The African American Journey to the Power Dome : Wright, Ellison, Baldwin [1 ed.] 9781527518360

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The African American Journey to the Power Dome

The African American Journey to the Power Dome: Wright, Ellison, Baldwin By

Bhumika Sharma

The African American Journey to the Power Dome: Wright, Ellison, Baldwin By Bhumika Sharma This book first published 2018 Cambridge Scholars Publishing Lady Stephenson Library, Newcastle upon Tyne, NE6 2PA, UK British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Copyright © 2018 by Bhumika Sharma All rights for this book reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. ISBN (10): 1-5275-1394-7 ISBN (13): 978-1-5275-1394-5

Dedicated to my affectionate mother-in-law, the late Mrs. Nirmala Sharma

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Preface ...................................................................................................... viii Acknowledgements ................................................................................... xv Chapter I ...................................................................................................... 1 Black Authorship: Socio-Historical Perspectives Chapter II................................................................................................... 32 Richard Wright: A Voice of Protest Chapter III ................................................................................................. 61 Ralph Ellison: An Epitome of Equilibrium Chapter IV ................................................................................................. 94 James Baldwin: From Chaos to Cosmos Chapter V ................................................................................................ 126 African American Stalwarts and the Art of Narration Conclusion ............................................................................................... 158 The Final Destination Bibliography ............................................................................................ 172

PREFACE

Black Americans have traveled a long way in their cultural transformation from the ‘Negro’ to the ‘African American.’ Ever since their arrival in the ‘Promised Land’ of America, they have passed through various upheavals. Their socio-economic and political status has undergone profound changes; and with these changes, the nature of racial relations, character, and culture of the Afro-Americans has also evolved, adapted, and metamorphosed. African American fiction beautifully mirrors this black odyssey in an artistic frame. It emerges out of and is designed by the socio-economic, political, and psychic double consciousness of the African American artist, who stands amidst a cultural vortex. Being an integral part of the community, he could not resist the emotional and intellectual churning that takes place in the process. It makes the African American writer attentive to the prevalent condition. He is persuaded to follow what is brought forth by his consciousness; and he also wishes to determine his active socio-political role. At the same time, these stirrings enable him to produce an artistic account of the African American collective experience as viewed in its broad spectrum. While placed in the historical context of the first encounter between Africa and America, the story of the black begins with the practice of human chattel enslavement in 1619 and then the continuation of slavery as a legal institution for more than 200 years in America. The African American tale appears a long journey of continuous amelioration from subjugation to sublimation. Living on the fringe of the society, the black man finds himself historically uprooted, economically exploited, socially segregated, and psychologically wounded. His conscious as well as his subconscious mind stores this historical experience as an indelible impression that shapes his psycho-cerebral makeup. It creates certain discernible patterns in the African American literary writings that go in parallel with the matter-of-fact historical and political documentation of their struggle. Generally, the presence of these patterns in literature is viewed abstractly and is often interpreted either through any of the preferred critical theories or in purely sociological terms. But, Black fiction is not merely the reactionary literature of embittered minds. It condenses universal human emotions combined with real-life experiences that generate a range of creative thoughts in its gradual formation.

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Interestingly, despite being initiated as an overture to capture the specific group’s conscious response to the collectively experienced reality, African American writing is not bound with its ethnic origin. Nor does it remain fixed in any given frame of assessment. On the contrary, it proves dynamic and multi-dimensional in its artistic rendering— and, in due course of development, perfectly matches with the fluidity of the black man’s socio-political and historical consciousness. The present book is an endeavor to redefine the African American literary experience in the context of concrete socio-political facts and historically altered realities, which surface with the advancement of time. It elaborates upon how these factors not only affect the African American literary output but also go hand-in-hand with the black American writers’ ever-growing artistic consciousness. The African American writer, as an infallible artist, creates a parallel world of symbolic signification and metaphorical representation. His fictional firmament encompasses the wide range of the black American experience— re-created within the artistic contour of a literary form. In fact, as a creative overture, it surpasses the ethnic boundaries and predetermined structural outlines. While facilitating a free play of fact and fiction, it indeed presents a curious juxtaposition of social reality and art. The idea for the book germinated from my research endeavor a few years back when I set off to explore the rich repository of African American fiction. Given the wide range of Black American writing, it was, indeed a difficult choice to make. Out of the litany of Black American writers, it was difficult to choose which ones ought to be the prime focus of such a study, given that this study attempts to capture the ever-changing but closely connected patterns of the corresponding collective black experience. And to make the choice more challenging, I had the vast canvas of African American fiction present before me. There were numerous authors; and their wonderful writings were marked by a diversity of subjects and a variety of literary styles. Since I intended to capture the modern stint and explicate how the African American writing had ushered into a new phase of development at the turn of the century, I decided to pick out the writers who best represent the African American sentiments and their major ideological engagements in the modern period. My quest ended up with the three renowned names, whose fiction, despite being explored, I discovered, was not much seen in its wholesomeness of the emotional and ideological historicity. Hence, I made a deliberate selection conducive to my objective of the close examination of the African American odyssey with special reference to the three most

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illustrative of the black American writers– Richard Wright, Ralph Ellison, and James Baldwin. With regard to the American literary history, these writers come out as three of the major representative authors of the African American experience. I have dwelled on the fictional world of these authors for investigating the progressive march of the black man in a world of opportunities. This world is the same ‘Promised Land’ writ large with the magical color of the ‘American Dream’ realized by the great American fictional heroes like Jay Gatsby. Surprisingly, contrary to the most democratic of the American expectations, the fictional world construed by Wright, Ellison, and Baldwin is a different place. One witnesses an ambivalent world, set between the hope of ‘Daydreams’ and disappointment of ‘Nightmares’ experienced by the black man in his strive to embrace generosity and affluence of the American culture. It is evident in a number of illustrative re-constructions of the characteristic celebration of the American dream. Whether it is the two-generation quest undertaken by the father and the son respectively in Wright's The Long Dream or the soaring aspirations of Ellison’s vagabond hero in the novel Invisible Man or the refurbishment of the same old American success story of Leo Proudhammer in Baldwin’s Tell Me How Long The Train‘s Been Gone, it surfaces vividly. Being situated amidst the hostile reality of the larger socio-political domain, the black man opts to engage with the very idea of the American dream play. Revealing both the charm and frustration of the lived intersection, the black protagonists of these authors appear struggling for a way out. They have to either fully realize or outwardly reject the fantasy of the ‘American Dream.’ Hence, waging a battle against the hostile circumstances, the African American dares to dream. He clings to the possibility of its accomplishment. Perhaps, within the existent American world, at some historical juncture, there awaits the promised land of the Black American dreams. There exists an extensive critical overview of the fiction of Wright, Ellison, and Baldwin but the novels of these authors have been chiefly interpreted by the critics in isolation to figure out the racial undertone of the texts. No major study has ever treated their fictional output as a collective configuration of the black compos mentis. In view of the observed gap, I decided to review the novels of these three African American stalwarts over the temporal framework. My overture aimed to reveal the growth of the black man in emotional and ideological terms. Hence, providing an aperture for the renewed examination of African American fiction, the book projects a linear progression of the human

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sensibilities along with the advancement of time. It is an attempt to bring out the undercurrent of subtle progression adroitly represented in the African American fiction in general and the novels of Wright, Ellison, and Baldwin in particular. The book captures the historiographic configuration embedded in the artistic delineation of a lived experience. It represents what it means to be a ‘black’ in America. It raises many questions. The black man has always been there; however, does he 'really' exist and, furthermore, ‘where’ does he exist? Is it in reality or imagination? Has there been a change in the status since his arrival on the plantation, if yes, what has it been? How should the transformation of the African American be perceived? Can their advancement be viewed in terms of a gradual shift from ‘Africanness’ to ‘Americanness’ or vice versa? How does their cultural metamorphosis enable them to undergo the identity formation ranging from the labeled ‘primitive brute’ to the ‘civilized’ citizen of a cosmopolitan society? In fact, many internal and external elements partake in the making of a cultural ‘hybrid’ appropriately christened as the ‘African American.’ It is not only their biological change from the Negro to a mulatto, to a quadroon, to an octoroon but also an emotional and ideological ordeal, which ultimately culminates in assuming a unique identity on their part as the Black American. The book aims to comprehend how the socio-political, economic, and psychic realities present in the society shape the human mindset. How the black authorship acquires a distinct form in terms of the mainstream American literature, and how it helps the African Americans to discover many psycho cerebral truths interspersed in their collective consciousness. The scope of the book lies in providing a general overview of the African American literary history, which is enhanced by navigating the fictional world of the selected authors thoroughly. The fictional works by these writers trace the African American journey from the plantation to the power dome. In the course of such exploration, the book addresses many vital issues about the socio-political engagements of these African American writers. It assesses the thematic engagements as well as the narrative art of the writers to view them in the wholesomeness of their artistic overture. It reveals that what makes their contribution to African American authorship significant is the projection of black consciousness in the broad human context. Despite being originated in social realism, their fiction is not bound by the mere social argument as observed by various critics. It also epitomizes the culmination of literary art. The book is divided into five chapters followed by the conclusion. Chapter I Black Authorship: Socio-Historical Perspectives overviews the

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gradual progress of the African American literary tradition. It focuses on the socio-political background of the African American history and shifting literary perspectives of the black authorship. With the historical development of the Negro slave into an emancipated American citizen, African American fictional writing has also undergone a significant metamorphosis. It manifests how the black artist has always been aware of the prevailing socio-political and economic realities of the times and has tried to provide space for the muffled voice of the dispossessed. The tremendous progression and dynamism, witnessed in the artistic treatment of ‘black sensibilities’ from The President's Daughter: A Narrative of Slave Life by William Wells Brown to the Harlem Renaissance novels, to the black arts movement, and later in the contemporary black feminist writing, show the African American quest for an identity and human dignity. Chapter II Richard Wright: A Voice of Protest encompasses the study of emerging emotional and ideological patterns in the created dramatic situations, subtly fabricated by Richard Wright in his fictional world. It examines the all-prevalent anxiety, tension and various stresses experienced by Wright’s aggressive black protagonists. Wright’s black anti-hero, despite his altering socio-political, ethical, moral, and academic status, recurs with the same force of aggression in each of his succeeding novels. It shows how the oppressed black oscillates between violence and orderliness for his emotional survival. The analysis also captures the author’s thought patterns regarding various driving forces and ideological drifts at different stages of progression in the African American historical stride. Chapter III Ralph Ellison: An Epitome of Equilibrium is a close study of the great African American artist Ralph Ellison. Projecting the multidimensional character of his two masterpieces Invisible Man and Juneteenth, this chapter explicates the perspicuous structural patterns artistically woven by the novelist. It brings out how the author uses his fiction to comprehend and comment on the society and makes his characters the spokespersons of particular viewpoints. Ellison’s black protagonist grows in the process of learning. He, depending upon the level of his emotional and intellectual maturity at that point of time, revolts as well as adjusts with the existing social set up, howsoever dissatisfying and defective it may appear. The 'equanimity' of Ellison’s fictional craft finely blends the element of protest with art. Chapter IV James Baldwin: From Chaos to Cosmos1 focuses on the socio-economic-political and psychic double consciousness of the black American, utilized by James Baldwin in his novels. The author minutely

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anatomizes sex, family, and religion to understand the making of the black consciousness. It explores the author's racial and gender sensibilities and articulates the African American emotional and ideological standpoints about the prevailing integrational and disintegrational tendencies. The emotionally charged responses to the existing circumstances lead Baldwin’s black protagonists to a dilemma that finally resolves through their liberation from the racial and gender constructions. Chapter V African American Stalwarts and the Art of Narration comprises the study of aesthetic aspects, narrative art, and other artistic dimensions of the literary trio, namely Richard Wright, Ralph Ellison, and James Baldwin. It examines their novels in the light of fictional techniques and stylistic features used by them. The prevalent methods of plot construction, characterization, and art of narration have been taken into consideration. While addressing the stylistic elements of their narrative technique, the analysis also brings in the dialectics projected through the dialogues, which indeed proves the artistic excellence of their writings. The last section of the book titled The Final Destination tries to reveal the socio-artistic significance of the fictional works of Richard Wright, Ralph Ellison, and James Baldwin in corollary. The concluding chapter, providing space for a comparative study, discusses the strengths and drawbacks of all the three and divulges some critical viewpoints. The section sums up the observed patterns in their novels and establishes how these projections become instrumental in articulating the African American emotional and ideological stances in the course of their historical odyssey. In a nutshell, the book brings forth the continuous progression of human sensibilities and emotional maturity witnessed in the fictional journey of the black man. It accomplishes the task through a close examination of the novels penned down by the African American authors with special reference to Wright, Ellison, and Baldwin. The critical inquiry pursued throughout highlights how the historicity concerning the transformation of the stereotypical ‘nativity’ of the American black into the cultural ‘sophistication’ of Americanness is metaphorically reflected in the character of many black protagonists. The Black American heroes imbibe certain emotional and ideological traits drawn from the collective African American consciousness. Certainly, art closely relates to life, and the book highlights the same interposition. It forms a vitrine to view African American fiction not only in its theoretical implications but also in the overall socio-artistic dimensions. It also unravels the abstract ‘poetics’ of the black fiction that surprisingly sprung from the ineluctable concreteness of the African American encounter with the stark human

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realities. In fact, as a creative overture, it surpasses the ethnic boundaries and framed outlines for the free play of fact and fiction that mingles the social reality with the genius of literary art. Bhumika Sharma

Note 1

Part of this Chapter was originally published with Springer as an article “Baldwin’s Quest for Panacea: A Case Study” in the Journal of African American Studies (2013) Volume 17, Number 4. Pg. 518-528.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

It is true that an abstract idea takes concrete shape by the author’s putting a lot of effort into creating a piece of writing. However, its formation is also accomplished with the blessings of well-wishers—whose valuable support may enable an aspirant to accomplish a mighty task. I, too, began my book apprehensively—wondering how it would reach its culmination. But thanks to many fine scholars and dear friends, all of whom always encouraged me and helped me in materializing my idea into reality. I express my sincere gratitude to Dr. Tanuja Mathur (English Department Head at the University of Rajasthan, Jaipur), whose guidance made possible my doctoral work which structurally serves as the foundation of the present book. I am especially indebted to my mentor, the late Dr. G. D. Paliwal (former Director of Stani Memorial P. G. College, Jaipur) for having shared his wisdom and expertise with me. Discussions held with him gave me an insight into understanding the subtle shades of ingeniously woven motifs in African American narratives. I also express my gratitude to The American Library, New Delhi, for providing muchneeded print and web resources – and, of course, to the Cambridge Scholars Publishing team including Ms. Victoria Carruthers and Ms. Hannah Fletcher for their endeavors. A special thanks goes to Ivan Veller, who not only proofread the entire manuscript brilliantly but also shared valuable views that helped me comprehend the linguistic and cultural nuances of certain American practices. Moreover, my deeply felt love and gratitude to my husband Manoj, daughter Nimisha, and son Avik who had patience, became even more flexible, and fully cooperated with me in support of my accomplishing the task of writing this book. Bhumika Sharma

CHAPTER I BLACK AUTHORSHIP: SOCIO-HISTORICAL PERSPECTIVES

In the sphere of creative writing, a consistent struggle against the social inequality, exploitation, oppression, and malpractices earmarks the art as a vehicle for social change. It has always been a synonym of literary vigor that culminates in artistic excellence and enriches overall aesthetics. It has been a frequent human practice at the emotional and intellectual level. The power of the word has been witnessed almost in every age and holds true in the present context, too. The exhibition of creative energy arouses a universal consciousness that results in the articulation of deep human sensibility and a sympathetic understanding of the oppressed class. Literary art becomes instrumental in measuring the depth of human trauma. Evolving along a considerably long stretch of time, this tradition – which centers on the fundamental disposition of injustice, agony, and protest – has acquired dynamism. Its omnipresence is reflected in one or the other form in the vast entity of literature. It evinces the natural instinct of repulsion- and exhibits whatever unbearable burdens weigh down the human heart from blood to ink. The socio-literary history of the world is full of such manifestations in which wars were waged at various points in time through meaningful experiments with ‘words.’ Literature has always been a projection as well as a reflection; a means as well as an end for such noble struggles. Such literature can be termed the creative expostulation of human thoughts and emotions. In the present age of postmodernism and poststructuralism, the conception of minority literature has become a vast intellectual and cultural movement. It encompasses the expression of every dispossessed class – whether it is Feminism, or Marxism, or a counter-attack to Casteism or Racism. These streams are mostly anti-establishment and aim to set up a classless and casteless system, which would be founded on the principle of social equality. The movement of Black authorship also belongs to this rebellious but rich literary tradition of emotional and intellectual outcry. The cult of Negro authorship, which is a sub-stream of

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the American mainstream, might have sprouted in a particular region but has a universal appeal that consists in its involvement with the fundamental instinct of emotional and ideological protest against the negation of human dignity. It would have initiated with the first Negro literary attempt, notwithstanding its immaturity and alleged less artistic nature, in which the feelings and thoughts of suppressed blacks were given voice. In the course of time, it was watered and nurtured by many such attempts on the part not only of the blacks but also of various white writers. Their endeavors aimed to make the voice of the dispossessed louder and sharper—which ultimately succeeded in making it audible. Suppression accumulates force, which ultimately finds an outlet somewhere and somehow in strong resistance. And when this emotional and intellectual energy erupts, its momentum proves irresistible. It engulfs whatever comes in its way and carries everything along its current. Since a current allows for forming and deforming, shaping and re-shaping, blending and segregating, and also molding and adapting, the floating object is transformed in the process. The socio-artistic history of Black authorship presents a paradigm of such constructive as well as deconstructive formations. African American authorship, as the name indicates, is inseparably associated with American culture in which American identity is defined as a complex whole. It comprises many surprising truths at various strata. The most democratic country in the world is ruled and shaped by the most undemocratic and unethical practice of racial discrimination. American psyche can neither be explored nor comprehended without understanding the race relations that exist at the very foundation of the social edifice of America. It is integrally woven into its cultural fabric. Hence, if the composite character of the ethnic literary output is to be understood, it is essential to probe into the race relations in American society. In the course of its development, American history has passed through many milestones. The first landmark was the great Revolutionary War of America (1775-83), which resulted in the emergence of the United States of America. Even at its nascent stage, when a new democratic country was born, a grim undemocratic reality took shape within it. To quote E. Frazier Franklin, “At the time of the first census held in 1790, the Black population constituted one-fifth of the nation. About 8% of the Negroes were free, and 92% were slaves.” (8) The American war of liberation had succeeded in putting to an end the colonial rule of England and winning freedom for a significant part of the American populace – yet it did not bring any change in the socioeconomic status of the black population. Black slaves were still slaves—

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fraudulently deceived; more confined; oppressed; and inhumanly exploited. Since it is a natural law that human soul cannot be crushed interminably, the ceaseless suppression and elongated dispossession of the black slaves sprouted in the form of engulfing discontent. The issue of slavery became the most disruptive issue in the 19th century. Years of enduring humiliation, exploitation, oppression, and mental torture – endurance which had given courage to the black man, empowering him to speak – finally compelled the white liberal to listen to him. As passions rose, the issue of slavery overshadowed all other problems and ultimately culminated in the onset of the Civil War in 1861. The American Civil War continued for almost five years and finally resulted in the end of American slavery and the simultaneous rise of the Northern industrial power. The Negro fought bravely supporting the union cause as declared by Lincoln Presidency and finally won Emancipation. It was followed by the period of reconstruction, which, subsequently, enunciated the era of progressive constitutional reforms. The 13th amendment to the constitution gave ‘liberty’ to the Negroes; the 14th amendment granted them ‘citizenship,’ and the 15th guaranteed them ‘an equal right to vote.’ Although the ensuing era bestowed the reward of political participation upon the Negroes, they remained economically dependent on their exslave owners. The capitalism of the North opened their eyes to the alternative prospect of seeking fortune in urban areas; still, to their dismay, the position of the Negroes remained that of subordination. They entered into the new capitalistic system – a system that was predominantly white (a demographic trait which added to their dismay). Besides this, the emergence of notorious organizations such as the Ku Klux Klan and the original form of race relations, popularly known as ‘Jim Crow ethics,’ aggravated their plight and intensified the darkness of their already grim life. Given the rapidly changing socio-political and economic scenario, the shift in general human disposition was evident. How could the world of art remain mute? African American literature corresponded to these changes. With a deep insight, their fiction set out to articulate the historical ordeals of Black Americans. On the one hand, it projected the graphic images of the Negro predicament; on the other hand, it gave voice to the emotional and intellectual stirring of the Black Americans. In fact, it served as an outlet for their psychological experiences. A true writer always participates in the struggle of the dispossessed. The creative faculty of an artist enables him to delineate the judicious wars in dynamic countenance. His commitment to the noble cause reflects his strivings honestly in writing. Certainly, the voice of a true artist contains

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the fire of protest. It becomes as bitter and sharp as the experienced truths are. Black authorship also participated in the historical struggle of the Black Americans, contributing to the artistic projection of the African American journey from rags to riches in their real life. It succeeded in stimulating it with the first-hand experiences, deeply felt agony, gradually evolving rebellion, and growing sensibility. The journey of Afro Americans began with the historical encounter between the two distinctly defined races, which had been destined to inherit the single identity of being American. Multitudinous fibers in their separate cultural set-ups were gradually woven in a single pattern. As the complex racial structure could neither exist nor be understood in absolute terms, the identity of one was always defined in relation to the other. At every stage of the historical development, these two different races were inescapably interrelated and closely associated with each other. Perhaps this was the reason that the first literary assault on the inhuman and immoral nature of American slavery was made, unexpectedly, by the white lady Harriet Beecher Stowe, who wrote Uncle Tom’s Cabin in 1852. The novel was a vehement attack on the slavery and was regarded as the greatest fictional success of the 19th century. Its theme was that slavery and Christianity could not coexist. The plot was woven around the Black protagonist, Uncle Tom, the slave, who served on Mr. Shelly’s plantation. The novel projects a realistic and horrible picture of the tragic fate of black slaves on the Southern plantations. In this novel, Uncle Tom may appear to be just the titular hero – but it was his inner strength, undoubting courage, goodness of spirit, and nobility of soul that touched the core of humanity. It won the heart of the contemporary white middle class and put a question mark on the false justifications for the inhuman and immoral institution of American slavery. The novel also hints – through the escape of the slave family of George, Elizabeth, and their son Harry – that if given a chance, black people can prove their worth. What they need is just to be educated, nurtured, and groomed properly. If facilitated with the required resources, the Black race can also turn over a new leaf in life. The publication of Uncle Tom’s Cabin provided an opportunity to the petty Southern white writers to write novels in justification of slavery. Some authors like William Gilmore Simms and John P. Kennedy wrote proslavery novels to raise their voices against those of other whites, and especially against the Northern white liberalistic attitude. It was, in fact, the mid-19th century that witnessed the initiation of Black authorship. William Wells Brown could be regarded as the first Black novelist who initiated the new era of Black creativity. It gradually evolved and mellowed overtime and scaled great heights in terms of artistic excellence.

