Appeals: contemplative, anti-racist, critical of white supremacist culture, anti-status-quo, brutal, brooding, realistic
This 1963 novel, about a Black American expat in Paris, was never published in French because it depicts the brutality of the French towards the Algerians. According to the introduction by Adam Shatz, it also is one of the few novels to capture the massacre of Algerians on October 17, 1961 when men, woman, and children took to the streets in protest of a curfew.
In the introduction, Shatz said "Smith's perspective--a radical humanism both passionate and wise, sensitive to difference but committed to universalism, anti-racist but averse to tribalism, disenchanted yet rebelliously hopeful--feels in dangerously short supply these days. It's time for his books to be repatriated to the one country where he found a lasting home: the republic of letters."
At the center of the novel is a painting and image Simeon Brown returns to--the cold, stone face of the kinds of white men who attacked him and took an eye, the kind of banal evil he grew up around and sees everywhere, even in the more accepting world of expat Paris.
Smith's main character Simeon Brown undergoes a transformation of moral consciousness. In finding more acceptance in Paris among the expats, where interracial relationships are normalized, he is slow to see how racism and bias shows up there, too, and how easy it is to look away. He encounters anti-Semitism and a dismissal of the oppression of Algerians and Muslims from his fellow countrymen. This book challenges all kinds of status quo and posits a humanist approach to the interconnectedness of oppression and moral responsibility, and shows how you may have to leave the comforts of complacency and community in order to stand up for and with others.
Simeon learns that Europeans, many of whom are more accepting of interracial relationships, don't understand American racism:
"You mean, do they chase black men down the streets of Philadelphia and New York with lynch ropes? No. And in an ordinary day, nothing striking happens, people don't even notice you on the street. But a hundred tiny things happen--micro-particles, nobody can see them but us. And there's always the danger that something bigger will happen. The Beast in the Jungle, you're always tense, waiting for it to spring. It's terrible, yes. And, we want to breathe air, we don't want to think about this race business twenty-four hours a day. We don't want our noses pushed down in it for seventy-odd years of our lives. But you have to keep thinking about it; they force you to think about it all the time." (76-77)
"It's sad, the poor Southerner was probably a nice guy. He might not even have been a racist. But any member of the privileged group in a racist society is considered guilty. Every white South African is guilty. Every Frenchmen is guilty in the eyes of the Algerians. Every white American is guilty. The guilt can end only when racism ends." (120)
"Had his attack on the policeman been a deliberate act of courage, or the result of momentary fury and hallucination. That didn't matter; what mattered was that he had struck at the face.
The pain in his eye had diminished somewhat, and before dropping off to sleep he thought: the face of the French cop, the face of Chris, of Mike, of the sailor, the face of the Nazi torturer at Buchenwald and Dachau, the face of the hysterical mob at Little Rock, the face of the Afrikaner bigot and the Portguguese butcher in Angola, and yes, the black faces of Lumumba's murderers--they were all the same face. Wherever this face was found, it was his enemy; and whoever feared or suffered from, or fought against this face was his brother." (200)