“I left my family and slipped into the woods. It was perhaps stupid to attempt escape during the light of day, but I didn’t know when they might come for me. I didn’t run. Running was something a slave could never do, unless, of course, he was running. No one noticed as I passed through the Widow Douglas’s backyard and down the steep hill to the river. I waited there against an undercut bank. I couldn’t venture into the water during the day. Too many ferries and riverboats and folks fishing along the shore. I was as much scared as angry, but where does a slave put anger? We could be angry with one another; we were human. But the real source of our rage had to go without address, swallowed, repressed…”
- Percival Everett, James: A Novel
Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn ranks among the greatest of American novels. It is an indirect attack on race-based slavery cleverly packaged as a young boy’s tale of adventure on the Mississippi River. Its lessons are delivered subtly, through the mechanism of humor.
For all its merits, though, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn has legions of naysayers. Many of the critiques are so nakedly partisan they cancel each other out. With that said, one of the more legitimate complaints concerns the character of Jim, the runaway slave putatively at the center of the story.
Given its narrative shape – told through the eyes of a young white boy – Jim is at best enigmatic, and at worse a collection of slave-era stereotypes: credulous, superstitious, pandering. To be fair, Twain gives us glimpses of Jim’s essential humanity and native intelligence – he famously out-logics Huck in their argument about why Frenchmen don’t talk like men – but even the book’s most ardent supporters would be hard-pressed to argue that Jim has much agency. He is acted upon, rather than getting to act. His feelings, especially regarding the late-stage foolishness accompanying the arrival of Tom Sawyer, are never explored.
In James, Percival Everett begins with a proposition ingenious in its simplicity: retelling Twain’s classic from the perspective of the man at the center of it all. That simplicity is a guise. In Conrad-like fashion, things become ever more complicated as Jim/James and Huck float down the river. Whatever else can said – and there is much to say – it will certainly get you thinking.
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James belongs to a specific subgenre of literary works that take place within a setting established by a previous author. Like Alice Randall’s The Wind Done Gone and Gregory Maguire’s Wicked, it sets out to revise a firmly imbedded bit of American popular culture by viewing it through different eyes. In a way, it’s professional fan fiction, albeit with the aim of interrogating the source material, rather than simply celebrating it.
In the early going, James is about what I expected, and as good as advertised. It faithfully follows the plot-points of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, either adding a twist to scenes that already existed, or filling in the gaps when Huck and Jim are separated. Having read Twain’s work immediately before starting James, it was thrilling to see Everett’s interpretation, and to ponder the changes he made. On a number of occasions, I found myself looking at the old with new appreciation, and realizing I’d never think of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn in quite the same way.
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The thing about James, however, is that Everett’s ambitions go far beyond filtering Mark Twain’s landmark through a modernized sensibility. Even early on, there are hints that he is primed to follow a different path than the one forged by the original Jim and Huck. For instance, Everett quickly introduces the idea code-switching, in which Jim – and other enslaved persons – change their language patterns when speaking to each other versus speaking with white folks. The concept works both as an allusion to Twain’s extensive use of dialect, and as a leitmotif regarding identity that Everett revisits throughout.
Despite its deeper appreciation for the toxic snarl of slavery and race, roughly the first third of James tracks with its foundational source. The middle third starts to deviate, the threads separating. Old characters such as the King and the Duke appear, but receive a malevolent shading. By the end, Twain and Everett part entirely, with everything unraveling in a way that is hard to discuss without giving everything away.
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Suffice to say, the slaveocracy that provides the background for The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn is foregrounded in James. Everett’s gaze is unblinking as he describes not simply the use of racist language, but whippings, lynchings, and sexual assault. There are moments – such as a visit to a “breeding” plantation – that Twain never could have written about, even if he’d wanted.
If I haven’t been clear, I should add that the comedic aspects of James have been grossly oversold. There are glimmers of wryness, but those become more and more infrequent, until they disappear altogether. In its place, there is a grim, suffocating depiction of what it is like to be a human treated as property, unable to practice the most basic freedoms – such as bodily integrity – without the sufferance of another. It is a blistering portrait, both absurd in its premises – as Everett notes in his depiction of “passing,” where light-skinned blacks live as whites – and unspeakably cruel in its practice.
Humor is a way to make hard, important lessons more palatable. This is true even of slavery, as proved by James McBride’s glorious The Good Lord Bird. Everett chooses instead to make his points more directly. He doesn’t tap you on the shoulder; he grabs you by the chin.
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James is a justly celebrated book. It won the National Book Award and the Pulitzer Prize. Its reviews are overwhelmingly raves. For all that, it has noticeable seams. Most obviously, when Huck and Jim are together, a certain mood prevails, one that is familiar if not exactly comforting. When they are apart, there is a wild tonal swing, with Jim experiencing literal horrors while toggling between frightened runaway and single-minded avenger. During these periods, I often forgot Huck existed at all, and his reappearances are disruptive.
Furthermore, from a storytelling point of view, I was not entirely onboard with all of Everett’s choices. Specifically, there is a revelation regarding Huck that – to me – cuts out the heart of Twain’s original meaning, without ever replacing it with anything else. I can respect that Everett intended a surgical excision without necessarily finding it satisfying.
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James and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn end up being two very different versions of the same species.
Twain places events in a vaguely antebellum America, in made-up St. Petersburg. Meanwhile, Everett’s Jim and Huck go on the run from non-made-up Hannibal, Missouri, with the Civil War just beginning. They even run into some real-life characters during their travels. Twain leaves much to the imagination; Everett is graphic. Twain takes time to enjoy the idyll on the river, seeing in the ceaseless Mississippi current the embodiment of freedom; Everett paints everything, river included, as a hellscape.
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn goes down easy. James gets stuck in your throat. Perhaps it is not an entirely pleasant experience, but it probably shouldn’t be.