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Brown’s novel was entitled, Clotel; or The President’s Daughter: A Narrative of Slave Life, which was published in London in 1853 – a year after the publication of Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Clotel was based on the theme of miscegenation, a wide-spread phenomenon of the Southern plantation life. Later, the novel was published with the revised title Clotel: A Tale of Southern States. Brown was drawn to the “sensational subjects on the Southern plantation” and also discussed social complication arising from the mixture of races in the South” (Loggins Vernon, 164). In spite of its sensational plot, the book failed to achieve the immense popularity that Uncle Tom’s Cabin enjoyed. Still, in its realism, Clotel is decidedly a franker portrayal of the Negro life than is Uncle Tom’s Cabin. The other leading Black novelists of this period – viz. Frank J. Webb (The Garries and Their Friends, 1857) and Martin R. Delany (Blake; or the Huts of America, 1859-1861) – also delineated slavery in their writings. But unlike Harriet Beecher Stowe, who treated it as an essentially immoral institution, they treated it as a system of exploitation. The focus shifted from the ethical to the socio-economic aspects of black life. The works of this period deal with the slavery of the Negro and have a quite simple structure—consisting of the tale of separation of the man and wife; the sale of a mother and her children; their subsequent fate; a catalogue of the evils of slavery; the runaway slaves; their hot chase by the slave owners; etc. The plots of these novels are at once sentimental and realistic. Black novelists of the period sought inspiration from Mrs. Stowe; but instead of penning the sentimental novels, they wrote more realistic novels. The fiction of this period records contemporary social history that consists of widespread miscegenation in the old South and the emergence of a spirit of discontent and revolt amongst the Negroes. The period spanning from the beginning of the civil war to the last decade of the 19th century (i.e., 1860-1890) does not exhibit much creativity on the part of Black artists. The civil war resulted in the emancipation of Blacks – but it also brought new responsibilities, subsequent uncertainties, chaos, and new requisitions. A re-adjustment of the status of the Black in American society was earnestly required. It needed a real endeavor on the part of both the Blacks and the Whites to integrate constructively. However, redefining the role of the two contrastingly patterned races (interwoven in the name of Cosmopolitan American culture) was not so smooth and easy. Blacks confronted the harsh actualities of their new, emancipated life. Realities of the predominantly prejudiced white world were eye-openers for them. In fact, Black creativity found itself standing amidst confusion—facing the aforementioned dilemma about its future course. The outstanding questions were: “Now, what?” “What to do?”

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“Where to go?” “Which course needs to be taken?” It was the phase of the ‘Black impasse’. Still, the Negro issue was a hot topic for discussion. Many white writers such as Thomas Nelson Page (In Ole Virginia, 1887; Red Rock, 1898), Joel Chandler Harris (Nights with Uncle Remus, 1883; Uncle Remus and His Friends, 1892), George W. Cable (The Grandissimes, 1880; Madame Delphine, 1881), Rebecca Davis (Waiting for the Verdict, 1868), and Albian W. Tourgee (A Royal Gentleman, 1881; Hot Plough Shares, 1883; Pactolus Prime, 1890) showed interest in it. At this crucial historical juncture, while the Black reality was being portrayed through the white perspective, there appeared the great classic entitled The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (1884). In this novel, Mark Twain does not long for the good old plantation days but instead shows an intense desire for social justice and evinces an egalitarian attitude. In the persona of Huck and Jim, the author creates two immortal characters. From the start of the narrative, the unparalleled humanism of Twain exudes from his pen. His sincere sympathy for the fugitive slaves gradually permeates through the overall schema of the novel. Chapter 8 proclaims Huck’s promise not to reveal Jim’s secret, “even though people would call me a low-down Abolitionist and despise me for keeping mum” (38). The novel was an indication of liberal and more sympathetic handling of the black issue by the upcoming white authors. In general, the novels of this period were chiefly a socio-economic study of the problem of Southern reconstruction. In their attempt to understand Negro life, these authors made a careful study of the Negro folklore and dialect. Use of the local dialect by Mark Twain and an invocation of the Negro folklore, animal fables, local manners, and local customs by Joel Chandler Harris and George W. Cable are instances of such practices followed by the contemporary writers of the period. It was the White liberalism of Pre-World-War-I period (1890-1914) that greeted the 20th century with an enthusiastic spirit of abolitionism and attacked the prejudices and pseudo-supremacy of the white race. The Negroes, indeed, achieved freedom – but discrimination against them also increased side by side. The champions of white superiority fabricated the absurd philosophy of White racial supremacy, which is reflected in the novels of various authors like Thomas Dixon, who published The Leopard’s Spots (1902) and its sequels—The Clan’s Man (1905) and The Traitor (1907). Leadership of the Black activists, eventually, gave birth to the ‘New Negro,’ who differed in his dignity and manhood from the slave mindedness of the ‘Old Negro,’ who had earlier known his ‘place’ in the social strata. Contrary to the stereotypical portrayal of docile ‘Old Negro,’ this ‘New Negro’ was reactionary and, unquestionably, not resigned to the

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previously subservient position which he had held. Some Negro writers of this period like Mrs. Francis E. W. Harper (Iola Leroy, 1893), Charles W. Chesnutt (The House Behind the Cedars, 1900; The Marrow of Tradition, 1901; The Colonel’s Dream, 1905), Paul Lawrence Dunbar (The Uncalled, 1898; The Love of Landry, 1900; The Fanatics, 1901; The Sports of the Gods, 1902), and Sutton Griggs (Imporium In Imperio, 1899; Pointing The Way, 1908) stood somewhere between the concepts of the ‘Old’ and the ‘New Negro.’ The changing political scenario was also a major factor in transforming literary images of the Black in numerous fictional configurations. The inception of the 20th century witnessed chiefly two streams in the Black leadership. The Great Conciliator, Booker T. Washington, suggested a new philosophy for the accommodation of two races. In his words, “In all things that are purely social, we can be as separate as the fingers, yet, one as the hand in all things essential to mutual progress” (Excerpts from the Atlanta Speech (1895) by Booker T. Washington). On the contrary, many young intellectual Negroes like W.E.B. Du Bois and James Weldon Johnson did not have faith in the principle of black accommodation. They completely differed from Washington in their approach. Theirs was militant at its core. They became instrumental in the formation of interracial organizations like the NAACP (National Association for the Advancement of the Colored People) and the NUL (National Urban League). They published their own magazines such as The Crisis and Opportunity. Du Bois, a well-read scholar and a social realist, talked in real, pragmatic terms about the issues of his day. The poor white farmer of his novel The Quest of the Silver Fleece (1911) becomes the mouthpiece of his socialistic ideology and spells out a solution for the currently distorted and strained race relations endemic to the social sphere: “I think, these white slaves and black slaves ought to get together.” His words echo proletarian sentiments founded on the ideological belief of the author. He draws attention to the economic exploitation prevalent in the agrarian system. Racial conflict is replaced by class conflict. Race dilutes paving the way to formulate a broader political and economic approach. Such an evolving consciousness facilitates the taking of different perspectives to investigate racial complications. One of the prominent Negro intellectuals, James W. Johnson, adds a new leaf in the literary account of Afro-Americans’ quest for identity. His novel, titled Autobiography of An Ex-Colored Man (1912), is a record of a nearly white black man’s experiences. It shows his earnest endeavor to remember who he is. He is the hero of an internal war; someone who wishes to pursue his own black culture. His tragic dilemma lies in his search for true identity.

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He plans to become a black composer but is instead is led towards easily ‘passing’ in the white world on account of his fair complexion. As his patron advises him: “My boy, you are by blood, by appearance, by education and by tastes[,] a white man. Now, why do you want to throw your life away amidst the poverty and ignorance, in the hopeless struggle, of the black people of the United States?” (Johnson, Autobiography, 472)

Ultimately, having persistently striven to celebrate black heritage, the hero vanishes. After observing and facing many humiliations, he makes up his mind to live as a white man. His striving indicates an essential interlude in the Afro-American quest for self-identity. Undoubtedly, Johnson’s novel projects the classic ‘tragic mulatto’ situation. Throughout the novel, the author exhibits a soft corner for the Bohemian life and seems to assert that “ragtime music and cake-walk” are the accomplishments of which the Black race should be proud of rather than ashamed of. What Johnson appears to state is that there are many ex-colored men in America who have passed through such a phase. Hence, the two Black intellectuals Du Bois and James W. Johnson could be treated as the harbinger of the 20th-century fiction that later thrived in the Harlem School of Black Renaissance. The postreconstruction period (1890-1914) was the era of a restoration of the white supremacy and the Northern indifference to the Negro. It was the period in which repression – and all sorts of terrorism such as lynching, systematic disfranchisement, and frightening tactics of Ku Klux Klan – took place. But, at the same time, it was also a period of growing consciousness of the Blacks, the beginning of their search for roots, a gradually evolving sense of self-esteem, and an intention to expostulate whatever undoes their attempt to live with dignity. This awakening found clear expression in the post-World War-I period. The 1920’s saw the flowering of black writing, art, music, and thought that came to be known as the Harlem Renaissance. The entry of the United States into World War I in 1917 had created a boom in American industry. As a result, many Blacks moved from the South to take jobs in the Northern industrial plants. Blacks remained in the large Northern cities, notably Chicago and New York. Harlem, a section of New York, became the cosmopolitan center of Black life. The intellectual circle of the Harlem School includes authors like Claude McKay, Jean Toomer, Langston Hughes, Counter Cullen, and many more – authors whose writing aimed to define and review Black heritage; protect Blacks from oppression; and make other Americans aware of Black life.

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This span inaugurated a new phase of Black authorship, advocating a more realistic portrayal of the Negro characters and a contiguous psychological interpretation of their predicament. Stereotyped delineations and conservative explanations of their misery were discouraged. In the Harlem School of writing, the ‘Negro’ grows more and more race conscious and rejects the conventional values. His socio-political outlook changes and he is pervaded with the new nationalistic reflex. The Black writers of this period brought a new vision in the literary analysis of the Black issue, by examining it from varied angles and investigating its several dimensions. They employed fiction as a medium of racial protest, wrote purposive novels, revealed psychological insight, and displayed an unfailing concern with realism. The novels of Harlem writers reflect the Black awakening. Jean Toomer’s Cane (1923) contains the Renaissance elements that heralded the new age. Waldo Frank, a white novelist, as quoted by Kathleen Pfeiffer in Brother Mine: The Correspondence of Jean Toomer and Waldo Frank, states: … this is the first book in more ways than one. It is a harbinger of the South’s literary maturity: of its emergence from the obsession put upon its minds by the unending racial crisis... It marks the dawn of direct and unafraid creation. (Frank, “Forward,” 170)

The novel consists of assorted stories; sketches and poetry interspersed with the novelette. It derives its unity, not from the development of its plot and characters but the author’s thesis. It is about the search for roots and the penalties people suffer on account of being uprooted. Similarly, Claude McKay’s Home to Harlem (1928) introduces one of the familiar themes in Black fiction. It manifests a desire to discover or return to one’s home. As in the case of Afro-Americans, the difficulty of feeling at home in America – combined with an ignorance of the historic home of black people – adds agony to the sense of loss and disorientation. Different Black characters react to this quirky situation differently; but most of the time, when they search for home, their experience is peculiarly chaotic and terrifying. McKay’s trilogy Home to Harlem, Banjo, and Banana Bottom constitute a direct and severe confrontation with this issue. The act of going home ought ordinarily to be an act of rediscovery, but the paradox is that, in black fiction, going home becomes an effort at escape from a cycle of punishment, the idea of home itself being unknown and utopian. (Rosenblatt, Black Fiction, 90)

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The novel Not Without Laughter (1930), written by another Harlem writer Langston Hughes, is a study of intra-racial discord, which stems from the generation gap. It is exhibited in a carrying over of – and, at the same time, a rejection of – the traditions. It combines marked class distinctions, varied value orientations, individual nature, and racial consciousness. The novel exemplifies the existent contradiction through the members of Aunt Hager’s family, who represent three generations at a time. Moving in different directions, all of them strive to fulfill their aspirations. Each one has one’s peculiar way of objecting to and reacting to a particular situation. Another well-known Harlem writer, Countee Cullen, also chooses the setting of Harlem for his novel One Way to Heaven (1932). He shows a novel aspect of the Harlem life. Contrary to McKay’s cabaret, pool rooms, gambling houses, prostitution houses, and amusement basements that are meant to serve as specimens of the primitivism and exoticism of the Negro culture, Cullen’s Harlem is the world of the sophisticated intelligentsia and respectable church-going common folk. He concentrates on the theme of the Negro Church and the intellectual world of Harlem. The novel demonstrates that the sex and animalistic instincts are not the only aspects of the Negro Harlem life. The chief characters in his novel, Sam Lucus and Constantia Brandon, become the spokespersons of these two different streams of the Harlem world. These two rivulets represent the throbbing religious and intellectual nerves of Harlem. Black women writers also contributed to the gradually evolving cultural flux. Miss Jessie Fauset, Dorothy West, Nella Larsen, and Zora Neale Hurston are a few names to be reckoned with among the Harlem School of writing. These women authors opened a new avenue for the exploration of a black woman’s psyche. They gave a true and faithful account of female sentiments. Their fiction divulges the innermost feelings prevalent in the society, which is characteristically marred by the racial prejudices. For instance, Nella Larson signifies the racial and gender complexity arising out of miscegenation. Her novels seem to show a deep concern with the problems of maladjustment in the Negro life. Chiefly set against the backdrop of a reputable Negro middle class, her novels explore the impulsive black reaction to it. Her novel Quicksand (1928) delineates the life of the essentially neurotic mulatto woman Helga Crane, whose personality becomes paradoxical due to the racial crosscurrents in her blood, inherited from her Danish mother and American Negro father. The infirmity of her nature makes her move from one place to another and from one decision to the other – a continuous switch-over. Du Bois, the

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famous intellectual Black leader, comments on Larsen’s Quicksand in the following words: …the best piece of fiction that Negro America has produced since the heyday of Chesnutt, and stands easily with Jessie Fauset’s There is Confusion (1924), in its subtle comprehension of the curious cross currents that swirl about the black American. (Du Bois, “Review,” 202)

Passing (1929) is another novel penned down by her. It is also based on the complications and hazards which result from ‘passing’ for a white person. The prime concern in her writing is the study of psychological perspective. She explores the implications of intermarriages, mixed blood, and the ‘passing’ on of the cognizance of black women. Like Nella Larson, Zora Neale Hurston was also a prominent Black woman writer of the 20th century. Her novel Their Eyes Were Watching God (1937) depicts a courageous attempt on the part of a black woman, at her own level, to break the circular pattern of the Black journey. The structural design of the novel signifies how Afro Americans, in their attempt for self-fulfillment, feel a sense of retardation. Brought back to the same point wherefrom they initiated their struggle against the oppressive forces, they feel disappointed. Janie, the protagonist of the novel, too endeavors to break free these social shackles – but is repeatedly held back from doing so. Her Nanny, a residue of the crumbling old generation, advises her: “Honey, de white man is de ruler of everything as fur as Ah been able tuh find out. May be it’s some place way off in de ocean where de black man is in power, but we don’t know nothin’ but what we see. So de white man throw down de load and tell de n[-]gger man tuh pick it up. He pick it up because he have to, but he don’t tote it. He hand it to his women folks.” (Hurston, Eyes Watching God, 16)

But Jennie, somewhere deep inside in her heart, is not convinced. She is young and rebellious in her spirit. Throughout the novel, the enormous effort made by Janie in order to feel human demonstrates how strong the opposition to her humanity truly is. The novel displays the author’s deep insight into the realm of human sensibility and emotional upheavals – particularly, the instincts and aspirations of the female. With the Harlem Renaissance, Black writing ushered into the phase which, in the course of time, gradually transformed into a distinctive and forceful movement of Afro-American authorship. The 20th century witnessed a plethora of Black masterpieces authored by various black artists, the list of which is exhaustive. The Harlem tradition – one that

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celebrates (rather than conceals or compromises) the Black cultural identity – was carried forward by many Black artists—artists such as Herman Dreer (The Immediate Jewel of His Soul, 1919); Joshua Henry Jone (By Sanction of Law, 1924); Walter White (The Fire in the Flint, 1924 and Flight, 1926); Jessie Fauset (There is Confusion, 1924, The China Berry Tree, 1931, and Comedy: American Style 1933); Du Bois (Dark Princess, 1928); Wallace Thurman (The Blacker the Berry, 1929 and Infants of the Spring, 1932); George Schyler (Black No More, 1931); and several others. The Harlem Renaissance was a prominent landmark in the Afro American journey toward self-assertion – but certainly, it was not the final destination. The long-untrodden pathway had been waiting for a long time. It was just a beginning for them to track these hitherto unexplored passages. Many new chapters were yet to be recorded in the annals of African American history. The emotional fervor of the Harlem period gradually subsided and finally died down in the disappointment of the Great Depression of the 1930’s. The Negro intellectuals became more responsive than they had been earlier. They, in fact, turned into the leading representatives of the black masses. Their voice, pitched against the aggravating conditions of the Black populace as vigorously as it could, demonstrated the urgency of change in a way which had not been seen earlier. Furthermore, its accentuation altered to a more commanding tone. In the preceding period, Black militancy had chiefly underscored racial discrimination – but in the later phase, it became more focused on the poverty-stricken working class. It was a move towards the proletarian approach and a Marxist ideology that emphasized an urgency of social justice. The aim was to bridge the financial gap between the upper and the lower segments of the society. The Depression Decade developed the themes of a relationship between poverty and personal degeneracy and unprecedented implications of the metamorphic process. The transformation highlighted the impact of an agrarian worker’s becoming an industrial laborer; the scars of ‘being uprooted’; and the dehumanizing influence of protracted dispossession and exploitation. The works of various Negro authors such as William Attaway (Let Me Breathe Thunder, 1939 and Blood on the Forge, 1941); Anna Bontemps (God Sends Sunday, 1931, Black Thunder, 1936, and Drums at Dusk, 1939); and Waters Edward Turpin (These Low Grounds, 1937 and O Canaan, 1939) bear the marks of the Depression Decade. Corresponding to the spirit of the time, which is most powerfully reflected in John Steinbeck’s excellent work The Grapes of Wrath (1939), the Black authors of the 1930’s were also fervidly responsive to the dispossession of the downcast. Like Steinbeck, whose novel portrays the

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miserable conditions of a group of farmers moving from Oklahoma to California, William Attaway’s Blood on the Forge studies the life of three Negro siblings – people who migrate from their native land Kentucky Farm to Western Pennsylvania. Uprooted from their ancient home, they strive unsuccessfully to acquire new roots in the Northern Industrial world and, consequently, diminish and decay there. The most significant element in Attaway’s work is that the author transcends the race issue for class-consciousness. While delineating the industrial North and how it devours vitality of life, he evinces that what is true of the Negroes is also akin to the other workers of the mill (Irish, Italian, Slovaks, etc.). The condition of the white workers is hardly better than that of the blacks. The industrial labor force is shown as forming a union to raise their collective voice against the capitalistic exploitation. Attaway was the most significant black novelist of the Depression Decade. He excelled his contemporaries on account of his broad outlook and profound understanding of the socio-economic forces of that time. He chiefly evinced his concern for the impoverished Negro migrants; whereas his contemporaries Anna Bontemps and Waters Edward Turpin reflected the spectrum of the racial past and endeavored to capture Negro family life in their respective writings. The Afro-American journey continued with the swiftly changing socioeconomic scenario. The Negro issue, running parallel to it, gradually diversified and acquired multifarious dimensions. Passing through many transitional stages, it crossed the milestones, beheld the turning points, and lived the phases of historical advancement. The Afro-American authorship conscientiously recorded all these sweeping transpositions. In fact, in its artistic expostulations, it unfailingly reconciled the contrasting sentiments and conflicting ideologies with the evolving times. The high spirit of the Harlem Renaissance and disappointments of the Depression Decade paved the way for many upcoming stalwarts who turned the course of Black authorship altogether. The decades of the 1940’s, 50’s, and 60’s left an indelible mark on the ever-progressing African American literary journey. The trinity of Wright, Ellison, and Baldwin dominated this period. It was the World War II era that lasted up to the civil rights legislation of the 1960’s. The writings of these three authors were hailed as a search for meaning in the black experience. Collectively, their works are regarded as a true, comprehensive, and wholesome representation of the African American predicament. Their writings unravel what it means to be a ‘Black’ in America. A Black man who lives as a subject – but who, at the same time, is also treated as an object – faces a dreadful impasse. When the African American man

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ruminates over his situation, the dilemma of lost agency looms large in the background. Undoubtedly, the literary output of Richard Wright, Ralph Ellison, and James Baldwin has proven path-breaking. Their works constitute a unique perspective enabling readers to probe into the African American consciousness. Their fictional characters truly ‘flesh out’ the black soul making it incarnate the real life hero/ines. Their minds carry the burden of discontent; and their suppressed passions roar loud in their aching heart. They show how the blended legacy of their unique historical experience turns the African American into a complex cultural trope. It addresses how the black man with his hurling thoughts – all amalgamated and intertwined – grapples with his subjectivity to find out the significance of his life. The protagonists of their novels represent an average black man, who tries to define himself. He gropes in the dark to attain an identity – and, to his amazement, finds himself startlingly transformed in the process. It leads him to ‘self-realization.’ Indeed, the fictional world created by the trio truly incorporates the spirit of the rapidly advancing time. Indeed, Wright, Ellison, and Baldwin facilitated – through their forceful literary articulation – an identification of the black voice amidst the widespread white apartheid. Their writings paved the way for further progressive steps in the African American historical march from self-negation to selfassertion. The post-World War II era opened with a resolute pledge on the part of Black Americans to re-examine the old inequities. Later, the pace of events accelerated with the augmentation of the Civil Rights Movement under the peaceful stratagem of Dr. Martin Luther King. In 1964, Dr. King was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for his brilliant, idealistic leadership. Despite all odds, the Movement succeeded in procuring some substantial gains; viz., the Supreme Court verdict outlawing racial segregation in the educational field in 1954, and the enactment of the Civil Rights legislation in 1957 and 1960. The Congress passed the Civil Rights Act and the Voting Right Act in 1964 and 1965, respectively. White racial prejudice was so circumscribing that even a century after the Declaration of Emancipation, no substantial improvement in the general condition of the American Negroes was discernible. Dr. Martin Luther King was justified in candidness of his statement that a Negro “lives on a lonely island of poverty, in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity… and finds himself in exile in his own land.” (King, “I Have a Dream” Speech, August 28, 1963) It portends the overwhelming general sentiment of Black Americans, the glimpses of which are apparently visible in their fictional renderings.

