“The most dramatic representation or revision of Du Bois's metaphor came in Zora Neale Hurston's 1937 novel, Their Eyes Were Watching God. It was Hurston's definition of double consciousness, in terms of an African American woman's quest for identity and fulfillment, that set off one of the most bitter debates in the history of African American letters, between Zora Neale Hurston and Richard Wright. The debate became very personal, but it was in fact about modes of representation, about modernism and naturalism itself. In reviews of each other's books, sexual politics met literary politics head-on, for the first time so publicly in African American literary history.
In a very angry and suggestive review in New Masses, Wright, three years before he published his classic novel of naturalism, Native Son, criticizes both Hurston and her novel:
Miss Hurston can write, but her prose is cloaked in that facile sensuality that has dogged Negro expression since the days of Phillis Wheatley.
Her dialogue
manages to catch the psychological movements of the Negro folk-mind in their pure simplicity, but that's as far it goes.
Miss Hurston voluntarily continues in her novel the tradition which was forced upon the Negro in the theater, that is, the minstrel technique that makes the "white folks" laugh. Her characters eat and laugh and cry and work and kill; they swing like a pendulum eternally in that safe and narrow orbit in which America likes to see the Negro live: between laughter and tears.... The sensory sweep of her novel carries no theme, no message, no thought.
"In the main," Wright concludes, "her novel is not addressed to the Negro, but to a white audience whose chauvinistic tastes she knows how to satisfy," with the word "satisfy" serving as a veiled reference to Hurston's depiction of her protagonist's sexuality. He then outright accuses her of titillating her white male readers: "The romantic Janie, in the highly-charged language of Miss Hurston, longed to be a pear tree in blossom and have a dust-bearing bee sink into the sanctum of a bloom; the thousand sister-calyxes arch to meet the love embrace." Wright was not satisfied. Z
Less than a year later, Wright published Uncle Tom's Children, a collection of four interrelated novellas. Now it was Hurston's turn. "This is a book about hatreds," she begins her review. "Mr.
Wright serves notice by his title that he speaks of people in revolt, and his stories are so grim that the Dismal Swamp of race hatred must be where they live. Not one act of understanding and sympathy comes to pass in the entire work....
[O]ne wonders what he would have done had he dealt with plots that touched the broader and more fundamental phases of Negro life instead of confining himself to the spectacular."
Wright's hero, Big Boy, she continues, in a most mocking manner, "is a stupid, blundering character, but full of pathos.... In the third story, the hero gets the white man most Negro men rail against-the white man who possesses a Negro woman. He gets several of them while he is about the business of choosing to die in a hurricane of bullets and fire because his woman has had a white man.
"There is lavish killing here, perhaps enough to satisfy all male Black readers," but not Miss Hurston, nor anyone who loves Black culture from the inside, she suggests: "the reader sees the picture of the South that the communists have been passing around of late. A dismal, hopeless section ruled by brutish hatred and nothing else.
Mr. Wright's author's solution, is the solution of the PARTY-state responsibility for everything and individual responsibility for nothing, not even feeding one's self. And march!"
And whereas Wright had criticized Hurston's use of dialect, or Black vernacular speech, in her novel as a form of neo-minstrelsy, Hurston turns the tables on Wright by noting: "Since the author himself is a Negro, his dialect is a puzzling thing.
One wonders how he arrived at it. Certainly, he does not write by ear unless he is tone deaf." His dialect is a form of "broken speech," not musical or artistic or expressive of the depths of Black culture at all. [8]
Hurston concludes her review by saying that instead of pandering to the political or "the spectacular," as she puts it, she hoped that Wright would someday be able to find a theme worthy of a great novel, a theme rooted firmly and squarely
"in Negro life" itself, and not in sensationalist representations of Black-white violence, rape, and lynching in the South. Hurston describes herself, in her author's biographical note, as having written a novel "of life among her own people," whereas, she implies, Wright is obsessed with the seemingly irresistible force of white people, or white racism, in Black people's lives.
In these two reviews, we see a coded exchange, a debate between the literary forms of modernism and naturalism: Hurston used the mode of lyrical modernism to write her novels;
Wright used naturalism. And the difference is between what you think of the role of individual will and individual choice, or "agency," versus environmental factors, or "structure," in the shaping of a person's fate.
We can see this clearly if we reflect on the structure of Wright's fiction. Wright published Native Son in 1940, three years after Hurston published Their Eyes Were Watching God. His was the first Book-of-the-Month Club selection of a Black author's work. It became a runaway bestseller. In the novel, Bigger Thomas (whose name is a rather obvious play on "Nigger") lives a life of despair in a ghetto in Chicago, one determined by large supraforces of race and class.
