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A review by jeppelauridsen0703
Going to Meet the Man by James Baldwin
I've never felt the need to review a book on Goodreads before, but this book needs praise, and, more importantly, it needs attention.
After having read Between the World and Me by Ta-Nehisi Coates, I was, despite the gloomy descriptions of black male life, uplifted. I never thought one could write such redeeming and beautiful prose on such an ugly and political topic. Naturally, I started looking at Coates' inspiration for writing this book, and who people compared him to. This very swiftly led me into the arms of James Baldwin, the collection of short stories I now hold in my hands, and many a night of intense, passionate reading. I fucking love this one.
Alright, so what's so great about it, you ask? Well, above this paragraph I wanted to insert a short, fancy quote, which seems to be the thing to do. I looked through the pages I've highlighted and found the shortest quote. It's about ten lines. And this is the thing, for me, about Baldwin's prose, which is so fantastically can't-keep-my-arms-down, screaming-at-the-top-of-my-lungs intoxating. The picturesque writing doesn't stop for a second, you're constantly being carried down a stream of hauntingly beautiful descriptions until you're entirely engulfed by the world it creates.
And because of this, I've been on the Parisian bridge with the African-American singer in "This Morning, This Evening, So Soon" when the sunlight hits his Swedish wife-to-be, and is finally left alone with her, as the white man's world, the hostile, killing world, evaporates around him.
I've sat next to the black teacher in "Sonny's Blues" watching his brother playing the piano, sharing the same old tale of light versus dark, and at the same time desperately trying not to suffer through the redemptive beauty of the blues.
I've been a child in "Going to Tell the Man", placed on the safe shoulders of my in-bred, racist father, watching the ignorant and malevolent masses as they chant and scream at the crucified and castrated man of color, who will soon be burned alive.
Above all, I've witnessed the segregation period, not from a political perspective, but from a human perspective. The frailties and sufferings of mankind, regardless of color, are illuminated by this book, itself a fiery torch in the dark void of suffering.
I could continue praising this book. I could even highlight it's relevance in today's segregated world, where blacks in the US still struggle and suffer and scream for justice, and where refugees flee the Middle East's war-torn countries in search of redemption and safety, but instead are met with violence and prejudice. I could do all those things. But I'm off to read "Go Tell it on the Mountain", and I won't be disturbed.
After having read Between the World and Me by Ta-Nehisi Coates, I was, despite the gloomy descriptions of black male life, uplifted. I never thought one could write such redeeming and beautiful prose on such an ugly and political topic. Naturally, I started looking at Coates' inspiration for writing this book, and who people compared him to. This very swiftly led me into the arms of James Baldwin, the collection of short stories I now hold in my hands, and many a night of intense, passionate reading. I fucking love this one.
Alright, so what's so great about it, you ask? Well, above this paragraph I wanted to insert a short, fancy quote, which seems to be the thing to do. I looked through the pages I've highlighted and found the shortest quote. It's about ten lines. And this is the thing, for me, about Baldwin's prose, which is so fantastically can't-keep-my-arms-down, screaming-at-the-top-of-my-lungs intoxating. The picturesque writing doesn't stop for a second, you're constantly being carried down a stream of hauntingly beautiful descriptions until you're entirely engulfed by the world it creates.
And because of this, I've been on the Parisian bridge with the African-American singer in "This Morning, This Evening, So Soon" when the sunlight hits his Swedish wife-to-be, and is finally left alone with her, as the white man's world, the hostile, killing world, evaporates around him.
I've sat next to the black teacher in "Sonny's Blues" watching his brother playing the piano, sharing the same old tale of light versus dark, and at the same time desperately trying not to suffer through the redemptive beauty of the blues.
I've been a child in "Going to Tell the Man", placed on the safe shoulders of my in-bred, racist father, watching the ignorant and malevolent masses as they chant and scream at the crucified and castrated man of color, who will soon be burned alive.
Above all, I've witnessed the segregation period, not from a political perspective, but from a human perspective. The frailties and sufferings of mankind, regardless of color, are illuminated by this book, itself a fiery torch in the dark void of suffering.
I could continue praising this book. I could even highlight it's relevance in today's segregated world, where blacks in the US still struggle and suffer and scream for justice, and where refugees flee the Middle East's war-torn countries in search of redemption and safety, but instead are met with violence and prejudice. I could do all those things. But I'm off to read "Go Tell it on the Mountain", and I won't be disturbed.