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Initiated with Uncle Tom’s Cabin – and passing through Uncle Tom’s Children to the non-violent philosophy of Dr. Martin Luther King – the Afro-American odyssey explored new paths and trod meandering courses in its progress. Although the Movement succeeded in obtaining some legal rights for the blacks, the widespread dissatisfaction with the pace of development led the younger generation to a more segregationist approach. They were attracted by the aggressive Black Aestheticism of the following decade. It was Stokely Carmichael, with his call for ‘black power,’ that captured not only the media headlines in the 1960’s but also the imagination of the Blacks. ‘Black Power’ was a new awareness of the self, recognizing oneself as the person of pride and dignity, who did not want to be submissive in claiming his rights. As stated by Sterling Tucker, Executive Director of Washington D.C. Urban League and Vice Chairman and organizer of the 1963 March on Washington: For all Blacks, the psychological impact of black power was profound. For too long, black America had been white-washed by the values and standards of the white majority; for too long it had tried to be imitation white. To face and accept one’s blackness, to take open pride in it, at last, was deeply exhilarating. To affirm black is beautiful was itself beautiful. The sudden access to self-respect was a kind of rebirth. It united knots, straightened backs and lifted faces. We identified with each other in a new way. (Tucker, Blacks Only, 24)

It is ironic to state that the cry of ‘Black Power’ which, giving a sense of common identity and shared destiny, endowed solidarity to Black America also produced wide cleavages between the two segments of Black society. The disagreement between the Black American middle class (which unequivocally advocated the ever-sought integration with the white world) and the radical youth (who fiercely proclaimed their own deliberate segregation) ultimately led to a divergence among Black leadership who went into two different directions – namely, the moderate and militant approaches. The former ideology was professed by Dr. Martin Luther King, Whitney Young, Roy Wilkins, and numerous others like them. Conversely, various radical leaders such as Stokely Carmichael, Malcolm X, Leroi Jones, and their disciples carried the latter cult forward. With the outbreak of racial riots in the mid-1960’s, the early enthusiastic and peaceful Civil Rights movement turned into a frenzied, racial encounter in which long-established black leaders were called ‘Uncle Toms’ by the angry radical youth. “White America heard the death knell of the non-violent civil rights movement in the sirens of Watts, [in] the sniper fire of Cleveland[,] and in

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the rhetoric of black power militants” (Tucker, Blacks Only, 37). As reflected in the above observation by Tucker, besides the political implications of the cry for ‘Black power,’ this newfangled ‘self-assertion’ instantly and amazingly transmuted tonality of the entire cultural enterprise. Its most vigorous impression was witnessed in the prevailing literary arena in the form of emerging ‘Black aestheticism.’ In 1968, the young Black writer Julius Lester propounded, “I’m an Afro-American. This implies that I’m an amalgam. It is my responsibility to reflect the Afro side of the hyphen. The other side has been too much reflected” (Lester, “The Arts,” 229). By then, Black authorship had manifested an inclination to submerge and let itself be carried by the tidal waves of the American mainstream. Every literary practice – whether philosophical or ideological – which rippled through the mainstream literature, influenced the Black authorship too. Most of the contemporary trends such as realism, naturalism, expressionism, and existentialism found a place in the works produced by various black artists. But the black authorship did not follow these cults indiscriminately. No doubt, it sought inspiration from the larger American literary conventions – but at the same time, it also probed into the prevalent literary models to scrutinize from where the particular American theme, idea, or figure had been drawn. It can be safely concluded that, in spite of having been started as an ethnic sub-stream, the Black writing was never away from the mainstream. It progressed; absorbing many timehonored conventions. Themes which have been ascribed as [being] characteristically American – themes of the wilderness and frontier, of the effects of a forceful religion on the individual mind, of the explorations of actual and psychological terror, of the quest for personal and national freedom, romance, and cultural security – are the themes of black fiction as well. Stock American literary figures such as the confidence man and the Yankee peddler show up in black fiction too, as do a celebration of the outlaw, the outcast, and versions of the standard American success story. (Rosenblatt, “Introduction,” 4)

Despite accommodating the general American literary characteristics, what makes African American literature remarkable is its triumph in preserving its distinct identity. In the pursuit of an independent African American abode within the multi-cultural American territory, the subsequent phase was a strategic reversal of African American literary expediency. On account of its radical approach, it manifested a discrete shift away from the former trend. The decades of the 1960’s and 70’s were marked with a sharp deviation from the previous integrationist approach.

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The literary protest was flamboyantly exhibited by the renowned authors of this period. Under the caption of ‘Black Power,’ the radically separatist approach became more prominent. This proposed to disengage Black ethnicity not only from the larger world of American literature but also from the funded bequests of the entire western tradition that were conceived to be indelibly ‘White.’ Before this period, Black authorship had never projected itself so vehemently as to present itself as an altogether separate entity – one completely independent of the main culture. The said program was gradually worked out in magazines such as Freedomways, Negro Digest (Later Black World), The Black Scholar, and (of course) in scores of others. Those who emerged as the chief strategists of this insurgency were- the poet and playwright Leroi Jones (Imamu Amiri Baraka); the novelist John Oliver Killens; the ideologue John Henrik Clarke; two other poets, Larry Neal and Don L. Lee; and the editor of the now-defunct publication Black World, Hoyt Fuller. What they put forward was regarded as a radical maneuver, called the ‘Black Arts Movement.’ Larry Neal interpreted its fundamental proposition in the following words: The Black Arts Movement is radically opposed to any concept of the artist that alienates him from his community. Black Art is the aesthetic and spiritual sister of the Black Power concept. As such, it envisions an art that speaks directly to the needs and aspirations of Black America. To perform this task, the Black Arts Movement proposes a radical reordering of the western cultural aesthetic. It suggests a separate symbolism, mythology, critique, and iconology. (Neal, “Black Arts,” 257)

Its major expression had been an aggressive advertisement of the ‘Black Aesthetic’ that celebrated blackness. Addison Gayle conceived the Black Aesthetic to be, “a corrective – a means of helping black people out of the polluted mainstream of Americanism.” (Gayle, “Introduction,” xxii) The ardent proponents of the Black Aesthetics dictated a stringent guideline to be followed by those truly representative Black artists. Any allusion to the hitherto ubiquitous theme of ‘cultural integration’ was regarded as a breach of trust on the part of the black writer who, in a way, might betray the cause of Black liberation. One’s wariness about the principles of Black aesthetics might lead to being unequivocally branded a declared “traitor” to the brotherhood. In one’s non-commitment to the Black aesthetic parameters, one might hurt, consciously or unconsciously, the emotions of the black community. In fact, their travail to discourage and denounce the ‘white criticism’ of Black authorship speaks a volume. It reveals, to what extent they virtually intended ethnic dissociation to occur.

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As Harold Cruse authoritatively proclaims, “Criticism of Negro writing is mainly the Negro[’s] responsibility” (Cruse, Crisis, 182). It ensued that this approach served to detach Black works from White works within the critical community. Moreover, the white critics were divested of the right to judge the works produced by the black authors. The extremist approach of the ‘Black Aesthetics’ was a result of disappointment, anger, and dissatisfaction of the black intellectuals with the white liberalism and a reaction against American hypocrisy. It showed their aggressive and segregationist attitude. Tables had been turned in the course of time. Now, surprisingly, not the white majority, but the racial minority itself proclaimed ‘segregation.’ Despite extensive influence, such maneuvers could not last long. There was a mixed response on the part of both the white and the black intelligentsia. Some of them justified the segregation whereas others disapproved of such segregation – which, having crossed the socio-political realm, entered into the aesthetic sphere. The later decades of the 20th century witnessed the growth of African American literature as a separate canon. But, the endeavor to project art in an ethnically determined watertight compartment, particularly in a cosmopolitan society like America, could not be reckoned as being complete and infallible. In fact, many critics viewed such developments as being quite regressive. In their opinion, it resulted in obscuring the creative efforts of incredibly talented and promising black authors. They might have proved trailblazers in the artistic arena, had their works been presented in a healthy, unbiased and non-prejudiced environment. Since 1960 to the end of the century, no doubt, Black writing had been significantly numerous, extensive, vigorous, vivid, active, and vital. Along with the increasing diversification in literary genres, the role of a Black writer was considered as being somewhat challenging as well as complex. The onset of the post-World-War-II era was promising. It witnessed innumerable works produced by many prolific African American novelists. Besides the Wright-Ellison-Baldwin trio, many other prototypes could be affably traced in the African American literary history. Representative Black authors – viz., William Demby (Beetle Creek, 1950 and The Catacombs, 1965), Owen Dodson (Boy At the Window, 1951 and Come Home Early, Child, 1977), William Gardner Smith (Last of the Conquerors, 1948, South Street, 1954, and The Stone Face, 1963), Julian Mayfield (The Hit, 1957, The Long Night, 1958, and The Grand Parade, 1961) and Chester Himes (If He Hollers Let Him Go, 1945, Lonely Crusade, 1947, The Third Generation, 1954, The Primitive, 1955, Pinktoes, 1961, and Cotton Comes to Harlem, 1965) – exhibited their aptitude with an expressive articulation. Their works incorporated

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immense potential to be rightly harnessed in the coming time. Heading toward artistic excellence, they carefully navigated the genre of African American fiction. Irrespective of critical acclaim; whether or not they had received due recognition and applause; they continued writing. Their efforts, certainly, bequeathed the precious legacy to be wielded by the upcoming generation of Black writers. In fact, all the novelists, who successfully cataloged their presence on the literary canvas after 1960, initially sought inspiration from the rich inheritance of these literary stalwarts. Moving ahead, the 20th-century writers, subsequently, became actively involved in carving a platform to prepare the modern layout of Afro-American authorship. Contemporary Black writing envisages the unique Black experience in a continuum. Although a literary text can always be treated as an individual entity, the historical and cultural perspective of black literature enables one to view the African American textuality in all its dynamism, complexity, and completeness. The wide-ranging critical reviews of African American authorship lead to the better comprehension of the emotional and intellectual growth of the black populace in general and the black artists in particular. As reflected in their writing, their journey corresponds to the struggle of an average black man in his every day ordeal. A Black artist’s experiences are an integral part of the ‘collective consciousness’ of the black community. Despite the individual peculiarity of personal nature and diverse motives, it is their black skin which unifies them. Notwithstanding how far a black artist differs in his external circumstances, inner resilience, individual concern, literary stratagem, and artistic devices, he undoubtedly shares the African American collective consciousness. Black authors, by their complexion, abide by its implication jointly and coherently. Hence, race consciousness remains as one of the essential elements in determining the African American mold of writing. Simultaneously, the Black literary art strives to liberate a black man’s soul from the age-long racial impositions of stereotypical thinking. After 1960, Black fiction has acquired a multitudinous, multidimensional, and multilateral character. Like other modern American writers, black writers also reflect the spirit of the times, the sense of expanded opportunities, and the importance of personal fulfillment. They are also engaged in the distinctive literary modes, which feature a scuffle between traditional and experimental writings. Authors such as John A. Williams, Ernest Gains, John Killens, Ronald Fair, Nathan Heard, Margaret Walker, and Cyrus Colter adhere to conventional fictional practices. They seem committed to the resurrection of traditional realism and naturalism in their fictional world. It is fabricated through the widely practiced conventional

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devices of chronological plot development, reliable narration, and round characters. Parallel to the traditionalist stream, there is another group of radical black authors—writers who pioneer the exploratory element in contemporary black fiction. Ishmael Reed of The Freelance Pallbearers (1967), Yellow Back Radio Broke-Down (1969), Mumbo Jumbo (1972), and The Last Days of Louisiana Red (1974); Henry Van Dyke of Blood of Strawberries (1969); Charles Wright of The Wig (1966); Clarence Major of All-Night Visitors (1969); and Leon Forrest of There Is a Tree More Ancient Than Eden (1973) and The Bloodworth Orphans (1977) constitute the guild of innovative experimentalists. They conceive the world of literary imagination to be something figurative and metaphorical. Their fiction insists on its fabulist creations. It celebrates the fictive character of its constructions. Keith F. Byerman identifies this element in many modern African American writers. To quote his words: Reed uses parody to demonstrate the arbitrariness of genres. Forrest creates extreme effects with stream-of-consciousness narrative, rhetorical intensity, and richness of cultural allusion. Major toys with fictional devices – plot, character, narrative voice, style – in revealing the imprisoning impact of conventional story making. (Byerman, Jagged Grain, 10)

These writers may differ in their approach but aim with equal enthusiasm for using innovative techniques to develop the overall genre of African American fiction. Fictional writings of the three of the most accomplished Afro American authors – namely, Amiri Baraka (Leroi Jones), Ishmael Reed and Samuel R. Delany – expediently illustrate it. These authors are critically acclaimed for their excellent post-modernistic writing. They seem to outlive the traditional stylistics. Their authorship manifests the traces of radical departure from the established modes. It proves an exigent breakthrough in the emotional and ideological impasse of some African Americans. Their works display the latest literary developments and modulations. They pursue artistic goals – but it does not overshadow their impassioned orientations and ideological concerns, which are resolutely African American. The fiction of Amiri Baraka and Ishmael Reed is engaged in the practice of ethnopoetics in which “race” is the foremost concern. Baraka’s fictional mode is chiefly autobiographical and confessional. It incorporates essential rhythms of the black art. Following the psycho-political trajectory, it passes through Black Nationalism to Communism and offers an effective ideological closure. His novel, entitled The System of Dante’s Hell (1965), begins with the word “But”—which indicates the intended departure from the known

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order. Both of his well-acclaimed fictional works, The System of Dante’s Hell and Tales (1967), in the words of Robert E. Fox, are: …an exorcism of the “darkness” of too much whiteness (the “brilliance” that casts a harsh shadow over the oppressed), prefatory to the redemptive descent into blackness, with its simultaneous ascent of consciousness. (Fox, Conscientious Sorcerers, 15)

Reed goes a step further and broadens the black perspective. He emphasizes the ‘blackness’ – but, while outlining its periphery, also includes the multicultural pattern of America. His works are a deconstruction of black literary tradition – and are, simultaneously, a reassertion of the folk aesthetic that has always shaped the form and content of black writing and art. His psycho-aesthetic course opens an avenue for the blackness to reinterpret itself amidst the “multiculturalism” of the modern era. He practices what he calls the Neo-Hoodoo art, the origin of which dwells in Black folk culture and tradition. One of the significant functions of this new artifice is to challenge the authority that has disguised its despotism in the form of ‘Establishment,’ here in the Euro-American set-up (perceived as the ‘white world’). Reed castigates, satirizes, and vilifies the imposed ‘white’ cultural values. He views the dominant society as excremental, repressive, and prone to mental disease. In his opinion, through systemization and violence, the dominant culture has not only maintained its power, but has made it appear as true, beautiful, and natural. It presumes itself to be the only valid voice; the only ‘Word.’ But because creativity is anarchic, individualistic[,] and irrepressible, it continually intrudes itself upon the controlling patterns. It is this intrusion, this breaking of the pattern, that Reed designates the Neo-Hoodoo. (Byerman, Jagged Grain, 218)

For instance, Loop Garoo Kid – the black cowboy protagonist of Reed’s Yellow Back Radio Broke-Down – stands against the oppressive forces of so-called ‘law and order.’ His love for freedom is a threat to the Establishment. The corrupt rancher, Drag Gibson, is depicted as a defender of traditional, cultural, and religious values. Assisted by the power of a mad dog’s tooth that represents the symbolic endowment of cultural heritage and traditional value abstrusely rooted in folk sensibility, Loop succeeds in avenging his opponents and bringing great disaster to his adversaries. Loop’s method of resistance is the power of exposing the repressed, true history of culture and religion.

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Reed’s fictional theme is characterized by the same cultural conflict and voodoo aesthetics. Although the pattern of interlacing it in a structure is at variance, it fabricates the texture of almost all of his other novels viz. The Free-Lance Pallbearers, Mumbo Jumbo, The Last Days of Louisiana Red, Flight to Canada, and The Terrible Twos. As recapitulated by Keith E. Byerman: His fiction consistently operates dialectically: it exposes and denigrates the oppressive nature of Western culture so as to free the non-Western voices which express life and creativity. (Byerman, Jagged Grain, 218)

It is not only the interracial feud but also the contemporary intra-racial strife of the Black community that finds expostulation in Reed’s fiction. He deftly diagnoses it with an intention to look for some remedial measures. His novel The Last Days of Louisiana Red can be interpreted in the context of racial betrayal; revolutionary nihilism, and the stressing of problems; and the quandary of encroachment upon the relationship between black women and men. The projected antagonism of the two organizations in this novel – namely, the Solid Gumbo Works (SGW) and the Moochers – adroitly delineates the intra-racial conflict of the Blacks. SGW symbolizes the practical and spiritual aspects of Afro-American history. It is a meaningful metaphor and a specific structural expression of Reed’s aesthetic, christened by him as the ‘Neo-Hoodoo.’ It “believes that every man is an artist and every artist is a priest. You can bring your creative ideas to Neo-Hoodoo” (Schmitz, “Neo-Hoodoo,” 126). Reed assumes that solution to the contemporary racial problem lies in the racial past. Hence, Gumbo continually leads its associates to the creative tasks and cultivates a historical understanding among them. Against the positive efforts of SGW is set the Moochers, a group which incessantly strives to negate Gumbo’s constructive approach. Moochers strain to co-opt or destroy what they do not understand. Their activities embody the rhetoric of distorted ideologies, which are postulated by their leaders as Minnie and Street. Minnie’s muddled intellectualism represents one way of organizing the Black’s needs and desires; and Street’s “bad n-gger” radicalism represents the other. But without historical understanding, both the approaches are only ego expanders (Harris, Connecting Times, 176). These black leaders become mere pawns, manipulated by the pivotal white conspirator Maxwell Kasavubu along with his associates Nanny Lisa, a black woman, and T. Feeler. These conspirators induce them to hinder the development of historical consciousness, among others. The novel, in its manifestation of the Moocher ideology, evinces the reductionist nature of ‘Black

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Nationalism’ and ‘Black Marxism’ on the one hand, and the destructive alliance between black women and white men on the other. The former is stated so as to castigate and deny methods and institutions like the ‘Black Church,’ erected over a long period by the Afro-Americans to unravel their deceptive problems; and the latter is hostile connivance to nullify potency of the black man. Unlike Baraka and Reed, Delany succeeds in transcending the racial element to a great extent. His enterprise has an apparent “colorlessness” of the technique. Race, though not foregrounded, definitely exists as a factor. Delany’s priority has been to the “texts”; and his vision comprises their “multiplexity.” His works carry the cult of ‘science fiction’ and direct imaginative energies into a futuristic vision. The bridleway is psychosexual, and it expropriates time and space for the ‘Blackness’ to explore unlimited possibilities. Robert E. Fox comments on the panoramic projection in Delany’s characterization: The fact, that many of Delany’s characters are genetically black to one degree or another demonstrates that mankind as a whole has moved out into the universe, not just one race or nation. (Fox, Conscientious Sorcerers, 94)

Reviewing Delany’s works is equivalent to embark on an expedition to the distant and bizarre planets, situated somewhere amidst the mysterious constellation. His diptych novel, entitled Stars in My Pocket Like Grains of Sand (1984), is set in the interstellar context. It ferries the reader to such cosmic time and space that any instantaneous verdict on its estranged projections sounds perfunctory. The novel is an expression of ‘desire.’ It creates a future-oriented multitudinous world. Its multiplexed structure is extensively ranged, so much so that all the distinctions and divisions regarding gender, race, species, morality, ideology, and ethics gradually blur and ultimately collapse. The conventional definitions and demarcations between the male-female, human-animal, black-white, moral-immoral, ethical-unethical, and historical-ahistorical crumble. Emotions and reason are blended to the extent that they transfuse into indistinctiveness. The plot of the novel pegs its two central figures – namely, Marq Dyeth and Rat Korga – into a future world. They belong to two different planets – namely, Velm and Rhyonon – which are located in the extraterrestrial sphere. Both societies have their own peculiar features, systems, and arrangements. Rhyonon destroys itself by its self-generated cultural chaos that can be interpreted in terms of mounting socio-economic pressure and technological perturbation. Rat remains the sole survivor of this utterly destroyed world. However before the demolition of his home

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planet, he undergoes a procedure that is dubbed ‘Radical Anxiety Termination’ (RAT). The said technique involves jamming the synapses, which are used to connect the mind with the GI – i.e., General Information – a system allowing practical instantaneous mental access to all the available data. The GI is invented by an organization named the Web. Its personnel are known as the spiders. It is the Web which instigates a meeting between Dyeth and Korga. Dyeth is an industrial diplomat, a man of learning, privilege, and sophistication – a kind of aristocrat. His planet, Velm, is far more progressive than Rhyonon. Velm practices bureaucratic anarchy, which is socialism bearing the random marks of capitalism. Besides humans, the planet is dwelled in by the ‘evelmi,’ the indigenous half-animal inhabitants. Velm, as well as Rhyonon, has an elaborate code governing interracial and inter-species relationships such as gay, interracially heterosexual sex among humans, and interspecies sex between humans and evelmies. The author, in his visualized interstellar world, frequently refers to these kinds of relationships. He seems provoked by the present-day prejudices regarding miscegenation and homosexual relationships; and demonstrates the consequent complexity of irresistible emotional involvements. It also illustrates the problematic aspect of the future world. He substantiates this phenomenon with striking clairvoyance. It projects that drastic difference from each other propels a complementary predilection. Eventually, Dyeth and Korga turn out to be each other’s perfect erotic object. Life on the planet moves at its own pace. Confronting – and at the same time, tolerating – each other, the human and the ‘evelmi’ cultures seek co-existence. Both the cultures rely on their self-cultivated illusion of ‘peace’ between the races. As practiced earlier, they used to hunt each other; but later, both of them are found engaged in hunting dragons with the help of their radar-guided bows. The dragon hunt, surprisingly, is not a conventional ‘killing’ as would usually be performed by a predator. On the contrary, when the radar bow is fired, it tracks and maps the dragon’s cerebral responses, translates them, and plays them back to the hunter’s mind. The hunter catches the dragon by himself becoming a dragon, however for a few seconds. The author signifies the excitement of an experience consisting in the momentary ‘embrace’ of radical ‘otherness.’ It involves the challenge of completely losing one’s self in an endeavor to grasp foreign consciousness, though for a very brief span. Delany transcends the physical act of two beings coupling sexually. He transcends that act by sublimating it, through the ‘dragon hunt,’ to an almost metaphysical experience of welding two alien consciousnesses. The novel is unique in its futuristic orientation and evinces the progressive element

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of African American authorship. It is striking to discover how the literary journey that started from the sentimental novels of the plantation life has reached a point of unusual experimentation. The new genre explores the potential of science fiction in exhibiting African American consciousness. The spectrum of Afro-American postmodernism has a spectacular vision. But it is at variance with Euro-American postmodernism, against which it is tested. If the latter is stated to embody the “ahistorical” sense, lack of “moral grounding” and delineation of the present reality as “hyper pluralism” (Newman, Post-Modern Aura, 10, 26, 33), its Afro-American counterpart necessarily works in the direction of a different historical sense. It also has a strong ethical foundation and demonstrates pluralism. Black writers do not view pluralism in the negative prospects of multitudes of competing discourses. Interestingly, it appears as a positive outlook of the simultaneity of diverse cultural experiences in an environment of mutual respect and tolerance—in the words of Fox, “a multi-colored tapestry, not just a tangle of thread” (Fox, Conscientious Sorcerers, 9). Nurtured by inexhaustible perseverance on the part of numerous proficient and prolific black authors, black postmodernism has ushered Afro-American authorship into the plausible sphere of immense creativity and dexterous disposition of artistic excellence. Robert E. Fox interprets black postmodernism as: … a simultaneously resurrectional and contra/dictional enterprise, engaged in freeing blackness from the vexations of an imposed history and at the same time celebrating the roots of black becoming. (Fox, Conscientious Sorcerers, 114)

Black feministic writing, which is frequently designated as an offshoot of the wider entity of Afro-American authorship, has also contributed to the overall progression of Black literature. The long lineage of Ann Petry, Gloria Naylor, Gwendolyn Brooks, Zora Neale Hurston, Nella Larsen, Jessie Fauset, and Dorothy West is successfully joined by Toni Morrison (The Bluest Eye, 1970; Sula, 1973; Song of Solomon, 1977; Beloved, 1987; Jazz, 1992; and Paradise, 1998), Alice Walker (The Third Life of Grange Copeland, 1970; In Love and Trouble, 1973; Meridian, 1976; You Can’t Keep a Good Woman Down, 1981; and The Color Purple, 1983), Maya Angelou (I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, 1970) and Notzake Shange (Sassafrass, Cypress, and Indigo, 1977 and Liliane, 1995). Their works have not only broadened but also enriched the perspective of AfroAmerican authorship. They have complemented the black male writers’ creative efforts in carrying forward the inherited black tradition.