Bigger's life falls apart when he accidentally murders a rich white girl, the daughter of the man for whom he is a chauffeur. Then he murders his own girlfriend, a Black woman named Bessie.
After an intense chase, he is captured and of course found guilty and sentenced to death. He dies in the electric chair.
Native Son is a naturalist novel. It is told in the third person through an omniscient narrator who tells us what Bigger is thinking, what Bigger would say if he only had the words and the knowledge to express himself as eloquently as the narrator does. Bigger doesn't act, like Janie Crawford in Hurston's novel does; he reacts.
Bigger is like a pinball in a pinball machine.
Bigger's life and his life choices are determined by the twin social forces of racism and economic exploitation. He has no choice but to live the life of the walking dead, and ultimately to commit murder to assert and define himself. He is an object, not a subject. Someone has to tell his tale for him; he cannot tell it himself. And the only way to change Bigger's life trajectory-that is, to give him subjectivity, to transform him from an object to a subject-would be to destroy completely the racist, capitalist system in which he is confined.
Wright draws upon naturalism to make the risky argument that Black people stuck in the nightmare cycle of the inner cities are not responsible for their tragic lives, their self-destructive behavior, and the destruction that a murderer such as Bigger wreaks upon society.
Instead, they are the true victims. Naturalism, in other words, is a mode of literary narration that embraces structure as the ultimate cause of all social ills and pathological behavior.
As Wright puts it:
To Bigger and his kind white people were not really people; they were a sort of great natural force, like a stormy sky looming overhead, or like a deep swirling river stretching suddenly at one's feet in the dark. As long as he and his black folks did not go beyond certain limits, there was no need to fear that white force.
But whether they feared it or not, each and every day of their lives they lived with it; even when words did not sound its name, they acknowledged its reality.
As long as they lived here in this prescribed corner of the city, they paid mute tribute to it. 12]
Later in the book, he continues: "He had been so conditioned in a cramped environment that hard words or kicks alone knocked him upright and made him capable of action-action that was futile because the world was too much for him. It was then that he closed his eyes and struck out blindly, hitting what or whom he could, not looking or caring what or who hit back." 10
The differences between Richard Wright and Zora Neale Hurston help us to understand how literary form implies or reflects political ideology.
The list is long:
• Wright
focuses on Black/white
confrontation,
believing that Black
confrontation with anti-Black racism is everything. Hurston's work is more about Black-Black interactions in an all-Black world, where white people are offstage.
* Wright writes in the third person. Hurston writes in the first person.
* Wright's protagonist Bigger Thomas is static.
Hurston's Janie Crawford
dynamic.
* To Wright, a character's actions are determined by the system, by large supraforces such as racism, capitalism, or economics. Hurston's characters' actions are determined by individual will and individual choices. They make their own fates.
* Finally, for Wright, W. E. B. Du Bois's
"double-consciousness" is an affliction. It is the state of false consciousness, consciousness reflecting an alienation that can only be overcome through class-based revolution.
For Hurston,
double
consciousness is healthy. It is the condition of modernity itself. And it is only when Janie learns that she has double consciousness an inside and an outside that she must learn to navigate between— that she finds true liberation, reflected in her sexual liberation, in her decision to take as a lover a man much younger than she is, a man whom for the first time she truly loves. In the previous chapter I quoted Du Bois's essay "Criteria of Negro Art," from 1926, in which he upbraids the writers of the Harlem Renaissance because "[wle are ashamed of sex and we lower our eyes when people will talk of it.
Our religion holds us in superstition. Our worst side has been so shamelessly emphasized that we are denying we have or ever had a worst side. In all sorts of ways we are hemmed in and our new young artists have got to fight their way to freedom." Hurston was among Du Bois's readership, and, implicitly at least, she accepted this challenge that he issued when she published Their Eyes Were Watching God some eleven years later, which takes the music of the language of the Black vernacular, including linguistic rituals such as playing the dozens and signifying, and turns them into the language of fiction-into art.
In his review, Wright had criticized Hurston for representing Janie's experiencing her first orgasm under a pear tree, using language he felt was meant to titillate white readers, especially white males. Hurston felt, on the contrary, that it was Wright who was pandering to white readers, especially white males, by writing about Black violence against white racists. But it is clear that Wright was deeply troubled that Hurston created a Black female character who not only has healthy sexual fantasies, but who also goes through two marriages to Black men whom she doesn't love, who abuse her in one way or another, before finding ultimate sexual satisfaction with a
younger man who is much darker than she is, a lower-class, uneducated Black man who teaches her how to play checkers, shoot a gun, and work and make love for the sheer pleasure of both.
