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A review by savaging
Soledad Brother: The Prison Letters of George Jackson by George L. Jackson
3.0
"We die too easily. We forgive and forget too easily." - George Jackson
There are sublime moments in this book. Jackson's terse and compelling autobiography at the beginning, or his letter two days after his little brother is shot and killed. Masterpieces. Jean Genet's introduction to the original edition, placed at the end of this edition, is also compelling to read.
And the general tone of a person locked up on an indefinite sentence and constantly at the mercy of guards and parole boards -- it clarifies how hateful and racist prisons are.
Another compelling aspect was to see Jackson struggle with the conventionalities of his parents -- the cruelty of his letters to "you people" who keep sending those goddamned Christmas cards to a rebel maltheist; the tender hope that at some moments the people who have known you the longest finally understand you. The dream that your family could be your comrades (he calls his father Robert, or he calls him his brother). And then they say Be a good boy or they send him a book on St. Augustine, and Jackson is plain angry again, saying he doesn't see any use in communicating. This fraught bond with his family across politics is beautiful and awful.
But the book is impossible to read if you have the faintest trace of feminism in you. A stupid and embarrassing misogyny pervades the letters. He meets Angela Davis, and you think he's learned his lesson now, but he ruins it by sexualizing her, fantasizing about protecting her, and pontificating to her with his political analysis.
Pontification, in general, is a draw-back of the book. Jackson has had time to think and books to read. But though his analysis of the world is surely more accurate than the average persons' on the right side of the bars, he's hard to trust. Wide-ranging comments, whether about the lack of hunger in China or the herd behavior of buffalo, and are simply incorrect, grate on me.
There are sublime moments in this book. Jackson's terse and compelling autobiography at the beginning, or his letter two days after his little brother is shot and killed. Masterpieces. Jean Genet's introduction to the original edition, placed at the end of this edition, is also compelling to read.
And the general tone of a person locked up on an indefinite sentence and constantly at the mercy of guards and parole boards -- it clarifies how hateful and racist prisons are.
Another compelling aspect was to see Jackson struggle with the conventionalities of his parents -- the cruelty of his letters to "you people" who keep sending those goddamned Christmas cards to a rebel maltheist; the tender hope that at some moments the people who have known you the longest finally understand you. The dream that your family could be your comrades (he calls his father Robert, or he calls him his brother). And then they say Be a good boy or they send him a book on St. Augustine, and Jackson is plain angry again, saying he doesn't see any use in communicating. This fraught bond with his family across politics is beautiful and awful.
But the book is impossible to read if you have the faintest trace of feminism in you. A stupid and embarrassing misogyny pervades the letters. He meets Angela Davis, and you think he's learned his lesson now, but he ruins it by sexualizing her, fantasizing about protecting her, and pontificating to her with his political analysis.
Pontification, in general, is a draw-back of the book. Jackson has had time to think and books to read. But though his analysis of the world is surely more accurate than the average persons' on the right side of the bars, he's hard to trust. Wide-ranging comments, whether about the lack of hunger in China or the herd behavior of buffalo, and are simply incorrect, grate on me.