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The foremost importance of Black feministic writing lies in the fact that it has always balanced the lopsided scale of an arbitrary, stereotypical presentation of ‘Black Women’ in literature. The superficial portrayal of a black female by the male authors, at times, does not do justice to her image. It neither opens the aperture required to access her inner psyche nor does it reveal the concealed truths of her stratified consciousness. Manoriented literature lacks the genuine and profound understanding of the world as seen from a woman’s point of view. Moreover, these interpretations fall short of the living realities. In patriarchal projections, the female perspective seems to be artificially constructed. Black women authorship efficiently rectifies such aberrations. What is significant in their fictional projection is the juxtaposition of ‘gender’ and ‘race’ consciousness that produces an unanticipated and unprecedented psycho-cerebral consequence. The compos mentis of trussed cognizance generates a trauma—one which is closely observed, minutely examined, profoundly investigated, and elaborately anatomized by the black women authors in their dexterous fictional designs. Their characters become the spokespersons – and they deliberate on the issues of race, color, roots, and identity. Divine and spiritual motherhood; malefemale relationship; black women’s multiple roles; representations of the community as a whole; and numerous other standpoints of socio-psychic structure become the chief thematic concerns in their fictional configurations. Whether it is the audacious ‘Violet’ of Toni Morrison’s Jazz or the dilapidated, derelict ‘Celie’ of Alice Walker’s The Color Purple, the author touches the core of a black woman’s heart and captures the crux of human sentiments. In Jazz, Toni Morrison narrates the story of a couple, Joe Trace and Violet, together with that of an 18-year-old girl named Dorcas. The novel presents a love triangle full of passion, jealousy, murder, and redemption. In the novel, Morrison’s ‘City’ harps back to the Egdon heath of Thomas Hardy’s Return of the Native, which renders human beings merely as objects and helpless spectators. Space, quite alive and vibrating, overpowers the individual—who, gradually but consistently, gets metamorphosed to finally dwindle under the crushing sway of a passionless, omnipotent, and indifferent organism. In Morrison’s Jazz, the organism is named ‘City.’ Here, unlike Hardy, the all-powerful City’s identity is inverted. Certainly, it is not Hardy’s native ground of ‘Wessex,’ but rather an alien land of the northern ghetto. Its irremovable impressions and scars are apparently visible on the personality of a southern migrant. Being doubly uprooted, one turns into a prey. The novel also scrutinizes the male-female relationship – including its deceits, as well as its lasting pleasures. The

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relationships among Vera Louis Gray, Golden Gray, and his father Hunter raise the issue of race and race history. Jazz, the promising music of the Harlem Renaissance, adroitly interlaces different threads of Black consciousness into one fabric. It flows brilliantly throughout the novel and provides unity to the novel’s structure. Jazz promised new freedoms, sensuality and romantic love without lies and without real loss or suffering… Jazz itself gives a voice, expression and a form to the searchings, pains and the celebratory patternings of a historical moment. (Wisker, Insights, 43)

The daring quest of Joe, Violet, and Golden Gray in the novel corresponds to the emotional journey of African Americans in general. All of them strive to reach somewhere, but arrive nowhere – yet succeed in keeping alive the spirit of sustaining humanity everywhere. It represents not only the spiritual strength of African Americans but also the inextinguishable hope that has enabled them to survive amidst such fatal circumstances. Alice Walker’s The Color Purple, unlike Jazz, does not probe into the ‘wilderness’ of spirit subsumed in the Afro-American roots, but rather it empathizes with the trauma of a black woman for being Black and a woman. The novel runs through the blood-freezing realities of a nightmarish nature as undergone by its female protagonist, Celie. She represents the black woman, whose life is defined by her abominable experiences. It represents the agony unmistakably carried by many Black women in one form or another. The torture borne by her constitutes her soul. Her heart is weighed by both gender and race consciousness. Doubly disadvantaged on account of her being firstly a ‘black’ and secondly a ‘woman,’ the protagonist of The Color Purple finds no escape, no hope, no joy, no deliverance – and consequently, no life at all. Her brutally injured consciousness perpetually hovers around – but any salvation is denied to her. The novel concludes with the unburdening of Celie’s soul and her reuniting with those she loves. Celie’s journey parallels the collective journey of ‘Black Women’ and the terrible ordeal passed through by them. Contemporary black feministic writing is chiefly conscious of gender; yet, its racial consciousness is nowhere overshadowed by it. Since it is the ‘color’ of skin along with the ‘sex’ that has always defined the black woman, she carries the juxtaposed sense of ‘being’ throughout. It circumscribes her to certain predetermined roles, which are reflected in stereotypical portrayals of her. Whether such portrayal are that of an affectionate and self-sacrificing ‘mammy’ or an all-damned and jaded ‘whore,’ American literature offers plenty of examples representing the

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‘typed’ black woman. Black women authorship endeavors to break free these shackles and scale new heights. It contributes to the cause of ‘Black Women’s liberation.’ But its scope is not confined to that of merely being a tool for the feminist assertion. In fact, its dimensions are much extended rather than restrained. For instance, The Color Purple, which chiefly concerns with the black woman’s agony and deliverance, also – at the same time – goes beyond it. It is striving to search the Afro-American roots through the missionary work of Nettie in Olinka – a primitive African village – and Nettie’s intellectual effort to explore Afro-American history provides the novel an eclectic spectrum. Its ideological concern is also evident when the author projects the devastating and dehumanizing impact of ‘capitalism’ on the primitive living and culture of the Olinka people. Just as Toni Morrison’s Jazz does, The Color Purple also delineates not only the male-female relationship, but also the color of the ‘human soul’; the Afro-American search for roots; the devastating implications of uprootedness; dubious race relationships; and the ‘life force’ that sustains one’s life. The buoyant spirit that closes both novels on a positive note epitomizes the same spiritual force that never lets AfroAmericans dwindle, even amidst extreme adversities. Contemporary black women novelists have recuperated and revivified the hidden stories of lost black womanhood and have demonstrated how the inherited imprints on consciousness generate inconsistencies and distort personality. Stereotyped images impinge upon the human mind and leave indelible marks through psychological intervention. Hence, their works feature the counter-narratives of self-awareness and prove an expression of true identity. Undoubtedly, African American women’s writing formulates an educated and highly developed discourse marked with an excellent narrative style and a politicized engagement with the issue of ‘racism’ and ‘sexism.’ It alludes to the ‘distinctiveness’ of the Afro-American literary tradition: The use of Black Women’s language and cultural experience in books by black women ABOUT Black women results in a miraculously rich coalescing of form and content and also takes their writing far beyond the confines of white/male literary structures. (Barbara Smith, But, 164)

Certainly, the contemporary African American writers stand in the midst of conflictual forces. Their works represent a complex scenario shaped by different literary trends and ideological orientations. They aspire to assimilation; however, there is an inner urge to realize their independent identity too. They sincerely ponder over the issue of the close connection between art and propaganda. The black artist may ask whether, in the

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presently improved conditions, an artist should protest vehemently (like Richard Wright) or speak in the voice of one writing incognito (as encased in the artistic portfolio of Ralph Ellison). On the one hand, their emotional strivings drive them to take up the themes of isolation and uprooting. They adopt autobiographical genres, recuperate history, and reclaim cultural heritage rooted in the African soil. On the other hand, their intellectual craving compels them to look for a robust ideological beacon to guide the black populace in what they feel to be the right direction. They aim for the amelioration of black people and seem engaged in a search for the most appropriate tenets of ideological representation applicable in the AfroAmerican context. Their ever-shifting concerns with Christianity, Capitalism, Marxism, Communism, Black Nationalism, and the Black Arts Movement (the latter ranging from Realism and Naturalism to Existentialism and Surrealism – and further, to the invocation of the folk element and Neo-Hoodoo) imply a constant and labyrinthine quest to resolve the racial issue. By and large, all Afro-American literary stalwarts act as a friend, philosopher, and guide to their African American brethren, yet remain, in truly detached sagacity, the artists. They unfailingly abide by the historical sense and socio-political goals of the Afro-American odyssey and simultaneously value the creative expression. They also acknowledge the importance of craftsmanship in their artistic creations. The present literary stance is demonstrative of the African Americans’ blended approach. They not only resurrect an artistic disposition but also demonstrate allegiance to a social and ideological agenda. The recent folk orientation such as using jazz, spirituals, cautionary tales, and voodoo in Afro-American authorship is a visible indication of their newly evolved consciousness. They maneuver to redeem their artistic expression from the institutional systems imposed on their writings. Recuperation of lost history so as to interpret the present and visualize the future makes the African American literary art instrumental in reclaiming their rich heritage. Their fiction emerges as a historical narrative of the ‘dark man’ fighting against the darkness. Having immigrated to the alien land, he was robbed of every dream. He would have always been doubtful if he had ever been a part of the American dream. Initially addressed as the ‘Negro,’ he was later given the more derogatory name ‘n-gger,’ replacing the capital ‘N’ with the small one. But he raised his voice—and his retaliation led him to the further transformations. He, as professed by the white world, turned into the ‘black brute’ and then was segregated as the ‘colored.’ His struggle for restoring his humanity continued, and he came to be known as the ‘Afro-American’ – now called the ‘African American’—a wholesome symbol of the blending of both cultures. That

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struggle was a historical journey undergone by the uprooted man who, passing through a long passage of time, became metamorphosed and succeeded in finding and regaining his roots. Black authorship traces the emotional and intellectual growth of the dehumanized man. It also portends how the goal is accomplished through regaining the human status by the black. These writings have, with intensity, corresponded to every action taken in the course of his resumption of a dignified life. Indubitably, African American writing has passionately participated in the journey of the ‘black’ from the anonymity of his past to the constructive formation of his identity. At a glimpse, the journey ranges from fictional representations of potent figurative symbols of endurance, courage and sacrifice (such as that of ‘Uncle Tom’) to reallife portrayals of equally potent symbologies (such as the moment Barak Obama steps into the power dome of the ‘White House’). Plausibly, the African American literary world has yet to witness the further grand and glorious culminations of the black odyssey.

Works Cited Butcher, Margaret J. Negro in American Culture. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1960. Byerman, Keith F. Fingering the Jagged Grain: Tradition and Form in Recent Black Fiction. Athens, Georgia: University of Georgia Press, 1989. Cruse, Harold. The Crisis of the Negro Intellectual. New York: William Morrow, 1967. Du Bois, W. E. B. The Quest of the Silver Fleece. Chicago: A.C. McClurg & Co., 1911. —. “Review of Quicksand.” The Crisis xxxv (1928). Fox, Robert E. Conscientious Sorcerers: The Black Postmodernist Fiction of LeRoi Jones/Amiri Baraka, Ishmael Reed & Samuel R. Delany. New York: Greenwood Press, 1987. Frank, Waldo. “Foreword” to Cane. New York: Harper & Row, 1969. Frazier, Franklin E. Black Bourgeoise. New York: The Macmillan Co., 1965. Harris, Norman. Connecting Times: The Sixties in Afro-American Fiction. Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 1988. Hurston, Zora Neale. Their Eyes Were Watching God. Greenwich, Connecticut: Fawcett, 1969. Johnson, James W. The Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man. In Three Negro Classics. New York: Avon Books, 1965.

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Lester, Julius. “The Arts and the Black Revolution.” Arts in Society, 5, no. 2 (Summer-Fall 1968). Neal, Larry. “The Black Arts Movement.” The Black Aesthetic, edited by Addison Gayle Jr. New York: Doubleday, 1972. Newman, Charles. The Post-Modern Aura: The Act of Fiction in an Age of Inflation. Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1985. Pfeiffer, Kathleen, ed. Brother Mine: The Correspondence of Jean Toomer and Waldo Frank. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2010. Rosenblatt, Roger. Black Fiction. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1974. Schmitz, Neil. “Neo-Hoodoo: The Experimental Fiction of Ishmael Reed.” In Twentieth Century Literature 20, no. 2 (April 1974). Smith, Barbara. But Some of Us Are Brave. New York: Feminist Press, 1982. TenBroek, Jacobus. Equal Under Law. London: Collier-Macmillan, 1965. Tucker, Sterling. For Blacks Only. New Delhi: Eurasia Publishing House, 1972. Twain, Mark. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. New Delhi: UBS Publisher’s Distributors, 2007. Vernon, Loggins. The Negro Authors: His Development in America to 1900. New York: Kennikat Press, 1959. Washington, Booker T. Up from Slavery. New York: Dell Publishing Co., 1965. Wisker, Gina. Insights into Black Women’s Writing. London: Macmillan, 1993. —. Post-Colonial African American Women’s Writing: A Critical Introduction. London: Macmillan, 2000.

CHAPTER II RICHARD WRIGHT: A VOICE OF PROTEST

Life is a quest ardently undertaken, fiercely followed, and vehemently pursued by human beings seeking to know its essence. The artist tours, and takes detours in, the labyrinthine alleys and aisles of life to search for its meaning. His longing is an attempt to discover the significance of lifethrough such a quest. The Afro-American literary journey, likewise, has been an honest endeavor to explore simple human truths in the vast artistic realm. It manifests the collateral growth that takes place with a surprising consistency along with the progression of time. Many Afro-American literary giants have contributed to its development; but in the context of the Afro-American fictional world, the first name that appears in the literary firmament is Richard Wright. He is the colossal figure of the 1940’s and 50’s. Having made an indelible mark on the literary world, he is regarded as one of the representative writers. He has many significant works to his credit. His fictional works range from Uncle Tom’s Children: Four Novellas (1938) to a collection of short stories – along with full-length novels like Native Son (1940), The Outsider (1953), Savage Holiday (1954), and The Long Dream (1958). His two posthumous publications – first, a collection of short stories, entitled Eight Men (1961); and second, the novel Lawd Today (1963), which had been completed before 1937 but was not published until 1963 – are also considered significant markers of his literary growth. His last fictional piece – one that he had begun to pen down six weeks before his death but could not complete – was a novel. After the long span of around 50 years, his daughter Julia revived, edited, and got it published under the title A Father’s Law (2008). Besides this; his autobiography, articles, and other journalistic works (which he wrote from time to time) are considered epitomes of his creative accomplishments. Going through Richard Wright’s fictional works is to plunge into AfroAmerican consciousness. It investigates the oppressed and dispossessed state of the blacks. Such probing lays bare the aching nerve of the person

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who feels compelled to perpetually identify his life with the sense of alienation and rebellion. A wounded soul bears the kinds of deep scars that torment the human heart. Wright’s novels aim to stir sensibilities1 of the White world “with the truth of his naturalistic vision” (Bell, “Triumph of Naturalism,” 154). He projects the stark condition of Afro-Americans determined and doomed by external environmental forces, concurrently posing some valid questions before the racist society. His words echo the rhetorical question: “Is there any way out?” One may strongly hope for a positive answer – but perhaps such an answer does not exist. Wright’s fiction exhibits a forceful retaliation against the external environmental forces as well as the internal fatalistic determinism. His investigation involves a dissection of the human psyche. He questions: “Is it so simple to define the harrowing vision of hostile reality concerning art?” “What may appropriately comprehend the mental state of the victim, continuously tortured by an unjust society?” “Can the traditional categorization of races and classes justify the emotional reality of human suffering in general?” Perhaps, sometimes, words may fail to depict the truth of victimization. Wright strives to inquire a few specifically sensitive issues through his fiction. He is fully aware of the African American predicament, which is chiefly racial. It may be considered definite in sociological terms. But, in Wright’s view, the domain of the said discipline is too narrow to cover the range of such a profound experience. How fragile could human personality become on account of being suppressed by the oppressive external forces that ceaselessly erode its inner mold! In fact, given such abysmal agony, to reveal the aching heart is a matter of great pain and unfathomable insight. The structure of trauma may appear dull, but it consists of many layers in its formation. Wright’s fictional world constitutes the unraveling of a black man’s emotional and ideological upheavals. It tightly frames (within the foreground) the African American, who is mostly perceived as a victim in the prevalent socio-psychological context. Wright’s fiction gives a glimpse into a troubled psyche. The commonplace Afro-American, who may or may not exhibit the simmering volcano of boiled emotions, inadvertently carries around the lava that keeps on accumulating in the core of his heart throughout his life. One dies; and with the physical decomposition of the body, the flame is considered to be almost extinguished. But as long as an average AfroAmerican lives in an American society which is racially conditioned, the fictionally framed, so-called ‘bad n-gger’ is secretly fostered in one black soul or another. It is released when one earnestly wishes to hit society and pay it back. It is that moment of the Afro-American journey in the realization of the ‘self’ that finds revelation in Wright’s inimitable novels.

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Wright’s first novel Native Son was a prominent literary achievement2 in the 1940’s. Searching for the truths of Negro urban life in Chicago, Wright skillfully outlines a somber tragedy drenched in sociological realism. It is the story of a 20-year-old black youth who wakes up every day to an unsympathetic and hostile world. Streamlined into three parts entitled “Fear,” “Flight,” and “Fate,” the narrative shows how racial prejudices and humiliations condition the human psyche—making a person lose his humanity and transforming him into a living monster. Book 1 opens with the raucous “brriinng” of the alarm clock as though opening with an alarming warning of something ominous and unexpected. There is a young Negro boy who lives with his mother, his brother Buddy, and his sister Vera in a rundown, rattrap tenement of the Southside slum of Chicago during the Depression of the 1930’s. His name is Bigger Thomas – and he is informed, through this loud clamor of the clock, of the usual inception of the day, being one more ‘new morning.’ As soon as he wakes up, he begins his day with violence—killing a big, fat rat amidst the hysteric uproar of his mother and sister. “Bigger took a shoe and pounded the rat’s head [–] crushing it[;] crushing [it] hysterically. Abusing it [with words:] ‘[Y]ou sonofabitch!’” (Wright, Native Son, 10). The fear evoked by the fang-baring black rat symbolizes the age-long dread, looming large in the consciousness of every Black American, whose beginning of each day bears the mark of it. It is the same terror that is bound to arouse aggression on the part of an angry man like Bigger Thomas. The socio-psychological forces of the racial society trap a black man’s life. Bigger leaves home unwillingly for a menial job at Mr. Dalton’s house. Mr. Dalton is the wealthy white owner of the South Side Real Estate Company that rents out actually inhabitable housing space to the people of the black community. He epitomizes the dubious capitalist America3 that Bigger does not want to serve yet agrees to serve, as he doesn’t have many choices: “... yes, he could take the job at Dalton’s and be miserable, or he could refuse it and starve” (Wright, Native Son, 16). Limited choices render Bigger like youth to opt for that which (in the back of their minds) they utterly disgust. It aggravates their social and psychological trauma and exposes the deterministic factors affecting the lives of the descendants of the supposedly long-ago ‘emancipated slaves.’ Indeed, Wright creates a fictional character like bigger Thomas with a view towards baring the inner contradiction of American society. Its outer facade displays the philanthropy represented by Mr. Dalton, whose real function is nothing but to exploit the dispossessed. A sensitive man like Bigger is placed in such a society that, despite all its tall claims of the emancipation, hurts his heart and injures his soul. He doesn’t feel home in

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a world of such limited options, where he is compelled to choose that which he never wishes. Giving consent to serve the white man is the last option which Bigger would ever like to accept. However, Bigger accepts the offered job at $25 a week and is introduced to Mr. Dalton’s daughter, Mary Dalton, as the “new chauffeur.” The very first encounter of a black male and a white female foreshadows, within the widely prejudiced frame of reference, the impossibility of healthy gender relationship on account of the existent racial reality. Having been asked by Mary whether Bigger is a communist, “Bigger hesitated. He hated the girl then” (Wright, Native Son, 53). The mere sight of the white girl invokes his ‘hatred’—because her very ‘being’ touches the most tender zone of his black consciousness. It arouses an unnamed and imperceptible ‘Fear’ that secretly dwells in the author’s mind reflecting the subconscious quarter of a Black-American man’s psyche. The archetype of the white woman as a symbol of racial purity poses an imminent danger to his ‘being.’ She embodies ‘white’ purity – but his consciousness identifies her with the ‘devil,’ whose mere presence pronounces death. In fact, it not only anticipates but also ensures the complete destruction of his manhood. The White American myth of the ‘Black brute’ molesting, raping, and defiling the racial purity of a White woman preordains that he be fated for a tragic end. That fate exists in the form of being lynched, castrated, shot, and burnt alive. Bigger may not be aware of it in his conscious mind – but it hovers over his unconscious psyche, irresistibly and without fail. Bigger enters into the white world – the scenario illustrating a dangerous trespassing. Although it is a legally sanctioned and mutually understood crossing of the color line, the figureless danger always haunts such precarious situations. The black man knows by his instincts that, on the other side of the color boundary, there exists an unnamed silhouette- poised and ready to devour the trespassers. Bigger is assigned the task of driving Miss Dalton to and from the university, and discovers the very first day her secret association cum love affair with the young white communist Jan. Both Miss Dalton and Jan try to be friendly as well as on equal terms, but Miss Dalton’s condescending approach makes him even more conscious of his black skin. He hates being made aware of his color. It makes him suspect others and disgust everyone, including himself. Here, one may observe Wright’s two dimensional projection of race relationship. On the one hand, Bigger’s bitter and hateful attitude towards Mary reflects his own discriminatory hatred in the treatment of Mary as a black-white canvas, whereas, on the other hand, the author exposes hypocrisy of the so-called ‘liberal’ whites delineated in the novel. Wright beautifully articulates a black man’s self-

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hatred as well as hatred toward others that overpoweringly governed the interracial relationship at a point of time in African American history. Maybe they did not despise him? But they made him feel his black skin by just standing there looking at him, one holding his hand and the other smiling. He felt he had no physical existence at all right then; he was something he hated, the badge of shame which he knew was attached to the black skin. (Wright, Native Son, 67)

He finds himself an object of fun and ridicule for others. His personality seems to be distorted and devoid of essence by the unsaid disdainful remarks of the onlookers. He experiences a limpid feebleness that disturbs him. He gropes about in his thoughts: It was a shadowy region, a NO Man’s Land, the ground that separated the white world from the black that he stood upon. He felt naked, transparent; he felt that this white man, having helped to put him down, having helped to deform him, held him up now to look at him and be amused. At that moment he felt toward Mary and Jan a dumb, cold and inarticulate hate. (Wright, Native Son, 68)

Self-hatred turning into an indistinct and indiscriminate hatred towards everyone – even toward those who try to sympathize with him – represents the bitterness and distrust experienced by the Afro Americans in their historical experience. A black man can no more trust even the generous gestures of the white world because the history of black experiences has disillusioned him of the promise of ‘white liberalism.’ It explains Bigger’s inimical stance. He neither requires nor aspires for the sympathy of this deceitful world. All of the three, with Bigger all puzzled and uncomfortable, drink and spend time together. Mary gets so drunk that Bigger has to carry her on her way back to the room. And, when he is about to leave, he finds himself trapped in the archetype situation of a black man suspiciously close to a white woman. The appearance of Mrs. Dalton, Mary’s blind mother, at the door makes him seize with a hysterical terror. The ghost-like figure, in all white, staring at him with her stony white blind eyes, seems to devour all his vitality and essence. Here, Wright dexterously weaves the metaphor of blindness in the narrative. Mrs. Dalton epitomizes the blind white world that has always been oblivious to the truth; the quintessence of a black man has almost been invisible to it. It has always interpreted the black reality through blind white eyes without heeding to the horror what such

