other than medieval England, about someone other than an awkward white boy? How can I not use every building-block of my history and heritage and imagination when I make shit up? And how dare I disrespect that history, profane all my ancestors’ suffering and struggles, by giving up the freedom to imagine that they’ve won for me.

— N.K. Jemisin

...and when I lift my head to scream out my fury, a million stars turn black and die. No one can see them, but they are my tears.

— N.K. Jemisin

Because that is how one survives eternity,” I say, “or even a few years. Friends. Family. Moving with them. Moving forward.

— N.K. Jemisin

Being useful to others is not the same thing as being equal.

— N.K. Jemisin

But for a society build on exploitation, there is no greater threat than having no one left to oppress.

— N.K. Jemisin

But love like that doesn't just disappear, does it? No matter how powerful the hate, there is always a little love left, underneath. Yes. Horrible, isn't it?

— N.K. Jemisin

But when I got angry, my nerves sought an outlet, and my mouth didn't always guard the gates.

— N.K. Jemisin

Daddy," she says again, this time putting more of a needy whine into her voice. It is the thing that has swayed him, these times when he has come near to turning on her: remembering that she is his little girl. Reminding him that he has been, up to today, a good father. It is a manipulation. Something of her is warped out of true by this moment, and from now on all her acts of affection toward her father will be calculated, performative. Her childhood dies, for all intents and purposes. But that is better than all of her dying, she knows.

— N.K. Jemisin

Denying what you are didn't keep people from knowing what you are."" And flaunting it isn't what saved you." Ykka takes a deep breath. The muscles in her jaw flex, relax. "And that would be why I asked you do this, Cutter. But let's move on." So it goes on.

— N.K. Jemisin