For Hurston, then, double consciousness or the recognition that one is made up of many consciousnesses, not just two (a Negro, an American, as Du Bois put it) is the beginning of freedom, of genuine self-knowledge, of the ultimate liberation, which will inevitably be individual, not based on one's group affiliation or ethnic identity or so-called race. Now that she realizes that she has a double consciousness and can navigate between these two worlds, Janie gains her voice. She speaks herself free by signifying upon, or playing the dozens upon, her second husband Joe's manhood by implying that he is impotent in front of all of his friends, a very cold moment in the history of the Negro.
Reducing a nation within a nation (which as of 2021 was about forty-seven million people), more than half of them female, to one identity, "Black," Hurston argues, is to obscure the sheer complexity of the Black experience, indeed, of the human experience itself. Hurston is asking Black people to decide if their identities are more complicated than the fact of their color. Ralph Ellison, echoing Hurston in his great novel Invisible Man, has his protagonist ask: "Until some gang succeeds in putting the world in a strait jacket, its definition is possibility....
Whence all this passion toward conformity anyway?-diversity is the word. Let man keep his many parts and you'll have no tyrant states....
Our fate is to become one, and yet many — This is not prophecy, but description." I Hurston would have African Americans ask themselves, Is all of my being, is the complex and marvelous individual that I am, capable of being boiled down to one among many of my identities, that fact of race? She would ask every African American to ask themselves, Is that one identity, of all your identities, what you want on your tombstone: Here lies an African American?
Hurston's is the voice of multiplicity, the voice of the privilege to embrace diversity, within diversity; the voice for allowing every individual within a minority group, be it based on ethnicity, religion, or gender, to express their individuality, their personalities, in whatever idiosyncratic way they choose. Hurston is also the novelist who finally understood-just as Langston Hughes and Sterling A. Brown saw in poetry-that the wellspring of a great tradition in African American fiction could be forged out of the language of the people, the language of the Black masses; that it didn't need to be "refined" or
"cleaned up" or "mutated" into classical European forms to be "presentable" to the larger American society; that the art forms that the sons and daughters of those who lived in bondage had created were not "an embarrassment to the race"; and, most important, that artistic expression is, first and last, the province of the artist.
Perhaps this contrast between Wright's vision of Blackness as crafted in Native Son and that of Hurston in Their Eyes Were Watching God helps us to understand why Hurston's brand of lyrical modernism has blossomed so splendidly and profoundly in the work of Black women writers such as Toni Morrison, Alice Walker, Gayl Jones, and Jamaica Kincaid, while Wright's naturalism seems to have found its voice not in contemporary Black fiction, but rather in the rhetorical strategy of Ta-Nehisi Coates's extended essay Between the World and Me (which is the title of a poem written by Wright), and in that stream of hip-hop known as gangsta rap, in language that is direct and polemical, and "in your face" rather than the multilayered, polyvocal language characteristic of great literary art, literary language that signifies on several levels, not just one.
Hurston drew extensively from folklore as well. Sterling Brown hailed Hurston's role in retrieving Negro folklore from those who would denigrate, devalue, or underestimate it: "Miss Hurston is a trained anthropologist, who brings a great zest to both the collecting and the rendering of the 'big old lies' of her native South."[12] In a way, Brown is the link between Hurston and an entire "school" of modernists and postmodernists whose work is constructed, in various ways, on the bedrock of Black folklore and other vernacular forms, especially the way Black people have spoken and continue to speak African American versions of American English. I'm thinking especially of Ralph Ellison and Albert Murray, Alice Walker and Toni Morrison, though the list of superb writers in this branch of the African American tradition is long and
distinguished, and would have to include Ishmael Reed, Toni Cade Bambara, Leon Forrest, and a host of other brilliant authors. In other words, an entire branch, or school, of African American literature unfolded from the fiction of Zora Neale Hurston and the poetry of Langston Hughes and Sterling A. Brown, themselves indebted to the literary experimentation with Black vernacular traditions in the work of James Weldon Johnson, especially God's Trombones, and its predecessor, Jean Toomer's Cane.
In part because of Hurston's efforts to collect Negro folklore, in part because of her experiments with folklore in her novel, both Richard Wright and Ralph Ellison articulated the fundamental importance of Black folklore and vernacular to defining and mining a genuine
"Black aesthetic," a theoretical position that Toni Morrison would also embrace and embody in her fiction.”