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interpretation might have generated and how it would have led to unprecedented consequences. In an attempt to save himself, Bigger strangulates Mary to death – and, later, to wipe the evidence off, he burns her body to ashes. In fact, he brutally chops the head off from the body to fit it into the furnace. Wright’s black protagonist reacts to the white racial prejudices quite unpredictably and becomes one of the most disputed fictional creations of the literary world. Bigger exemplifies the white American myth of the “bad n-gger.” But the point which the writer intends to make is that Bigger is destined4 to be so. Since the given socio-psychological forces have never allowed the black man to be different from what he becomes, Wright writes in his critical piece, “How Bigger Was Born”: I knew that I could not write of Bigger convincingly if I did not depict him as he was; that is, resentful towards whites, sullen, angry[,] ignorant emotionally unstable, depressed and unaccountably elated at times, and even unable, because of his own lack of inner organization which American oppression had fostered in him, to unite with the members of his own race. (Wright, “Introduction” to Native Son, xxi)

Bigger, for Wright, is the product of White America which has defined, confined, conditioned, and determined his personality. To Wright, he is an inescapable truth—the man whose ordeal is reflected in his uncontrollable instincts. Bigger’s thoughts validate his predicament, since he is always aware of the emotional burden he carries: “And he knew that the moment he allowed what his life meant to enter fully into his consciousness, he would either kill himself or someone else” (Wright, Native Son, 14). In the act of murder, Bigger discovers his rebirth and self-assertion. It triggers his search for manhood and imparts him a psychological satisfaction. The sense of fulfillment acquired at the first time in his everdictated life urges him to feel the joy of creation of the new ‘self.’ He is overwhelmed by the immense potential of himself: Now, who on earth would think that he[,] a black timid Negro boy, would murder and burn a rich white girl and would sit and wait for his breakfast like this? Elation filled him. (Wright, Native Son, 102)

Having already made a unified sense of the background by exposing the forces and elements that lead the protagonist to act in a certain manner in Book 1, the narrative now provides scope for Bigger Thomas to evolve. Book 2, “Flight” deals with the theme of the liberation of the human soul, and resurrection. The plot of the novel takes a definite form, and develops with the author’s allegiance to structural unity. Although Bigger’s

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development is against all the set traditional, social, moral, and ethical norms, it is an evolution of his manhood from the state of innocence to deliberate indifference– in other words, from self-negation to selfaffirmation. Wright conceptualizes Bigger’s change (from having been a victim to being a rebel) in terms of achieving an inevitable stage of growth. He portrays Bigger’s transition from having been a mere object (being treated willfully by others) to being a willful actor (who is capable of creating his own destiny) as being the growth of personhood. The said culmination shows that the black American character, as delineated by many of the black artists, is both an object and a subject possessing double consciousness. Wright, being an artist, not only treats his black protagonist as an object but also, himself being a black subject, enters into Bigger’s conscious mind. Wright’s black subjectivity5 infiltrates in almost all the black characters he creates. Bigger exults in obtaining the life force out of death that paradoxically encompasses his own self-destruction in its fold. He undergoes an apparent transformation. His mental transition from the helpless, baffled, frustrated, panic-struck, impotent, defenseless state to the sense of fulfillment renders him a powerful man. This new avatar is a neatly crafted, spick and span image. He emerges as a defiant soul; a maverick – in fact, a rebel. He turns into a person who has acquired the dubious ‘manhood’ without knowing the real purpose of it. His rebellion is against the established norms. The author, in his comprehension of the observed transformation, enumerates the factors responsible for Bigger’s predicament. However, the growth exhibited in his new personality proves erratic. It certainly takes him in the wrong direction. One cannot, despite with all the valid reasons for his seeking personal fulfillment, use the end to justify the means. Manhood cannot be realized by means of engaging in ensuing brutality or through indulging in criminal acts. As American racial society fosters this abnormal development, Wright seems to question the sanity of such a social set-up. He suggests that the society needs to know the reasons for such negative human sentiments. It should ask why a man internalizes such a contorted conception of manhood. His protest lies in the negative delineation of Bigger’s realization of the self. He reveals the underlying irony of western democracy. Here, the choice of action is so limited that the unprivileged, in his desperation, is urged by his inner turmoil to commit theft, rape, or murder for authenticating his humanity. Bigger also ascertains the veracity of his manhood through the same channel. He too creates a new world for himself in which his choice of action is enormously expanded rather than limited. He is no more led by and confined by others but rather is free to plan and act as he wishes. He is

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no longer gullible; on the contrary, his artful and astute intrigues are capable of baffling others’ wisdom. Wright seems to present a premise with regard to growing in ‘wisdom’ by defying moral standards. Bigger attempts extortion; craftily attempts to falsely convict Jan; and commits one more murder (that of his girlfriend, Bessie Mears). The episode not only highlights the merciless betrayal on the part of Bigger but also the denial of justice for a poor, innocent black girl, who is killed for no fault of her own. No doubt, Wright’s angry protagonist is doomed to perish. Yet he doesn’t seem to be afraid of anything anymore. The disgruntled and scared Negro of Book 1, who experiences an evolution and enhancement of the personality in Book 2, is – in Book 3 – brought back into the practical world to face the consequences of his actions. The third and last section of the novel, under the caption “Fate,” arrests the unrestrained and soaring flight of Bigger—bringing him down to his inevitable fate. The anticlimactic development of the plot reveals Bigger having been ensnared by the police. It replicates the opening scene of his trapping of the fat black rat. But now, the roles are reversed. Now, Bigger – who had pounded upon the rat at the beginning of the novel – is himself crushed down like the rat. It leads him to the subsequent trial, in which the communist lawyer Max earnestly and passionately advocates his case. Max’s plausible plea explains the social conditions responsible for Bigger’s act – yet Max fails to win sympathy for his monstrous client. Bigger’s journey inexorably ends in the electric chair. He could not have had any escape. The argument of his ‘sociological predetermination’ presented by Max could not reverse the legal interpretation of his act. Hence, he is left alone with a purely personal realization of his ‘self.’ Since society is not ready to listen to his appeal, the reader finally finds him declaring his manhood to the walls of his isolated cell: “I didn’t want to kill!” “But what I killed for, I am! It must’ve been pretty deep in me to make me kill!” (Wright, Native Son, 312)

Bigger is honest enough to see his crime through the lens of Mary’s accidental killing in the beginning of his drift towards crime. He identifies his killer instincts – but the forces that have driven him mad and have compelled him to do so on the spur of the moment remain callous and blind to the traumatic reality of the black experience. Wright artistically concludes his metaphor of blindness in the final words of Bigger. The black antihero’s confession indirectly hints at the apathy of the white

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world. Wright exposes the stark nakedness of a civilized society. Addison Jr. Gayle comments on the concluding scene of the novel Native Son: He has accepted the responsibility for his crime; others remain blind harbingers of death, unwilling to accept responsibility for their many crimes against humanity. (Gayle, “Black Rebel,” 170)

Jan’s sympathetic attitude toward the bereft black culprit and the communist lawyer Boris Max’s ardent legal endeavor to rescue Bigger mirror the author’s ideological disposition. Wright joined the left-wing John Reed Club in 1933, professing his full commitment to the Party. As an intellectual, he was always inclined to look for a logical explanation of human plight. His observations regarding humanity in general, and the black American in particular, aimed to find out the cause of such traumatic realities. There was a consistent search on his part for the practical social and political measures that could be instrumental in bringing the desired change. The Marxist socio-economic school of thought – with its advocacy of racial equality, proletarian sentiment, and a belief in the egalitarian idealism of a color- and class-free society – attracted him. He was irresistibly drawn towards the Communist school. But this was only a transitory phase of his ideological development – a phase that lasted until 1944. Wright’s official break with the Party evinces the black search for an appropriate platform that could truly represent the Afro-American sentiments. His fiction corresponds to various spells of disillusionment in the historical odyssey of Afro-Americans. Wright's career witnessed many broad ideological shifts. Setting out from Mississippi and heading towards northern American cities like Chicago and New York in an attempt to unburden his spirit from the Southern oppression, Wright was finally driven to permanent exile in France. It proved the end of his quest – a completion of the emotional and intellectual journey that had begun with the hope of spiritual liberation. Did he succeed in finding the home he had been searching for – or had his quest merely landed him in a ‘Catch-22’like situation? Wright tries to get an answer in his fictional fabrication. Wright, like his black protagonists, could never dissociate from America. In spite of having felt like an outsider, he realized America had always been and would always be an integral part of his psyche. Such mental alignment finds expression in the intellectual fixation of Wright’s fictional characters. The long-drawn Afro-American paradox sanctions the black to be ‘in America’; however, it reserves the privilege of whether or not to declare him to be ‘of America.’ His sensibility passes through the multiple protean

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phases of emotional trauma and makes him realize his plight. His experience as a black man enables him to perceive the Negro as a metaphor for America itself. Spreading over a vast span of time, American history evinces the development of the American socioeconomic system, from Southern feudalism to Northern industrialization. The black slave is transformed from a rural landless laborer into an urban destitute. Wright elaborates the metaphor further converting the black man into the modern man who finds himself groping for some meaning in the otherwise meaningless mechanized world. The oratorical articulation of the protagonist of Wright’s second novel gives space to such ideological grappling. The Outsider (1953) appeared after Wright’s complete disillusionment with the communist working-class revolution. As he wrote in “I Tried to Be a Communist”: In their efforts to recruit masses (the communists) had missed the meaning of the lives to the masses, had conceived of people in too abstract a manner. I would try to put some of that meaning back. I would tell communists how common people felt, and I would tell common people of the self-sacrifice of communists who strove for unity among them. (Wright, “I Tried to Be a Communist,” 107-108)

The Outsider is a widely acclaimed work of Wright’s in which colorconsciousness and class-consciousness exist side by side; though the former is subdued in favor of the latter. The author ultimately transcends both of them (at least, to a considerable extent) for the sake of the ‘universal man,’ who represents the human subject’s position in relation to the vast passionless impersonal universe. Its protagonist, Cross Damon, in spite of having embraced all the vices of American culture – and despite working as a black postal clerk in Chicago – finds himself an outsider in American society. He has indistinctly identified himself with the unscrupulous American soul – yet remains at the margin of the social periphery. As, his friend Joe remarks, “Somebody said that Cross was trying to imitate the United State[s] Government. They said the trouble with Cross was his four A’s[:] Alcohol, Abortions, Automobiles[,] and Alimony” (Wright, Outsider, 371). The author refers to those four American maladies which characterize the modern American man. Cross Damon, the father of three sons, neither loves nor lives with his wife, Gladys. Having an extramarital affair with Dot, a minor girl who is now pregnant, he is at an impasse. He wants to share his life secrets and confide his guilt, frustration, and shame to someone – but there is no one to listen to him. Each one is caged in one’s micro world and blindly adheres to one’s indented norms and hollow beliefs. Cross craves for an

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outlet. However, the communication – being devoid of love, honesty, sincerity, mutual trust, and understanding –fails. It not only liquidates all possibilities of a healthy interpersonal relationship, but it also frustrates the protagonist’s sense of emotional accomplishment. An individual’s selfimprisonment jolts himself away from the warmth of human relationships. As a result, all emotional bonds crumble down into a mess: He yearned to talk to someone; he felt his mere telling his story would have helped. But to whom could he talk? To his mother? No; she would only assure him that he was reaping the wages of sin[—]and his sense of dread would deepen. Could he talk to his wife with whom he was not living? God, no! She’d laugh bitterly and say, “I told you so!” There was Dot, his sweetheart, but she was not capable of understanding anything – And there was not a single man to whom he cared to confess the nightmare that was his life. (Wright, Outsider, 382)

Cross’s predicament reveals how isolated a man is in the jungle of complex relationships. Hence, from the very outset, the author sets the tense backdrop against which all the characters of the novel are perceived as being mere puppets. Placing the protagonist at the pivotal point of the novel, Wright intensely probes the emotional, moral, and social complications of the interpersonal alliance. The modern man, inevitably, experiences an emotional shriveling while living in a monotonous, a depressive, an anxiety-ridden, an unethical, and a valueless world. The subway accident provides Cross an unanticipated opportunity to escape from his present deadlock. In this accident, the lumped corpse of another Negro boy of Cross’s age and build is mistaken as Cross. Cross aspires to animate the new being out of his own outwardly physical, legal, and moral death. But the invention of an altogether new life is a challenging task. It necessitates a binary movement—one in which he must move both backwards and forwards simultaneously. Quite paradoxically, it also requires remaining static at the same time. It leads the black hero toward an unprecedented realization of the self. But, at this juncture, Cross is also faced with a few uncertain situations that cross his path. He is execrably hard-pressed to answer certain fundamental questions. How can he scale the stability of his existence in relation to the present that is bound to reciprocate both the past and future? The Afro-American quest for assuming a new identity in the American context has also been the same three-dimensional ordeal of the past, present, and future. Having been uprooted, African Americans needed to build the new ‘Past’ through restructuring their folk traditions, myths, and legends in the form of an exquisite Black culture; on the other hand, the invisible future is to be

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charted out with regard to the present socio-political struggle and further implications of such struggle. Given the imminent future of dissatisfaction and uncertainty, they require an extensive exploration of the new ideological imports. At the same time, the prerequisite of the ‘new past’ is always agonizing—since it compels the subject to quench his innate nostalgia forever. As Cross, representing the Black dilemma, meditates: He must sever all ties of memory and sentimentality, blot out, above all, the insidious tug of longing. Only the future must loom before him so magnetically that it could condition his present and give him those hours and days out of which he could build a new past. (Wright, Outsider, 460)

As illustrated above, the Afro-American process of transplanting in alien soil was equally traumatic. However, there has never existed any practical way ‘back to Africa,’ as had been claimed by Garvey. Wright also does not seem to have much hope from Garvey’s ‘Back to Africa’ Movement. In metaphorical terms, Wright depicts African Americans, though freed, as being ‘bound’ to assume their new identity fundamentally defined in terms of its relation to the white world and in America itself. There is no other option except to discover their deeply entrenched Americanness, in all its nuances, over the years. Their adventure might prove thrilling – and, indubitably, be demanding – but they need to search for their identity not only in past African roots but also in the modern American context. Certainly, one cannot exist in a vacuum without any temporal sense attached to realize one’s existence. Hence, with regard to the Past, Present, and Future, all the three elements participate in shaping the African American existence in its coalescing temporality. Cross’s attempt to disengage himself from the past succeeds. He feels inconceivably liberated and almost omniscient in his newly fabled world. But, unexpectedly, the absolute loneliness of his world is threatening. He has evaded his past – but as for what he is heading to or is destined for, he never knows. The course of events leads him to kill his friend Joe who somehow comes to know the secret. Cross cannot afford to endanger such propitious chance to realize his wholeness. His craving to confide – and, at the same time, his instantaneous realization of the imminent hazard of doing so – puts him into a state of perpetual internal combat. No doubt, his urge to live is unyielding – but the burden of non-identity is too cumbersome. Cross, finally, assumes the fake identity of Lionel Lane. He virtually christens himself as being an ‘outsider’ because he doesn’t believe in the laws, values, and tenets of the society in which he resides. His debonair, subjective approach strives to break free from the shackles

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of human emotions. He also attempts to transcend flashes of ruminating consciousness – but his flesh negates his rebellion. He passed the train’s huge, sighing, black engine and longed to become as uncaring and passively brutish as the monster of steel and steam that lived on coal. But, no; his was to feel all of these anxieties in his shivering flesh. Goddamn! To swap the burden of this sorry consciousness for something else! To be a God who could master feeling! If not that, then a towering rock that could feel nothing at all! His life was becoming a tense prayer interspersed with curses. (Wright, Outsider, 508-509)

In the development of the plot of The Outsider, Wright not only adroitly and artistically exhibits the mental conflict of the protagonist but also makes him the spokesperson of the incessantly suffering modern man. He discusses several emotional, political, and ideological as well as philosophical issues through him. Cross’s impassioned utterance occasionally exhibits the color and class-consciousness of the author. As, while overhearing the blue-jazz music coming from the hall downstairs, he ponders upon the Negro fate and the failure of religion to provide any substantial assistance when it came to evolving their own morality: He sensed how Negroes had been made to live in but not [be] of the land of their birth, how the injunctions of an alien Christianity and the strictures of white laws had evoked in them the very longings and desire that that religion and law had been designed to stifle. He realized that this blue-jazz was a rebel art blooming seditiously under the condemnations of a Protestant ethic. (Wright, Outsider, 511)

Wright’s sensitivity to the racial discrimination and his distrust in the religious and legal institutions are quite evident in Cross Damon’s aforecited broodings. He also seems critical of the modern system of political and economic totalitarianism. In a retort to Mr. Blimin, the communist don, Cross argues for his own non-committal approach to every ideology, howsoever idealistic. His strong words exhibit his stance against the prevalent ideologies: Wars, by mobilizing men into vast armies to fight and die for ideals that are transparently fraudulent, justify this drift towards the total and absolute of modern life. Industrial capitalism, whether it operates for profit or not, herds men around assembly lines to perform senseless tasks – all of which conditions men toward the acceptance of the total and absolute in modern life. Implicit in all political and speculative thought are the germs of ideas that prefigure the triumph of the total and absolute attitudes in modern life. (Wright, Outsider, 762-763)

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He declares, “I do not belong to any political party on this earth, and I don’t think I will ever join one” (Wright, Outsider, 764). The protagonist of The Outsider is no longer ignorant like Bigger Thomas, who could be irresistibly propelled to impersonate the stereotype of the ‘overly sexual ‘bad n-gger.’’ Unlike Bigger, Cross’s intellectual awareness and disillusioned perception enable him to identify as well as to comprehend the hostile forces which exert pressure on the ‘self’ of the universal modern man irrespective of distinctions about class, color, or nationality. Hence, he tends to possess the subjective existentialist perspective that allows a person to be a free agent and which makes him responsible for his development. His insightful appreciation of Eva’s non-objective paintings apparently reveals the same sentiment. He comments: “Modern consciousness is Godlessness, and nonobjective painting reflects this negatively.... There is nothing but us, man, and the world that man has made. Beyond that, there’s nothing else. The natural world around us which cradles our existence and which we claim we know is just a huge, unknowable something or other.” (Wright, Outsider, 589)

It is this approach that makes Cross feel elated. While watching Gilbert Blount (Eva’s communist husband and a moral tyrant in whose apartment he stays) and Herndon (his landlord and the archetype of white Fascist America whose racial hatred against the Negro is beyond reckoning) embroiled in a bloody battle against each other, he feels rejuvenated. He cannot resist his hatred for both of the self-conceited, pretentious white “little gods” who each consider themselves as being a creator of man and his destiny. Cross could barely contain his bubbling glee as he watched the bloody battle which man did he hate more? Many times during the past twentyfour hours he had wished both of them dead. (Wright, Outsider, 609)

Hence, intercepting both as the third force in their dramatic dual, he – gratuitously and unexpectedly – kills both of them. Inverting their role and himself assuming the persona of “little God,” he subsumes the roles of “policeman, judge, Supreme Court, and executioner[ – ]all in one swift and terrible moment” (Wright, Outsider, 616). Later, he guns down Hilton, another communist party worker for almost the same reason. Besides, he does not want anybody to pose a threat to his covert crime of the double homicide. The eventual disclosure of his insensible acts depresses Eva, his soulmate, who finally commits

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suicide. Cross, chased by both the police and the communists, is ultimately shot dead by the latter. Whether through Bigger Thomas or Cross Damon, Wright portrays how the strivings of the black protagonist end up boomeranging back on the man, who- in a sense- ends up ‘killing himself’ in the course of his quest towards self-actualization. Nathan A. Scott has rightly pointed out that Wright’s novels reveal the progress “from the sociological toward the metaphysical” (Scott, “Search for Beliefs,” 89). In fact, the metaphysical transcendence of Wright’s fictional heroes carries them out of their sociological reality. Whether knowingly or unknowingly, they cross the boundaries of the concrete world and enter into the arena of a fable of their own creation. Having rejected their victimized state, they choose to tread a rebellious route for discovering their true ‘self’ – but find themselves caught in a blind alley. They wither all alone. They soar to the point from which no reversal seems possible; hence, each one of them seems destined to die. By contrast, standing apart from Wright’s earlier fictional works, the novel The Long Dream portrays the black rebel slightly differently. Its protagonist, Rax Tucker (nicknamed ‘Fishbelly’), grows through the course of the novel’s progression. He does not resort to any metaphysical flight for encountering day-to-day racial reality. On the contrary, the story delineates a scrambling of its black hero within the periphery of the tangible world. What is remarkable about the narrative is that for the first time, Wright recognizes the strength of family ties in the Afro-American combat against racial oppression. The novel explores the father-son relationship. The intimate bond between them facilitates a passing on of folk wisdom and mellow prudence from the black father to his growing son. Its story is set in a small Mississippi town, Clintonville, demarcated into white and black parts of town. Fishbelly’s father Tyree is one of the affluent blacks. He is a pragmatic man who has learned pretty well how to survive in the racial South by discounting one’s dignity and placing socalled high ethics aside. He knows, “I’m a n[-]gger ... N[-]ggers ain’t got no rights [–] but them they buy ... when you have to do wrong to live, wrong is right” (Wright, Long Dream, 273). Hence, he thrives on bribing the corrupt white authorities and exploiting the ignorance and needs of his community members. With the silent acquiescence of the white bureaucracy, he runs many illegal undertakings in the black section of the town. Howsoever corrupt Tyree is, his affection for his son is not conditioned by any assumption. In fact, being well aware of the harsh realities of the world without, he intends to protect as well as train his son. He wants him to learn how to face those

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adversities tactically. Fishbelly, too, shares the same deep affection with his father – but his amateur years witness an emotional conflict about making correct moral choices. He cannot overlook some of his father’s traits that he finds humiliating. The growing sensibility of the child makes him resistant against complying with his father’s dubious ways. Although his father’s ways of living are not altogether hated, the son is torn apart by the contradictory feelings of love and disgust towards the father. He could neither affirm nor disprove the obsequious and ambiguous manner in which his father behaves. It hurts his pride to discover how quickly and unscrupulously his father could stoop to white superiority. The unexpected outbreak of fire in the club cum brothel house, secretly owned by Tyree and his business partner Dr. Bruce, changes the course of events. Cognizant violation of the fire codes results in the havoc of cremating 42 people alive. Though equally responsible, white authorities look for a scapegoat to cover up such a tragic mishap of such enormous implications—and who could serve the purpose better than Black Tyree and Dr. Bruce? Tyree, too, has his trump card ready to resist injustice and fight back the duplicitous white administrative system. In anticipation of such betrayal, he had already buried the canceled cheques paid to the Chief of Police Cantley in some secret place. These bank cheques were the only evidence to prove the covert consent of the Chief of Police and the overall managerial involvement in the illegal operations. Eventually, Tyree is entrapped and killed by the police – but Fishbelly succeeds in enabling Bruce, the business partner, and Gloria, his father’s former mistress, to flee away to the North. Fishbelly’s close participation in Tyree’s last retaliation against injustice allows him to empathize with his father. His growing sensibility enables him to discern the helpless anger and futile courage of the Negro in the dominant white world. After the strategic killing of his father, which one may term a legalized murder, Fishbelly finds himself exposed to all the devouring forces of the racial South. By now his father has protected him from them. But after his father’s death, he realizes his vulnerability on account of his being Black. The sense of his being a natural and apparent object of unrelenting contempt and hatred of the white world fosters in Fishbelly a sympathetic reassessment of his father’s behavior which he had earlier found disagreeable. It was not difficult to understand how powerful his father’s adversaries had been. While fighting against the same powerful racial forces, Fishbelly does not feel scared. The viciousness of the negative forces attacking him doesn’t prompt him to pull back. On the contrary, he continues his father’s fight with the equally matching spirit and smart strategic moves. In spite of being jailed for two

