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When it exploded onto the literary scene in 1945, Black Boy was both praised and condemned. Orville Prescott of the New York Times wrote that “if enough such books are written, if enough millions of people read them maybe, someday, in the fullness of time, there will be a greater understanding and a more true democracy.” Yet from 1975 to 1978, Black Boy was banned in schools throughout the United States for “obscenity” and “instigating hatred between the races.”
Wright’s once controversial, now celebrated autobiography measures the raw brutality of the Jim Crow South against the sheer desperate will it took to survive as a Black boy. Enduring poverty, hunger, fear, abuse, and hatred while growing up in the woods of Mississippi, Wright lied, stole, and raged at those around him—whites indifferent, pitying, or cruel and Blacks resentful of anyone trying to rise above their circumstances. Desperate for a different way of life, he headed north, eventually arriving in Chicago, where he forged a new path and began his career as a writer. At the end of Black Boy, Wright sits poised with pencil in hand, determined to “hurl words into this darkness and wait for an echo.” Seventy-five years later, his words continue to reverberate. “To read Black Boy is to stare into the heart of darkness,” John Edgar Wideman writes in his foreword. “Not the dark heart Conrad searched for in Congo jungles but the beating heart I bear.”
One of the great American memoirs, Wright’s account is a poignant record of struggle and endurance—a seminal literary work that illuminates our own time.
460 pages, Kindle Edition
First published February 1, 1945
The plots and stories in the novels did not interest me so much as the point of view revealed. I gave myself over to each novel without reserve, without trying to criticize it; it was enough for me to see and feel something different. And for me, everything was something different...If you've ever wondered how reading can be an act of revolution, this book will lay it all out for you. Jim Crow depended on the ignorance of black people. As Wright started to see other perspectives, he understood how the system oppressed him and he started to see that things could be different. Reading was war for him. He tried to hide what was happening behind the shuck and jive, but it was impossible; white people could sense that he had become dangerous.
In buoying me up, reading also cast me down, made me see what was possible, what I had missed. My tension returned, new, terrible, bitter, surging, almost too great to be contained. I no longer felt that the world around me was hostile, killing; I knew it.
"Why don't you laugh and talk like the other niggers?" [his boss] asked.And he does; Here, as in Native Son, Wright slows down quite a bit; the back third of each book gets extremely talky. He sucks you in and then he's like "Now that I've got you, let's talk about Communism." But even with the - let's face it - boring stuff, this is still the best description of life under Jim Crow I've ever read. Wright is not just a self-made man but a man who has made himself in the face of an entire system dedicated to keeping him unmade; it's pretty inspiring stuff. And he's succeeded in turning himself into one of the great writers of the century.
"Well, sir, there's nothing much to say or smile about," I said, smiling.
His face was hard, baffled; I knew that I had not convinced him..."I don't like your looks, nigger. Now, get!" he snapped.
Perhaps, I thought, out of my tortured feelings I could fling a spark into this darkness...I would hurl words into this darkness and wait for an echo, and if an echo sounded, no matter how faintly, I would send other words to tell, to march, to fight, to create a sense of the hunger for life that gnaws in us all, to keep alive in our hearts a sense of the inexpressibly human.Mission accomplished, Wright. Sorry about your dog.