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years on the long-practiced, trumped-up false charge of a black man’s supposed attempt to rape6 a white woman, Fishbelly doesn‘t break down. Outsmarting all the white maneuvers in the disguise of ignorance and passive acceptance of his fate (which the black is always expected to internalize), he is finally released. But nobody knows that this grown-up ‘black boy’ is still at war with atrocities and injustices—or that he is doing so in a more innovative and intelligent way. Fishbelly represents the maturity of the Afro American character. He is neither the same gullible ‘boy’ he had been; nor has his battle ended yet. The same night, Fishbelly leaves Mississippi for his final destination in Paris from where he plans to mail the evidence to his attorney McWilliams. Wright’s naïve protagonist has acquired the necessary wits and enough guts to fight back against his age-old opponent. He is well aware of how much he and his ancestors have been wronged. He is in full possession of his faculties, showing no recklessness on his part—and he claims his right to the final justice. Wright succeeds in conveying the metamorphosis of African American mental make-up that has taken place over the course of time—and how their unique experience has helped them visualize and comprehend hitherto-veiled facts. A constructive craftiness replaces their innocence and they learn how to deal with the world. Although Fishbelly does not demonstrate the sheer aggression of Bigger Thomas or the intellectual aptitude of Cross Damon, he indubitably possesses the same spirit of the Wrightian ‘black rebel.’ His sexual ventures with Vera and Gladys, and the impromptu dissection of the dog reflect the obsessive presence of sex and violence in Wright’s depiction of Afro-American consciousness. Like Cross Damon, he discards the religious eccentricities of his mother. Besides, in a way resembling Bigger’s scuffle with his family, his color-consciousness and feeling of shame baffle his emotional relationship with his parents and Gladys. His class-consciousness results in an intra-group bickering of the kind between Bigger and Gus in the novel Native Son or between Jake and the others in the novel Lawd Today. Fishbelly’s consciousness aptly represents the emotional conflicts and dilemmas faced by the Afro-American every day. For example, while witnessing the ‘Hit the N-gger Head’ game, Fishbelly feels ashamed of his color. He knows he can never get rid of his complexion. It presents a dilemma for him. The author implies that a black man can either reject his color by imitating others’ hatred for it or accept it by overpowering this hatred. The said episode gives a glimpse of Fishbelly’s feelings in the words: Fishbelly felt that he had either to turn away from that grinning blackface or, like the white men, throw something at it. That obscene blackface was

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his own face [–] and, to quell the war in his heart, he had either to reject it in hate or accept it in love, It was easier to hate that degraded black face than to love it. (Wright, Long Dream, 46)

The above episode indicates an inescapably self-pitying mindset that prognosticates the enormous psychological damage of being hated and viewed as an outcast. The distinctly patterned growth of African American understanding of the ‘self’ is quite explicit in Wright’s successive works. Native Son’s color consciousness paves the way to a broader classconsciousness of The Outsider aptly figured in Cross Damon, which further gives way to a more scientific psychological interpretation of human ego through the study of Fishbelly’s gradually maturing mind. The Long Dream successfully carries forward Wright’s steady progress towards maturation. It portrays the continuing process of the emotional and intellectual growth of the African American. If The Long Dream can be categorized as a bildungsroman that studies the growing sensibility of a young black boy in an American racial society, Wright’s posthumously published novel Lawd Today could be placed among the ranks of domestic tragedies. The novel minutely interprets the complications of an intragroup gender relationship and evinces how racial frustration affects the black man-woman relationship—taking its toll on delicate family ties. Lawd Today is the story of Jake Jackson’s spending one ordinary day, as drawn from the set of such days as would comprise his usual prosaic routine. It gives a glimpse of his life as it is, without exaggerating or reducing its intensity. The panorama of Jake’s audacious day captures various excruciating moments of the Afro-American consciousness – living the ritual of each day of lived Black experience in America. Ironically, the day selected for such probing is the 12th of February—the date of Abraham Lincoln’s birthday! But does the date make any difference or add any significance to Jake’s otherwise insignificant black life? Perhaps NO. Therefore, Jake’s day – as usual – commences with the same nightmare. At the outset of his daily ordeal, he is found asleep, lost in his dream world; “climbing,” “flying up,” even “mounting up” whole blocks of steps and steps and steps – “miles and miles of steps” – in the futile attempt to respond to a distant call … instantaneously realizing, “He was right where he had started! He shook his head mumbling to himself, Jeesus, all that running for nothing …yeah, there’s a trick in this” (Wright, Lawd Today, 11). Jake’s life betokens the nightmare of being yoked in the circular motion sharing the common fate of every black man. To quote Roger Rosenblatt, an eminent critic:

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Chapter II Unlike other American literary heroes, black heroes are not pioneers. They may believe that they control their destinies, but they rarely do; most of the time, the whale seeks them. (Rosenblatt, Black Fiction, 3)

Following a cyclic path, they end up where they began. Having been marginalized, they are forced to halt at the outer fringe of the mainstream. The three divisions of the novel – divisions entitled “Commonplace,” “Squirrel Cage,” and “Rat’s Alley” – metaphorically indicate the confinement of the black hero at various levels. In the first part, Jake is shown as being liable for nurturing his apparently dead marital life, which renders him merely the “commonplace,” miserable husband. Either his efforts are futile, or else he deliberately does not make sincere efforts to put life into a lifeless relationship. Devoid of love, trust, and harmony, the institution of marriage seems no more than a treacherous trick designed to eat away the vitality of his manhood. “She was taking every ounce of joy out of his life. She had piled up a big doctor’s bill, a bill so big that it seemed he could never pay it” (Wright, Lawd Today, 24). He calculates how many years it will take him to pay that off and blurts out: ... Sixteen Years! Good Gawd!” Then there were other bills: the furniture bill and the rent bill and the gas bill and the light bill and the bill at the Boston Store and the insurance bill and the milk bill. His eyes grew misty with tears, tears of hatred for Lil and tears of pity for himself. (Wright, Lawd Today, 25)

He must cater to her financial needs – or else she, lodging an official complaint against his malefaction, will take his government job. With a reference to what is at stake, the first part ends leaving Jake to the mercy of his wife. The second part of the novel shows Jake imprisoned in the “Squirrel Cage” of a monotonous, debilitating, all-consuming, and crippling routine task. It is his job as a postal clerk. He earnestly desires to evade its taxing encumbrance (at least for a while): But where? How? All he could see right now was an endless stretch of black postal days; and all he could feel was the agony of standing on his feet till they ached and sweated, of breathing dust till he spat black, of jerking his body when a voice yelled. (Wright, Lawd Today, 118)

Jake attempts to nullify his everyday trauma. The final section of the novel depicts his invented way of doing so through indulgence in a brief escapade. It portrays his promiscuous attempt to seek illegitimate pleasure in a whorehouse. But it, too, catches him in the “Rat’s Alley.” Here, Jake

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is robbed of one hundred dollars – the amount borrowed for paying Lil’s medical bill. He is left with nothing—thus replicating his initial miserable position experienced at the beginning of the day. He hasn’t gained anything, of course; having nothing to be content with – even after such a long day’s ordeal. Jake’s disappointment reflects the self-defeating implications of the retarding day in question; the “Lawd today.” He exclaims, “I’m right where I started!” (Wright, Lawd Today, 212). The day that began with Jake and Lil yelling and cursing each other and he slapping her, closes again with domestic violence. It ends with him throwing household articles, overturning everything upside down, and ramming Lil against the wall – and with her, in retaliation, striking him with a piece of glass. Although the novel is a portrayal of a single day, its dynamics lies in the exploration of three tiers of relationships operative both at the level of the group and that of the mass strata. Running around the gamut of 24 hours, the author observes the entire range of racial and gender relationships. Jake’s horseplay is presented as being prototypical of an individual’s attempt, within a polarized society, to grow. As the external forces control him, he also drastically feels the need to control something or someone to pacify his stirring anger. The power to regulate satisfies his sense of masculinity. It exhibits the baffled and stressed intra-racial malefemale relationship and how the oppressive surroundings invert the victimized black masculinity into the sadist victimizer of femininity within the domestic territory. It also demonstrates how the racial subjugation, discreetly or indiscreetly, augments as well as aggravates the gender disparity and exploitation of the weaker sex. The novel enlarges the scope of the observation within the thematic configuration and shifts the focus from inter-gender relations to intragroup male bonding. At the level of the peer group, the gang of four – comprising Bob, Slim, Al, and Jake – demonstrates the symphony of the equals. The exasperating and emotionally weak black male-female relationship strengthens peer group affinity. Not only can the four men empathize with each other, but they also find it possible to communicate with each other. On the one hand, this provides a vent for the easy release of negativity; whereas on the other hand, it catalyzes the diffusion of positive vibes. Their frustrated emotions are channeled into fun and frolic. Jake and his friends have something in common to talk about. They converse: ‘Old Uncle Sam’s sure mean to his black boys, said Al. ‘He’s got us under his thumb and we can’t rise no higher’n he wants us to,’ said Slim.

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Chapter II ‘You ever hear of a uncle treating his nephews like Uncle Sam treats us?’ asked Bob. ‘Hell now!’ ‘It ain’t in the books!’ ‘It’s cause we’s black nephews.’ ‘You know how come he treats us this way?’ asked Jake. ‘How come?’ ‘Uncle Sam’s sister was raped by a n[-]gger ...’ (Wright, Lawd Today, 132)

Jake’s mockery of racial America dissolves the harsh reality into a light joke to be laughed at by all of them. Perhaps this capacity to ridicule the misdeeds of the past has propped them up in saving their sanity and stability throughout. In their journey against the forces of oppression, they have evolved a resilience which enables them to pass through tough times. Lawd Today, being focused on the individual’s ordeal, does not sketch out intra-racial and inter-racial relations at the community plane. However, one can intercept its fleeting image through the observant eye of the author: Though there were no written rules of segregation, it was generally assumed that Negroes would occupy one end of the canteen and whites the other. However, if a mixture was found nothing was said. But Jake always felt that he wanted to sit with his own race because he did not know the whites so well. He definitely preferred the company of his own color; they understood him, and he understood them. (Wright, Lawd Today, 120)

This racial gap is evident in the day-to day-working environment. It conditions, quite spontaneously and intuitively, the behavior of the people at the larger community level. Whether Black or White, racial consciousness is deeply rooted in one’s mind. People are well aware of each other’s differences. In fact, nobody needs to dictate what to do – since the norms of public behavior are inbuilt through each one’s social grooming. Although Wright’s search for liberation from such a racially defined identity carried him to France, his American roots could never let him break free from the impact of American racism. In later years, Wright lived and worked in the comparatively open society of Europe – a society that never had any apparent color prejudices. Still, his works contain all the significant characteristics of American novels. Whatever he wrote bears the mark of an authentic American experience. The novels produced by both the black and white writers interweave what they believed to be the dominant features of American culture. It includes a violence-related detective element along with the overplaying of sex. Both elements are overtly discernible in the crime story of Bigger Thomas, the gratuitous

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multiple murders by Cross Demon, and the overwhelming sexual desires and the violence of The Long Dream and Lawd Today. Wright’s fiction brings forth the intellectual and philosophical progress of the African American. It is critically acclaimed as ‘revolutionary’ in the sense that it deviates from the set conventional interpretation of the longprevailed black typecasts. His novels highlight those concealed psychological factors which had hitherto remained unattended. These issues had either been overlooked or had been deliberately distorted to validate the complacency of racial society. Many mainstream writers of the earlier generation had been tolerant of the misconstrued images. Hence, his novels aroused a wide range of critiques. Richard Macksey and Frank E. Moorer have rightly commented upon the mixed critical response to Wright’s work: The fortunes of his critical reception could, in fact, serve as a brief history of American cultural dogmas over the past four decades. His intellectual itinerary took him from one ideological resting place to another, from the sureties of naturalist reportage and Communist Party doctrine to existentialist humanism and social Freudianism, and during his last years to some guarded exchanges with African negritude and Eastern intuitionism. While the earliest response to his work tended to be sociohistorical and political, the titles of his writings alone (with the recurrence of overdetermined words like “son,” “children,” “boy,” and “dream”) were an obvious and often reductionist invitation to psychoanalytic critics of various persuasions. (Macksey & Moorer, Critical Essays, 16)

The contextualized critical approaches to Wright’s works might have narrowed down the range of his fiction by fixing his novels in one or the other category at different points of time. However, his fictional configuration is beyond theoretical reckoning. In the imposed categorization, what one may eschew is the quest of his enormously capacious characters that allows the consistent growth of each at both an emotional and an ideological level. Moreover, their development in each subsequent novel facilitates the African American adaptation to the metamorphosed socio-political and cultural realities. Wright’s novels display continuity of the African American experience with the changing sensibilities of the time. It emerges in the form of a distinct pattern in his fiction as a whole. His fiction, leading the African American authorship of the 1920’s and 30’s, is a development over earlier traits. By the end of those decades, the Harlem Renaissance had already heralded the era of ‘new negro’—inaugurating a promising literary career for black writers.

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At the other historical junctures, the Depression Decade and the World Wars, too, had a perceptible impact on African American literature. But, it was not until the spring of 1940 that the fictional masterpiece Native Son was brought out—changing the course of Black literature altogether. Native Son and Wright’s other fictional works proved to be landmark in the history of Afro American fiction. Wright created a new genre that acceded to the righteousness of ‘anger’ in the heart of those who had endured enough of the brutality of an unjust society. He inspired the other black writers of the time to penetrate the psychology of the victim. He cautions the white world how a traumatized subject may turn into a victimizer if the process of victimization is not arrested. Hence, to avoid further aggression, his wounds need to heal. Using his fiction as a surgical tool, he probes into the body politic to expose the source of pain. The mid-20th century period brought out a plethora of writings bearing the Wrightean elements of ‘rage’ and ‘protest.’ Carl Ruthven Offord’s The White Face (1943), Chester Himes’s If He Hollers Let Him Go (1945) and Lonely Crusade (1947), Ann Petry’s The Street (1946), Willard Motley’s Knock On Any Door (1947), William Gardner Smith’s Last of the Conquerors (1948), and many other works like these were dominated by the documentary naturalism similar to that of Wright. Robert Bone, referring to the novelists who followed Wright in the 1940s, aptly states in The Negro Novel in America that they might have thought of forming “the Wright School” (157) of the period. Although Bone’s phrase cannot be comprehended in the literal sense, it is, indeed, doubtless that Wright was a significant influence on his contemporaries. Of course, they all were a product of the prevailing time. Wright, like many others, believed in turning the literary art into a tool to delve deeply into the crude realities of life. As an artist, he indeed believes that literature can be instrumental in bringing about social change. Fiction grounded in firsthand, lived experience is always capable of producing psychological case studies which are more real than those of real-life incidents. The more the art sharpens its edges, the harder the guardians of oppressive society are compelled to reassess the given set-up. They are persuaded to re-examine the system in the light of prevalent brutalities and indecencies. The raging anger of the victim cannot be curbed interminably. It ultimately explodes—emerging as a potential threat to the unjust society. In Wright’s opinion, every social set-up must be wary of the external or internal combustion manifested in the form of anarchic sentiments. Wright’s fictional projections revoked the long-suspended outcry how long black anger could be suppressed. Underneath the feigned acceptance

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or silent opposition of the Jim Crow laws lies a simmering black rage— which is bound to detonate sooner or later. Wright’s thesis explains the violent behavior of his black protagonists—who are intrinsically involved in a ‘double’ conflict: At the external level, they wage war against their society – and simultaneously, at the internal level, the fighting within demonstrates their emotional disintegration. They resemble Wright insofar as they reflect the genuine black temperament. Their peculiar situation fully exposes what Janmohamed calls the “contradictory and explosive nature of his subject position” (Janmohamed, “Negating the Negation,” 295). The range of Wright’s subtext is so wide that his novels, perhaps, stand beyond any categorization. In spite of being oriented toward the unique black experience, they subsume innumerable contexts that call for subtle and multiple interpretations. His fiction is never static. One can easily trace the shifting perspectives in the course of Wright’s literary career. His works, on the one hand, embrace the contemporary literary and philosophical conceptions of existentialism and modernism; whereas, on the other hand, they simultaneously open a broad range of critiques in the light of new theories. The Existentialism of The Outsider replaces the Naturalism of Native Son and paves the way to the Freudianism of The Long Dream and the proletarian preoccupations of Lawd Today. In fact, recent studies indicate that his literary output is even wider in its dimensions than had been hitherto assumed. The posthumous publication of some of Wright’s selected haiku7 reveals that he even moved to poetry in the later phase of his career. It evinces that he was seeking to achieve certain philosophically motivated end goal and wanted to get in touch with elements of Asian literature and culture. Such philosophical drift of his later compositions captures the beauty of mortal life. John Quinn Zheng calls it an endeavor on the part of Wright “to rediscover his more poetic and human spirit.” It is completely in contrast to the stereotypical projections of Native Son and The Outsider, which caution the white world against allowing the hazardous transformation of the “bad n-gger.” Meta L. Schettler also discovers the unexplored potential of Wright’s constructive depiction of human emotions that strives to connect harsh reality with a yearning transcendence. She asserts that the combination of African American history with the traditional Japanese form creates a hybrid transcultural space in Wright’s work. “In the landscapes of his haiku, the world is no longer ‘huge and cold’ but deeply personal and intimate” (Schettler, “Rifle Bullet,” 66). However, Wright could never escape from the nihilism experienced by a wounded consciousness. Hence, his fiction continues bearing the marks

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of a jagged emotional and intellectual make-up. Although the growth of sensibility renders one’s inner consciousness more mature and smarter than earlier, the bitterness does not subdue. His last, unfinished novel – A Father’s Law reflects the antagonism of the son against his law-abiding, Catholic father. It is a story of the Chicago police officer Rudolph Turner. He is summoned by his senior officer to be apprised of his promotion. The authorities – concerned over crime – designate him the chief of the department at the independent municipality in the south of the city, known as Brentwood Park. There, he investigates a murder mystery. The crime is supposedly committed by an unknown psycho-philosophical serial killer. As the investigation progresses, he realizes that his own son Tommy, an intelligent student of Sociology at the University of Chicago, could be the murderer. In the course of time, a newspaper report announces Tommy having confessed to the killings in Brentwood Park. The novel seems to inherit themes from Wright’s earlier works—Native Son, The Outsider, and The Long Dream. On the one hand, it projects a stressed father-son relationship; on the other hand, the racial undertone invokes black violence. Despite being fortunate in terms of materialistic and educational advantages, the protagonist of the novel – Tommy – retains the personality traits of Bigger Thomas and Cross Demon. To quote Jerry W. Ward Jr.: For some readers, A Father’s Law may appear to be a rewriting of The Long Dream. Others, focusing on Tommy’s character, will find [in A Father’s Law] the long song of yearning [present] in The Outsider. (Ward, “Blueprints,” 116)

Joyce Ann Joyce’s excellent review of Wright’s last novel exhibits the likely reasons for why it invited a widely critical response including from feminist, psychoanalytic, reader-response, and (the new) historical perspectives. It instantly persuaded critics to perform a close reading of “the ambiguities and irony in the work” (79-80). In fact, while critics placed it in the succession of Wright’s novels, its ideas were actually found to be closely connected with those of its predecessors and, hence, the novel was aptly regarded as being an important link in the chain of the author’s thoughts. The ethical and moral probing of the black father-son relationship that Wright initiated with Tyree Tucker and Fishbelly in The Long Dream now becomes more delicate, vulnerable, and complex with Ruddy Turner and his nineteen-year-old son Tommy in A Father’s Law8. Perhaps it reveals the visible and invisible scars of the black cognition abort the possibility of a healthy intra-racial relationship.

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Wright’s novels are, indeed, an emotionally charged rendering— spurting out from the volcanic heart of a black apostle. His black rebel protagonists, stepping onto the literary dais, take the stage to defiantly announce what it means for them to be a black in America. Their attitude and behavior create psychosomatic images which represent the cerebral constitution and human responses of a dispossessed victim. Wright’s fictional works picture the multidimensional truth of the Afro-American experience – an experience that comprises myriad shades of grey. It encompasses an ambivalence of being placed in the middle of two different cultures; the sadistic masochism of an oppressed black man; the subdued role of black women; self-hatred and emotional exhaustion; the helpless anger of the marginalized; the fallacy of the American democratic façade; the moral and religious hypocrisy of certain institutional authorities, and their failure to sustain black dignity; and many more such passionate enquiries. Wright’s articulation is a voice of protest that transcends class, color, and community barriers and speaks for everyone who is dispossessed. His black protagonist is suffocated and oppressed to the extent of living a constant ordeal. Some of his characters are deliberately imparted psychologically challenged perspectives that instantly call into question long-celebrated American democratic ideals. Wright fiction plays out the irony of being ‘human’ in an inhumane world.’

Notes 1

Wright’s non-fictional works strongly support his fiction. During the first five years of the 1950s, he delivered a series of lectures – in many European countries – on racial and colonial issues. These were later compiled in the essay collection titled White Men Listen! (1957). The said work aimed to stir the conscience of the whites and compelled them to ponder the gravity of the racial and colonial problem. In a similar vein, his visit to the Gold Coast, Ghana in 1953 resulted in the publication of Black Power (1954) – and two years later, his experiences while attending the first Afro-Asian Summit Conference in Bandung, Indonesia, precipitated into ink in the form of The Color Curtain (1956). 2 Native Son was a great novel by Wright, who, by then, had been merely a lesserknown African American author. The book experienced unprecedented sales as soon as it got published. However, while seen in the light of the award-winning acknowledgments accorded to the other literary works of the time, the glory Wright’ novel received was comparatively diminished. The book was sandwiched between two great works by well-known mainstream white authors of established reputation. Perhaps the publication of Grapes of Wrath (1939) by John Steinbeck a year before the release of Wright’s novel, and the publication of For Whom the

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Bell Tolls (1941) by Hemmingway a year after Wright’s novel, arrested the literary reception of Native Son (1940) to a considerable extent. 3 Mr. Dalton symbolizes an American capitalism that veils racial oppression in the cloak of white philanthropy whose underlying aim is to defend its own ‘democratic’ façade. One may observe how Mr. Dalton, on the one hand, exploits the black community and on the other hand, gives back some of the ill-earned profits and donates the money to uplift impoverished blacks. His character divulges the duplicity of American capitalism. 4 There is an interesting etymological connection in the naming of Wright’s protagonists. It signifies the implications of the given social set-up. Wright’s short story “Big Boy Leaves Home” (Uncle Tom’s Children, 1938) portrays a young black boy along with his friends caught in an apocalyptic situation: He and his friends are charged with defiling racial purity, symbolized by the white woman. In the story, Big Boy’s friend Bobo is unfortunately caught by the mob, and his body is subsequently dismembered – but Big Boy somehow manages to escape. Bigger, the protagonist of Native Son, may be called the direct descendent of Big Boy. What Wright seems to signify is that with the evolution of thought, Big Boy becomes Bigger – and, if racial conditions do not improve, Bigger may take a more monstrous form … perhaps the most aggressive form of all: ‘Biggest’ (an imaginary name). It is reflected in the inherent tension in the name of Wright’s another protagonist Cross Damon (‘Cross’ versus a homonym of ‘Demon’) who appears in his novel The Outsider. Wright’s message appears to impart caution about how static social conditions lead to the distortion of the human psyche as well as personality, which might endanger the whole establishment. 5 Wright’s autobiography, entitled Black Boy (1945), is also an exemplar of blending subjectivity with its fictional components. The scheme works out as a part of a structured narrative. Wright has given an artistic treatment to the personal element of that narrative. He illustrates the black artist’s stand/stance as being the subject as well as an object. It is a characteristic feature which is significantly discernible in all of his fictional works. 6 The episode reminds the reader of a similar situation involving Bigger (Native Son) – who also, accidentally, finds himself trapped with Mary in the same room at the odd night hour and who likewise fears being potentially charged as a rapist. Wright creates the archetypical situation of ‘the black man who is close to the white woman.’ He artistically weaves the episode to bring out the stereotypical image of the black used by the racial society as justification for his annihilation. The black man, portrayed in his brute primitive force, is always defined as a defiler in relation to the white woman. However, Unlike Wright’s native son, who reacts to the situation in an unexpectedly aggressive manner (leading ultimately to his metaphysical flight), Fishbelly’s false ensnaring aims to concretely picture the oppressive operational machinery in the broader context. And, later, it manifests that this time, the smart black hero’s flight is not a metaphysical one but rather, on the contrary, is a pragmatic one. 7 Haiku is a Japanese form of poetry. Wright’s haiku show the influence of Japanese aesthetics and Zen philosophy. Wright seems to believe in the dictum that the beauty of life lies in its perishability. It is the enlightenment of being in the

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state of nothingness. This is a process of “metanoia” (Zheng, 129) – a real knowledge of the spiritual or transformational change in one’s being. 8 Wright was writing A Father’s Law during the six-week period near the end of his life. It was published by his daughter and literary executor Julia Wright on a date marking the centennial of his birth in 2008. The novel is regarded as being an ambitious psycho-thriller with a racial undertone. Its publication was received as a great opportunity – and a refreshing experience – to hear Wright’s voice after almost half a century. However, the novel seems incomplete in its multifarious projections. Its protagonist appears as the direct descendent of Native Son and The Outsider but does not concretely conclude the black odyssey which Wright had undertaken with his first fictional creation, Bigger Thomas. Perhaps Wright’s untimely demise left his quest incomplete. It might have reached its culmination if he had gotten the chance to produce the final draft of his last novel. Be that as it may, the novel has been hailed as “a prescient examination of the generational and class conflicts that await black Americans as they move from the margins of society into the cultural mainstream” (Washington Post).

Works Cited Bell, Bernard W. “Richard Wright and the Triumph of Naturalism.” In The Afro American Novel and Its Tradition. Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1987. Bone, Robert. The Negro Novel in America. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1965. Gayle, Addison Jr. “The Black Rebel.” In The Way of the New World: The Black Novel in America. Garden City, New York: Anchor Press, 1975. Janmohamed, Abdul R. “Negating the Negation: The Construction of Richard Wright.” In Richard Wright; Critical Perspective Past and Present, edited by Henry Louis Gates Jr. and K. A. Appiah. New York: Amistad, 1993. Joyce, Joyce Ann. “Richard Wright’s A Father’s Law: Intellectual Growth and Literary Vision.” Drumvoices Revue 16 (2008): 1-2. Macksey, Richard, and Moorer, Frank E., eds., Richard Wright: A Collection of Critical Essays. Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey: PrenticeHall, 1984. Rosenblatt, Roger. Black Fiction. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1974. Schettler, Meta L. “The Rifle Bullet: African American History in Richard Wright’s Unpublished Haiku.” Valley Voices: A Literary Review 8, no. 2 (Fall 2008). Scott, Nathan A. “Search for Beliefs: Fiction of Wright.” University of Kansas City Review 15, no. 2 (November 1953).

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Ward, Jerry W. Jr. “Blueprints for Engagement: A Retrospective on the 2008 Richard Wright Centennial.” The Southern Quarterly, 46, no. 2 (Winter 2009). Wright, Richard. “How Bigger Was Born”—Introduction to Native Son. New York: Perennial, 2003. —. “I Tried to be a Communist.” In The God That Failed, edited by Richard Crossman. New York: Harper & Bros., 1949. —. “I Bite the Hand that Feeds.” The Atlantic Monthly 165, no. 6 (June 1940). —. “Big Boy Leaves Home.” Uncle Tom’s Children. New York: Harper and Row, 1965. —. White Man, Listen! New York: Doubleday, 1957. Zheng, John Quinn. “Zen in Richard Wright’s ‘I Am Nobody.’” The Explicator 68, no. 2 (Taylor & Francis, 2010).

Website Wright, Richard. A Father’s Law. New York: Harper Perennial, 2008. Accessed May 24, 2018. https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/2548767.A_Father_s_Law

CHAPTER III RALPH ELLISON: AN EPITOME OF EQUILIBRIUM

The Afro-American literary tradition is nurtured by many talented writers who contribute towards enunciating the African American experience in a continuum. In its artistic and pluralistic filigree, this rich tradition has efficaciously exhibited a legacy of forceful literary articulation worked out to give voice to the dispossessed and disinherited. At the same time, it is also multi-dimensional in its interlacing artistry and gives space to the unlimited dynamism of the artist as an experimenter. The African American artist is both the subject and object of the ensuing inquiry. Hence, he aims to bring out the historical wrongs and takes a deliberate stand against the operative establishment. And, literature being instrumental in the process, he – tossing the gauntlet – openly throws a challenge to the controlling agencies of power machinery. With the transformed realities, the prevailing socio-political conditions do not remain the same—which alters the position taken by the African American artist. Black fiction chronicles all the nuances of the African American experience. In the long chain of African American literary executors, Ralph Ellison is considered to be the most gifted successor of Richard Wright. Ellison, undoubtedly, carries forward the inherited tradition of protest – but with a marked departure from the established practice. His creative divergence reflects his literary independence from his predecessors. Unlike Wright, who vehemently raises the voice of protest, Ellison – his most eligible heir – prefers to assume a more balanced approach. No doubt, Ellison’s fiction further intensifies the AfroAmerican protest; nevertheless, it does so from a very different standpoint. His fiction provides space for an altered mode of retaliation—one which includes both condemnation and self-appraisal, together, for an objective artistic take on the prevailing American situation. With a discreet disposition, he highlights the false appearances, deceptive personas, painful ironies, and hypocrisies of racism-ridden American society; and highlights how these elements somewhat imperceptibly comprise the

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underlying fabric and structure of that society. Interestingly, he does so in such a gentle, amusing, and artistic manner that one receives the blow with not much reluctance. In fact, the gentle force of the assault is so irresistible that the receiver is compelled to ponder upon the priorities and the reality thus exposed. Ellison doesn’t have many fictional works to his credit; however, whatever he has penned down is artistically unrivaled. Acclaiming the single complete novel Invisible Man (1952) and the fragment of his unfinished fictional piece Juneteenth (1999), he enjoys a distinguished place in the literary arena. Although he could not produce the second masterpiece, matching the greatness of his first novel Invisible Man, he successfully brought out two non-fiction prose collections Shadow and Act (1964) and Going to the Territory (1986). His short stories are compiled under the title “Flying Home” and Other Stories (1996). What he could not finish shaping in his lifetime was collected, organized, and published posthumously by his literary executor, John Callahan. In comparison to the other renowned black authors, Ellison's literary output is scanty; nevertheless, it is worth admiring1. His fictional and non-fictional prose gave a new direction to the Afro-American literary quest. Out of all the literary renderings by Ellison, Invisible Man is regarded as being his monumental work as well as being one of the great classics of African American literature. Navigating through the collective AfroAmerican experience, it persuades the reader to participate in the spiritual odyssey of its incognito black protagonist who, at the beginning of the narrative, declares: “I am an invisible man” (Ellison, Invisible Man, 3). The very first line of the Prologue declares his plight and projects the central idea of the novel. The rest of the work is the development of the theme mentioned above. The novel engages with the Afro-American’s invisibility2 in American society; and the narrator-hero, having announced his inconspicuousness, further elucidates: “... I am a man of substance, of flesh and bone, fiber and liquids – and I might even be said to possess a mind. I am invisible … simply because people refuse to see me.” (Ellison, Invisible Man, 3)

In fact, the problem is not with the black hero but, on the contrary, with the spectator—the white world. The African American has sailed through more than 300 years of American history. He has contributed equally, shoulder to shoulder, to the building of America3. Still, the black hero finds himself surprisingly unnoticed—since nobody intends to see him. Nor does anybody bother to take pains to see him. The author subtly implies how, for centuries, Blacks have put their labor into building the

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great nation which, in turn, reciprocates with an indifferent thanklessness— seemingly in mockery of his diligence. The credit of the American growth and development, to a great extent, goes to the African Americans. Still, their existence is negated. Despite their valuable contributions to American prosperity, their role goes either unacknowledged or unrewarded. Hence, the metaphor of invisibility becomes more relevant. It constitutes the cruel irony of the invisible man’s life. The confession is, indeed, tragic but true. The Afro-American existence – as it is made to happen by the socio-political, economic, and cultural forces of America – is censured by the white world as being a morbid reality that they would rather forget. In fact, the White world prefers to obliterate it. So, when a disinherited soul attempts to draw attention to the fact through the direct address, “Look! I, too, exist like a neglected lone island in the sea of the American prosperity,” his persecutors eye him suspiciously. They turn crazy and, becoming annoyed, either look askance at him or shout at him—commanding him to remain at his place. Yet to him, their delirium means nothing but a negation of his claim to be seen. They react just as the tall blond man, who comes across the narrator at the beginning of the novel Invisible Man, responds. He looks insolently out of his blue eyes and curses the narrator when he accidentally bumps into him. For a considerably long historical period, the Afro-Americans have gulped down such apathetic attitudes of the whites. But this time, Ellison’s black hero, though lacking inborn violence, kicks the arrogant sleepwalker hard to make him realize whose error it is. In his view, it is the fault of the one who evades the black man’s presence through deliberate blindness. The ‘Prologue’ of the novel shows that the invisible man is actually in a state of ‘hibernation.’ Well aware of his invisibility, he stays in an isolated, underground hole-cum-home illuminated by 1,369 small filament bulbs—pilfering electricity from the Monopolated Light and Power. The act of stealing gives him a psychological satisfaction. He steals – though what he takes is a negligible fraction of the company’s power. Nevertheless, stealing from the platter of the capitalist profit is a daring task strategically accomplished by him. He applauds his courage for successfully catering to the need for light—and experiences a sense of self-fulfillment in its acquisition. The invisible man proclaims, “Nothing, storm or flood, must get in the way of our need for light and ever more and brighter light. The truth is the light and light is the truth” (Ellison, Invisible Man, 7). Ellison’s words echo the Keatsian sublimity that places the condemned act of the black hero on a high altar. Ellison claims that stealing, in response to having been stolen from throughout the centuries, is a form of restorative justice. It symbolizes a black hero’s attempt to

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snatch what is due to him from the ‘mono’ means the ‘one’ concentrated source of power, accumulated through years of ‘monopolated’ indicating the homonym ‘manipulated’ tactics by the agents of ‘power.’ What the author intends to show through the episode is the irony of Black life. The ardent craving for light echoes a desire for visibility. It highlights the ever-felt need that is always existing in the subconscious – especially on the part of one who has been confined to the murky underworld from time immemorial. How long may he stay in the nebulous world? Irrespective of the advantages and disadvantages of the invisibility, ultimately he aspires just to be seen and to be identified. The persona of the invisible man becomes representative of the sidelined African American identity – and his quest for the light turns into the never-ending race of the Afro-American group. His speech mocks the declaration of an old agenda. It consists of the hitherto-overlooked needs of a distinct cultural group. And I love light. Perhaps you’ll think it strange that an invisible man should need light, desire light, love light. But maybe it is exactly because I am invisible. Light confirms my reality, gives birth to my form. (Ellison, Invisible Man, 6)

A perpetual eclipse of one’s personality erodes the sense of being— subjecting the individual to spasmodic ‘oblivion.’ A person’s constant apprehension of losing himself in the formlessness of the surrounding blackness puts him into a state of schizophrenia. Hence, Ellison’s protagonist, also addressed as Jack-the-Bear4, is determined not to lose himself in a state of “hibernation.” On the contrary, he ensures hyperactivity in the coming years. With such smart intentions, he has “illuminated the blackness” of his “invisibility” – and “[v]ice [v]ersa” – (Ellison, Invisible Man, 13) to assume an altogether new identity after the termination of his dormant stage. The narrative of Invisible Man spans 25 chapters, spinning out twenty years of its protagonist’s “Black” experience. It evolves, recapitulating the African American quest for the realization of ‘selfhood.’ The author craftily alludes to the numerous misadventures of the narrator and constructs an episodic plot to fulfill his purpose. Each episode, creating a symbolic situation, turns into a subtle comment on the specific phase of Afro-American emotional and intellectual growth. Every episode, imparting a peculiar impression, is complete in and of itself. The narrative highlights the author’s standpoint on each issue presented successively in the course of its development. Ellison artistically manipulates the protagonist to show him in confrontation with the establishment. He

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comes across emblematic historical and cultural situations which African Americans have passed through in the process of their identity formation. It facilitates the black hero’s emotional and intellectual development through a series of stages of disillusionment. He, thereby, materializes his advancement with an increasing level of confidence. Each situation is conceived and dexterously designed to expose the inherent falsity of the well-propagated lies of the repressive society and the prevalent misconceptions that strengthen those deceits. The author interlaces many sub-stories and creates the representative characters to delineate the African American journey over those shifting positions that have been taken by them at different historic moments. The inception of the narrative stages the onset of a journey from ignorance to enlightenment. The anonymous protagonist sets out as a callow black youth who studies in a reputed Southern school—one exclusively meant for blacks and regularly funded with generous endowments by wealthy white trustees of the North. As the stereotyped harmlessly ‘obsequious N-gger,’ he visualizes black survival in terms of silent subservience to the white superiority. Here, the author obliquely hints at a pattern of black adjustments in the American society. Symbolically signified, Ellison’s hero aspires to be another Booker T. Washington, the well-known founder of the ‘Conciliatory approach’ in African American leadership5. Following the integrationist approach, Ellison’s naive hero deliberately keeps his eyes shut to the ‘Not Worthy to be Seen’-type truths; and he firmly believes in the ‘White Lies.’ There, he is exposed to various rituals and taboos of the white America—ones devised to reinforce humiliation, affirmation, and reconfirmation of the subhuman status of the blacks. Belonging to the historically uprooted, psychologically wounded, and subsequently dehumanized group, he cannot easily recast his cultural heritage. The absence of required resources makes such an endeavor almost impossible. He has no agency to turn to for support of his more humane and rational revision. There is no source available for his revitalization. So, he adapts himself to the given external reality since “There was nothing to do but what we were told (Ellison, Invisible Man, 21).” The “Battle Royal” fight is one of the fighting rituals that college boys are made to endure for the entertainment of the White audience. It follows the custom of blinding all the black participants with a cloth strip. They are compelled to stay and continue the bout in the ring until brutally wounded and finally acceding to defeat. Such an inhuman practice signifies the white conspiracy to incite a gratuitous intra-group bickering among the Blacks for the amusement of the white world. It is a well-

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planned strategy to reduce the helpless black to the indignity, self-hatred, and shame associated with his sub-human status. Similar is the manipulated action of coaxing them to grapple with the coins, crumpled bills, and fake gold pieces on an electrified rug. Such tricks played render the partakers contorted in pain and shock. In the hope of obtaining the chance for a public oration as a reward for his submissive efforts, the simple-minded, invisible man hysterically participates in these acts. In fact, he becomes champion in a combative bout of wrestling. Seizing the opportunity of his victory, he delivers his ceremonial ‘conciliatory’ concession speech – doing so, however, only to be mocked at by the grinning audience. Irrespective of the underlying humiliation implicit in the whole set of histrionics, the black hero ultimately succeeds in winning the approval of the white world. His victory is chiefly subject to his docile persona that complies with all the set norms of the desirable ‘gullible ngger,’ one of the favorites of the white world. As a token of endorsement of his acknowledged identity, he is awarded a briefcase with instructions advising him regarding the need to fill it with many more such credentials and testimonials of white approval in future. Because of his agreeable performance, Dr. Bledsoe, the black college president, chooses him for the task of escorting the influential white trustee guest Mr. Norton and driving him strictly on and around the beautiful campus. It was a planned junket, as the authorities wanted to present a glossy picture of the development and advancement of the black community to the sponsor. They were well aware that it could provide them further opportunity to avail themselves of his financial generosity as usual. But, the unfortunate adrift leads the innocent protagonist to drive the trustee down to a majority lower-class Negro section – The Forbidden Territory. The ingeniously tricky author makes the naive hero instrumental in exposing the filth of the Negro ‘reality’ in contrast to the imaginary philanthropist’s white ‘idealism.’ Mr. Norton, as represented in the words of the author, is the fictionalized impersonation of white generosity. He is described as: A Bostonian, smoker of cigars, teller of polite Negro stories, shrewd banker, skilled scientist, director, philanthropist, forty years a bearer of the white man’s burden, and for sixty [years] a symbol of the Great Traditions... (Ellison, Invisible Man, 37)

The great white demigod accidentally confronts with all the muck and mud which the democratic US has bestowed upon the Southern blacks. They are bound to live in this reality. He is exposed to what he could not afford to see—since it represents the reality of how cruelly racism has, in

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actuality, impinged upon the life of a southern Negro. How could the selfrighteous white benefactor be expected to view these stark realities – and that, too, in their naked form? Meeting with a morally degraded subhuman Negro named Trueblood (who had been guilty of incest with his daughter) is like a bombshell to Mr. Norton. And, the northern philanthropist, who boasts of his status as the white father of his black protégé, is deliberately made to hear about the gruesomeness of the blatant immorality of a despicable act. It arouses nausea in him. He could not keep standing on his feet and asks for some stimulant. The artless unsophisticated escort, in his whole endeavor to rescue his godfather from plunging into depression, further drives him to the ‘Golden Day’ – a sporting and gambling house for black bourgeois veterans. In spite of being relieved from his dumbfounded state, the godfather plunges deeper into it—as he finds himself face to face with black bedlam and lawlessness. The place symbolizes complete chaos and anarchy in the dark world. Crowded with junkies, and within which the only pervasively acknowledged virtue is that of ‘violence,’ the hidden black world comes into light. Since ‘violence’ is the only trait the blacks have been exposed to for years (whether as ‘former slaves,’ or later in their ‘emancipated servitude’), they have been at risk of internalizing it. It is another major shock to the sophisticated white father, who has always imagined there being a close, affable connection between his destiny and their own. Here, Ellison symbolically presents a glimpse of ‘Hell’ which stands in complete contrast to the white benefactor’s imaginary conception of ‘Heaven,’ what he thinks as God (the White Father) he has created for Blacks. However, contrary to his expectations, there exists a ‘Hell’ like place, which ironically is also the benefactor’s own making (a byproduct of racism) and that Ellison wants the white benefactor to fully understand and take responsibility for. Mr. Norton, through his reliable sources, has been convinced of the continuous refurbishment of the black life. But shaking him out of his dream, this accidental encounter takes him to face the opposite. All of a sudden, Mr. Norton turns into a meaningful signifier. His jolt represents white disillusionment—and the bewilderment of the experience is beyond reckoning. Consequently, the promising hero is dismissed for his innocent crime of showing what should not be shown. Indeed, neither does the white well-wisher ever wish to see it, nor does a black parasite like Dr. Bledsoe want to show what his benefactor does not desire to see. The author criticizes obliquely the attempt of deliberately shunning the stark realities on the part of both the black and white representatives, who intend to present only a rosy picture of racial uplift.

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The first forceful blow to his ambition is quite painful for his sensitive soul. In the whole episode, he is tricked not only by fate but also by the hostile ways of the world. However, he cannot afford to stop with such initial frustrations. Hence, despite the disappointment faced in his very first venture, he decides to move on. Wishing to find a way out, and well equipped with a few enveloped ‘letters of recommendation,’ he finally heads to New York. The ensued migration of the Ellisonian hero reiterates the archetypal black journey on the ‘road to freedom6.’ The journey is deliberately taken to fulfill the specific purpose of attaining success. The young narrator aims to achieve his true identity and wishes to realize the American dream. He has unflinching faith in his endeavor and believes that this move may change his destiny. In his view, success is waiting on the other end of the road, and what he requires is just to access the magical American ladder of social ascension. America, being the land of opportunities, contains an immense possibility for realizing one’s dreams – or, to be more precise in this case, the black American dream. The American North always offers hope, which is just waiting to be explored by a fortune seeker. However, the crucial question that the author leaves suspended against the soaring aspirations of the invisible man is; Does the American dream exist for the black man, too? Boarding the bus, the invisible man runs across the same Vet whom he met in the ‘Golden Day.’ Vet is a carefully charted character by Ellison. He represents African American prudence. [Vet] is, of course, the seasoned man – a veteran of many such experiences – who is already disillusioned of many such impressions. Vet urges him: “For God’s sake, learn to look beneath the surface,” “Come out of the fog, young man. And remember you don’t have to be a complete fool in order to succeed. Play the game, but don’t believe in it – that much you owe yourself” (Ellison, Invisible Man, 153).

In the fatherly advice of Vet, Ellison seems to invoke the Afro-American folk wisdom as though the black father is cautioning his black son from the unseen dangers of the circumscribing world. He wishes to protect him from being duped like himself. Since the fatherly Vet can foresee that this new crusader, too, will fail to find what he seeks, he prefers to warn him. The black father knows if this young chap is not warded off from the deception and the imminent dangers, he will also perish like many of his nameless predecessors have. The titular hero can identify his true potential – but ironically, he pursues it in the wrong direction. He could easily trace his roots to the Afro-American folk tradition. However, he unintelligently gropes about in

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the dark to find a place for himself in the Euro-American world – the world that has always denied his identity. It is not his real world. Moreover, it repudiates his substantiality. In fact, it is the world that keeps him rolling away rather than rooted in place. In this world, he has been stereotyped through a number of negative roles—ones systematically accorded to him by a racial society. The author implies that this young hero may realize his mistake. Nonetheless, it will take time. With no one available to play his guardian, the black hero seems bound to learn on his own. The oracular folk inheritance corroborated by his own experiences will eventually enable him to comprehend the reality. He is to learn how to distinguish ‘true’ knowledge from ‘fake and projected’ knowledge. The author, suggestively, foreshadows imminent enlightenment in the advice of Vet. Vet is correct in predicting what this new voyager is ignorant of at that moment. The protagonist might come across the truth later, while transposed in the liberal Northern environment. Time will tell. Ironically, in fact, embedded within his cautionary paradoxical advice lies the ladder of black success. Vet’s advice requires due acknowledgment as well as execution on the part of the invisible man. He needs to decipher his own ‘blackness’ to realize the real Black American dream. As anticipated in Vet’s advice, the invisible man’s arrival in the city of promises does not materialize his tryst with destiny. The most reliable knack of ‘letters of recommendation’ handed over to him by his black godfather Dr. Bledsoe seemingly cannot conjure any windfall. These letters were addressed to some of the influential trustees in the North; however, the trick does not work. Striving hard for employment, he becomes more confused about his fate. He wishes to know the mystery of the sealed letters. With the successive failures, his apprehension about the letters grows. The unfamiliar, unpredictable, and ever-changing North now seems to him more dangerous than the invariably stagnant South. With a few mind-boggling questions, ultimately, he chances to hand over the last of the seven letters to young Emerson, the son of an addressee. The inadvertent move, at last, unexpectedly leads to a resolution of the longawaited conundrum of the cryptic recommendatory letters. The enveloped message from his most trustworthy and reliable black chieftain to the influential white patriarchs of his community purports: “My dear Mr. Emerson,” ... “The Robin bearing this letter is a former student. Please hope him to death, and keep him running. Your most humble and obedient servant, A.H. Bledsoe...” And Emerson would write in reply? Sure: “Dear Bled, have met Robin and shaved tail. Signed, Emerson.” (Ellison, Invisible Man, 194)

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The letter announces the final verdict meant to decide the fate of their onetime favorite disciple. It is the verbal ‘coup de grace’ conspired by the two omniscient demagogues against the black optimist, depriving him of every hope, belief, ambition, faith, potential, and, moreover, his very essence. The Ellisonian invisible man could not believe the words he reads. He finds himself completely shattered, disappointed, agitated, and enraged— to the point of retribution. It appears to him as though he is standing amidst social hypocrites. He is disillusioned once more. And yet, disillusionment is always for the betterment. Such experiences take the subject one step ahead. Hence, the invisible man proceeds forward. Instead of mourning over his disgraceful condition, he prefers to continue his quest for success. Eventually, the narrator obtains a job in the industrial plant named Liberty Paints. He becomes instrumental in providing a glimpse of the mechanized American world, and the author contrives to show the hypocrisy of this world through him. Industrial America is a vast and tremendous iron world confined in the blazing, suffocating, stiff, and stinking arena filled with the oppressive din of machines. The entry of the narrator-hero into the metallic underworld exposes the stark realities of covert capitalistic operations hidden beneath the surface. The production unit of the plant is labeled with the company’s trademark ‘screaming eagle.’ The company is well known for its patented, unique shade called ‘optic white,’ a symbol of purity – ironically produced by adding ten drops of a jet-black concentrate and then stirring it until it disappears. The act suggests the unidentified sacrificial black contribution to create such a thriving white America. Besides, given that the white ‘optics’ hide visualization of the secret ingredient to the paint’s success, the darkness and iron superstructure of the manufacturing building itself represent the iron strength of the Black man – harnessed, confined, and exploited – a strength neither seen nor even acknowledged. It is hard for the narrator to believe that the ‘purest white’ is produced by adding a few drops of the mysterious black substance. He is surprised to the extent of bewilderment. As an apprentice, he was expected to learn the process correctly – but his baffled looks make the demonstrator of the manufacturing process view him as suspect. He looked as though I had expressed a doubt and I hurried to say, “It’s certainly white all right.” “White! It’s the purest white that can be found. Nobody makes a paint any whiter. This batch right here is heading for a national monument!” (Ellison, Invisible Man, 202)

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What Ellison suggests through this episode is that the American purity is actually ‘miscegenated’ – but the truth is intentionally overlooked and deliberately evaded. Ellison’s subtle metaphor speaks volume and hits at the core of white American propaganda. The facts revealed thereby are so complex that the simple-minded invisible man is shocked beyond reclamation. He flounders, since he does not know how to respond to these incredible discoveries. So, all bewildered and confounded, he once again adds to the long series of his unintentional blunders and commits one more major error: He mistakes the concentrated remover for the mysterious black substance of white purity (since the remover resembles the same viscous fluid, both in odor and in color). Hurriedly, he mixes the ‘remover’ ingredient into the liquid filling the buckets. The ‘Optic white’ gets evaporated. And, the invisible man is back to square one with no gain out of the exhausting day-long exercise. On the contrary, he is penalized for his unpardonable mistake and is transferred to the other section of the factory. There, his subsequent brawl followed by an accident finally turns his entire errand into another failure. His brief adventure within the circumscribed world of tanks and machines at ‘Liberty Paints’ comes to a tragic end. While regaining consciousness, he finds himself in the company hospital subjected to shock treatment. The author implies how unconscionably hypocritical it appears! The company’s process requires making black ink ‘disappear’ – and yet when the protagonist accidently makes the white color disappear; he is treated as if he were crazy. He experiences temporary amnesia. His coming back to his senses does not bring him any solace, as the surrounding reality appears to him as if it were a sloppy dream –disintegrating the organic whole. As an object of the medical treatment, he is subjected to a strange experiment. He is ardently hailed by the operating doctors as being a guinea pig for testing the newly evolved transformational process. Irrespective of the overall after-effects, the patient is made to undergo a mechanical re-formation. The episode is a humorous and, at the same time, an ironic presentation of the American experiment with the blacks. The reader observes, for his/her amusement and amazement, a curious procedure taking place. Despite its amusing undertone, the narrative arouses pathos. It indicates how, under the guise of treating the black malady, his personality is distorted in an organized manner. The author describes the scene in which the reader finds some doctors engaged in a procedural dialogue: “You see, instead of severing the prefrontal lobe, a single lobe, that is, we apply pressure in the proper degrees to the major centers of nerve control – our concept is Gestalt7 – and the result is as complete a change of

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The author slyly suggests that the American democratic experimentation, finely executed in the historic metamorphosis of the once-immigrated black slave. As historically claimed, he is transformed from the primitive brute to the civilized African American through a process in which his personality is re-created. His re-formation was initially perceived as a lofty ideal of giving him a new persona, which would be integrally whole. It was required to fit him into the outwardly manifested multicultural American mold. However, the goal is accomplished at the cost of his complete internal disintegration. The process subjected the AfroAmericans to a torturous emotional experience that caused immense psychological damage8. The experimenting authorities, who represent the racial and industrial forces, never reckoned the psychological cost implicitly involved in the process, since it was never considered significant enough to be worked out. For them, the ‘successful’ transformation itself was a worthy accomplishment. The author shows that the remedial experiment initiated by the racial forces continues. Moreover, it diversifies: “Why not castration, doctor?” (Ellison, Invisible Man, 236), and further, “Why don’t you try more current?” (Ellison, Invisible Man, 237) Ellison’s masterful craft tugs at the reader’s heartstrings. The protagonist goes ‘from the frying pan into the fire’ –from the confines of the factory to the even more confining world of enforced ‘care.’ The episode also mirrors the demigod benefactor’s misguided ‘care’ and ultimately where it ends. The horrified and trapped subject prepares himself for more shocks –as anticipated in such a whimsical, torturous, and therapeutically designed procedure. The machine droned, and I knew definitely that they were discussing me and steeled myself for the shocks, but was blasted nevertheless. The pulse came swift and staccato, increasing gradually until I fairly danced between the nodes. My teeth chattered. I closed my eyes and bit my lips to smother my screams. Warm blood filled my mouth. (Ellison, Invisible Man, 237)

And when the ordeal is over, Ellison’s narrator-hero finds him numb, beyond the range of sensitivity. That corrective measure has rendered him bewildered. He is left physically integrated, however psychologically

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mutilated and emotionally spent. In the course of the treatment, the doctor enquires if the narrator could restore any relevant information regarding his identity. He finds the questions volleyed at him simple but critical. It was difficult to respond – so what he could do is only grope for an appropriate answer. He ponders upon his anonymous identity: Who am I? I asked myself. But it was like trying to identify one particular cell that coursed through the torpid veins of my body. Maybe I was just this blackness and bewilderment and pain. (Ellison, Invisible Man, 240)

The idea, perhaps, despite being right, was too abstract to be given as a reply in response to the doctor’s query. He again grapples with himself to identify the source of his origin. He is perplexed about the name of the agency that has given him birth. Many questions arise in his mind. Is it a woman or the American society? Is he a product of the socio-political machinery of American democracy? The institutionalized and contradictory pattern of the so-called liberal American culture has made the issue of his origin a mystery. Mother, who was my mother? Mother, the one who screams when you suffer – but who? This was stupid, you always knew your mother’s name. Who was it that screamed? Mother? But the scream came from the machine. A machine my mother? (Ellison, Invisible Man, 240)

Through this moving episode, Ellison metaphorically projects the idea of how an average African American undergoes constant physical and mental torture. While being reconstituted in the name of a reformative procedure, he feels like a guinea pig. Such torturous treatment not only erases his historical memories but also distorts his self-perception. There are particulars associated with his identity – but these are either erratically dismissed or are intentionally expunged from his conscious memory. The invisible man is left with the dicey question: Could he, somehow, recollect the elements of the folk wisdom or restore the obliterated traces of his cultural heritage? What might help him in identifying himself? For this, he should initiate a self-reflexive probe deep into his psyche. Perhaps, first, he needs to liberate himself from the inculcated idea that he is merely a product of the American racial society. He is required to come out from the medical confinement that signifies the American treatment of its black ‘infirmity.’ At the end of the torment, the optimistic attitude of Ellison’s black hero lets a ray of hope shine. The narrator himself rests assured of the much-coveted liberation to come and assumes instinctively. “I would

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remember soon [enough,] though[,] when they let me out of the machine.” (Ellison, Invisible Man, 242) The sensitively portrayed hospital scene is an adroit and artistic projection of the internal upheavals that take place in the African American consciousness. It is significant to note that the author describes the whole experience in relative terms. Both the inner and outer worlds of his protagonist’s experience partake in his sincere deliberation. The Ellisonian protagonist does not mope in absolute isolation. He is very much concerned with the external reality—amidst which he is placed not as a subject but as an object. The catechism is a complete fiasco for him, since it makes him more oblivious to the facts instead of restoring his memory. He craves for isolation—since he requires a profound silence for an intensive self-brooding. Only this can be the way for him to ‘come back to his senses.’ He is sure that guarding his inferences against preconceived notions and external imputations will enable him to regain his humanity— which, according to the author, is a prerequisite of self-possession. The next episode is another strategic move on the part of the author to introduce African American values and their role in re-constituting the African American character. The journey back to Harlem shows the invisible man returning to his home after a traumatic experience. Leaving the factory campus with the little capitalist compensation given for the colossal damage to his inner substantiality, the narrator sullenly arrives at Harlem. On the way back, he runs into Mary Rambo. Portrayed figuratively, ‘her strong will’ depicts the Afro-American’ striving for sustenance in the battle of life. She is an archetypical figure of the black Mammy who is assured of the possibility of faith. Despite her stony surroundings’ having robbed her of her sentimental erudition, she has nevertheless managed to preserve the delicacy of her affection. Her constant instigative drive to look for a positive direction and to cultivate a sense of individual responsibility has always been a source of inspiration to the young African American heart. Her encouragement becomes instrumental in facilitating the Afro-American rehabilitation. The narrator is torn apart amongst various contradictory desires on account of the emotional unrest caused by his past undertakings. Repeatedly disillusioned and destabilized, he is made more conscious of his lost identity. His frozen feelings, tested to the extreme extent, are now on the verge of explosion. In his emotional upsurge, he gropes about for an outlet. His craving for articulation to unburden his overweighing heart resembles an innate human urge for expression. The mental state of the invisible man reflects, overtly as well as covertly, the Afro-American composite cognition.

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But there was no relief, I was wild with resentment but too much under “self-control,” that frozen virtue, that freezing vice. And the more resentful I became, the more my old urge to make speeches returned. (Ellison, Invisible Man, 259)

The inner pandemonium of the protagonist illustrates the emotional turmoil of Afro-American collective consciousness. The incognito narrator serves as a case study to provide a glimpse of the prevailing conditions that shape the black life at present as well as will determine its future mold in relation to the white world. Through the verbal encoding of his emotions, the author wields an inductive method for arriving at consecutive revelations. He moves from the particular case of the naïve protagonist to a generalized version of the African American experience. His oblique narrative succeeds in depicting a series of artistic projections of their plight. Each episode creates an opportunity for the invisible man to get new exposure to that plight; and allows for further articulation of the African American sentiment. In the progress of the narrative, the setting shifts; and with each successive development, success entails a new insight. The narrative depicts how the African American journey comes full circle. Witnessing a shameful eviction scene in Harlem, the narrator, almost spontaneously, grasps the opportunity of giving public expression to his personal feelings. Ellison does not let pass even a single chance to expose various individual and social vices. He craftily manipulates the situation and turns it into a means for criticizing the given socio-political maladies. However, he does not reverse-discriminate against Whites by vengefully and dishonestly ascribing certain follies or foibles to them exclusively while giving Blacks a ‘pass.’ They do not essentially associate with either blackness or whiteness. On the contrary, these are typical human weaknesses – a universality of behavior pattern which persuades the author to strike at them with equal vigor. Irrespective of racial division, Ellison subscribes to the view that each human vice is to be identified and corrected for better social organization. As soon as the narrator enters into Harlem, the narrative foregrounds the shortcomings of the given setup. The narrator hero’s eloquent address to the silent audience, on the one hand, proves his oratorical talent – and, on the other hand, obliquely comments on the bleak realities and black people’s impotence. The officials of a secret organization called the ‘Brotherhood’ instantaneously recognize the invisible man. On the grounds of his fantastic public performance, he is chosen by the agency to represent its ideology. He appears to them as being a perfect spokesperson of Black sentiments.

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In the course of his development from Southern naivety to the Northern disillusionment, his growing maturity paves the way for the third crucial phase of his ever-expanding story (as the lore unfolds). He gets ready for achieving imminent enlightenment. Having been disillusioned with his earlier beliefs, and in the absence of any prior conviction, he finds himself attracted towards the quasi-communist, quasi-racial, quasi-integrationist ideology of the brotherhood. The invisible man’s political bent suggests the African American ideological groping for a long-awaited commitment. It may come in the form of a firm political stance that will suit black conditions and requirements. Can there be any apt ideological school for the Blacks? What position may best represent black sentiments? The Brotherhood episode delineates the Afro-American experiment with the idea of finding a possible political solution to the racial issue in America. Entering into the seemingly new political phase represented in the ‘Brotherhood,’ the incognito narrator expects to find a constructive and meaningful role for himself. What he hopes for is that he will assume a new identity and that, through his commitment to the individual ideological beliefs such as an endorsement to half-communist, halfintegrationist approach and social activism, he would create a political platform for the blacks. Here, the author subtly refers to the optimistic phase of the Afro-American odyssey. This phase embodies their conviction that active participation in the contemporary social and political movement would reform, as well as transform, society. They believe that their existence and action might count and that one day they will succeed in replacing the old stale and defectively patterned system with a new, ameliorating, egalitarian set-up. Ultimately, however, the African American tryst with the available political options fails. The ideological strivings of the invisible man might also prove to be only a transitory phase. Afro-American optimism, subsequently, sinks deep into the disappointment. The narrator, to his dismay, discovers although his speeches are powerful enough to arouse the mob instinct, they mostly remain directionless. Abstract principles are incapable of channeling the mob’s remonstrative emotions into any constructive role. On the contrary, these speeches render the agitated mob more aggressive, violent, unguided and, dangerously, meaningless. The so-called ‘brotherhood’ is merely a political maneuvering with no noble end – a theory with no real implication in the life of common masses. In the guise of individual awakening, it suppresses individual thinking and sacrifices the singularity of individuality at the altar of collectivism. This ‘sacrifice’ of uniqueness, whether of personal or cultural identity or of wealth, mirrors the

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electroconvulsive therapy’s homogenization of identity via forced erasure of individuated distinctiveness. The author appears quite artful in signifying the Afro American disappointment with different ideological stances. He announces the ideological failure of the blacks through the narrator’s declaration. It comes to the forefront in the invisible man’s verbal encounter with Brother Wrestrum, “Individuals don’t count for much; it’s what the group wants, what the group does. Everyone here submerges his personal ambitions for the common achievement” (Ellison, Invisible Man, 397). Here, ‘Wrestrum’ sounds like the Roman ‘Rostrum’ – the podium in the forum (which, at one time, was memorably decorated with the prows of Carthaginian ships defeated in battle) –at which political speeches were presented to the assembly. Yet ‘wrest’ implies ‘to seize control’ from that very assembly. In the name of common interest, the ‘Brotherhood’ sacrifices individuals. But what stuns the narrator even more is the irony of the whole game – the irony that is deeper than it appears. The paradox of the situation intensifies when the politically maturing narrator penetrates the superficial idealism of the ‘Brotherhood’. It reveals that most of the ideologically professed ‘common interests’ are, actually, nowhere associated with the common people. They disguise the overriding ambition of only a few. One of the Harlem activists, Brother Tod Clifton, shockingly dies while in the hands of the police. This reinforces the theme of white betrayal that leads the black victim to resort to dangerous and suicidal moves as delineated by many African American writers including Wright and Baldwin. Out of shame and resentment, Tod plunges into the realm of being a non-entity. The Ellisonian hero not only recognizes Tod’s trauma but can also decipher the cunning political play at work. Notwithstanding the tall philanthropic claims of the deceitful world, he identifies the nature of the non-essential black existence that is chiefly manipulated by the separate ideological groups to fulfill their respective interests. “Why did he choose to plunge into nothingness, into the void of faceless faces, of soundless voices, lying outside history?” (Ellison, Invisible Man, 439). The given rhetoric echoes the African American’s self-effacing move that is externally imposed rather than one consciously opted into by the subject. Does a black man’s existence really matter to the political organizations that claim to work for Blacks in the garb of their egalitarian ideology? Or do these organizations just use a black man as a pawn in their political game? The author implies that many black heroes have perished in vain on account of being manipulated by such sly agencies. Initially, the narrator had been inducted into the organization by Brother Jack. In fact, the protagonist had always trusted Jack’s vision. But

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later, astonished by the discovery about one of Jake’s eyes being artificial, he realizes his misjudgment regarding the ‘vision.’ Here (although figuratively yet to be expressed in clear, connotative terms), Ellison suggests the partial blindness of the ideological perceptions of various socio-political organizations. The ‘Brotherhood’ stands just for one of them. Jake’s partial blindness reminds the protagonist of his earlier misconceptions during his college days, especially about the sightless eyes of Homer A Barbee. He could then re-look into Barbee’s impassionate speech that had merely harped upon the greatness of its founder. It is ironical to discover how the blind spectator passes a verdict on ‘the greatness of vision.’ Ellison’s subtle use of irony, as well as the metaphor of blindness, effectively conveys the authorial refutation of fake realities. The narrator reinforces the invisibility of the black man and the uncertainty of his actual position in American society. Since the inception of his picaresque adventure from the South to the North and further in the political domain, he has been observed by others merely as being nothing more than a cog in the machine. He has either been maneuvered by the forces in power to fit into an already-existing system; or he has conveniently lobbed as prescribed per the exigent urgency of an existing overall set-up. In all his encounters with characters ranging from Norton to Emerson, or from Barbee to Brother Jack, the invisible man’s personality was always defined from the others’ point of view. Their propositions interpreted his essence. Being invisible, he had never had any say or role in the structuring of his own ‘self.’ What Ellison proclaims, by showcasing the invisible man’s framed identity, is the historical absence of African American subjective agency. It is the white world, or (as with the fake eye) the colored vision imparted by the white world, that has defined and, for some, continues to define the black man. For them, he is no more than an object to be politically played with by the different agencies for their vested interests. Besides the early conciliatory approach and the philosophy of the brotherhood, there are other philosophies, too, which – for their apparent superficiality – are efficiently berated by the author. Ralph Ellison’s invisible man not only exposes the duplicity of high-minded integrationists but also manifests the impracticality and dangerous repercussions of black extremism, incorporated in the figure of Harlem’s Black Nationalist leader Ras the Destroyer. Hence, as portrayed in the Prologue, Ellison’s black hero ends up awakening in and to the blackness. The murkiness of his underground hole symbolizes the blackness of his complexion as well as the prevalent gloomy surroundings. Ironically, however, it is the very

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darkness of his experiences which helps him achieve enlightenment. Passing through the picaresque experience of multiple ideological commitments and emotional upheavals (and their psychological impact), the Ellisonian hero, in a way, summarizes the Afro-American historical expedition. The black man lives in the overtly democratic but covertly racial society. He moves on – regardless of the consequences of his every successive step. The ‘journey,’ as the leitmotif, is present throughout the different ventures undertaken by the invisible man; and the author develops it with an astounding artistic equilibrium (to the amazement of both the participant and the spectator). Nowhere does the author, in his fictional odyssey, seem prejudiced or deliberately over-critical. Nor do his inferences appear, at any point, to be racially biased. In fact, in the end, the ‘Epilogue’ pictures the incognito narrator staying beneath the surface. It highlights the metaphorical implications inherent in the title of the novel. Ellison endorses the invisibility of the black man by locating him in the subterranean American world. He protests—since he has a good number of reasons for his assumed resistance and revolt as exhibited in the following utterance: I always tried to go in everyone’s way but my own. I have also been called one thing and then another while no one really wished to hear what I called myself. So after years of trying to adopt the opinions of others, I finally rebelled. I am an invisible man. (Ellison, Invisible Man, 573)

Having been disillusioned and enlightened, he is expected to determine a new course for himself. He may either devise a fresh beginning within the establishment or destroy it out of his discontent. Nevertheless, Ellison aims to resurrect the African American identity rather than having the black man himself being annihilated in the battle for visibility. Unlike Wright’s protagonists’ retaliation through physical aggression or Baldwin’s heroes’ retaliation through emotional withdrawal, Ellison’s invisible man retaliates by assuming a constructive role for himself. He declares, “I’ve overstayed my hibernation since there’s a possibility that even an invisible man has a socially responsible role to play” (Ellison, Invisible Man, 581). Invisible Man transcends the race and color line and universalizes the theme of healthy human growth from the state of innocence to enlightenment. It features an unapologetic affirmation of the American individualism. The narrator, in the process of being ‘played’ (taken advantage of) by many institutional agencies, passes through a gauntlet of numerous frustrating experiences. At the same time, in his constant

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striving, he also comes across various ideologies of the time. However, Ellison’s black hero rejects all such ideologies in favor of his own rationality. Nor does he, as the black rebel, follow the widely acclaimed tradition of social protest prevalent in the 1940s. In spite of portraying the result of an individual’s battle against the institutionalized negation of his genuine experience, the depoliticized approach of the novel makes it stand apart from the Wrightean group. It is, first and foremost, an artistic work – one which can be called a stylistically contrived experiment ingeniously executed in the creative endeavor of the author. Ellison has always argued for the writer’s broad concern about universal human issues keeping his personality apart from any narrow categorization. In his opinion, a true artist should ever resist the poor recruitment by various ideological schools founded upon ethnicity, race, gender, sexual orientation, or any other specific label that categorizes one’s art. It should never constrict creativity to a fixed notion or a rigidly exacting perception. Perhaps that might account for his refusal, in 1956, to participate in a conference of “black writers” at the New School for Social Research. Ellison never preferred to be known by the color of his skin or for that color to either label his art or to confine the territory of his writings to a color-bound space. As an artist, he felt that neither he nor any other black writer should approve of or participate in the segregation of one’s work from that of the rich American mainstream literary tradition. Being an integral part of American culture, he undoubtedly owed much to a legacy that shaped his art—and, throughout his writing career; he tried to acknowledge that debt. To begin with Homer and Dante, one could add the names of Emerson, Mark Twain, Ernest Hemingway, T. S. Eliot, James Joyce, W. E. B. Du Bois, Richard Wright, and many other literary stalwarts to whom Ellison extended gratitude for their literary influence. In fact, the jazz of Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington, and Charlie Parker; the stories of black folklore; the African American church sermons; and Southern speech patterns, along with the liberal dose of street slang all contribute to the weaving warp and weft of his art in the creative exposition of his ideas. Ellison’s literary craft bears the influence of great artistic precipitation in the process of its very formation. As acknowledged in the words of Thomas Heise, Ellison was indebted [to] Mark Twain, who taught him the importance of comedy as an antidote to the ailments of politics[;] [to] Ernest Hemingway, whose use of understatement Ellison borrowed for some of his early short fiction[;] and [to] T. S. Eliot and James Joyce, from whom Ellison learned to use

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archetypal patterns as a method for structuring experience in Invisible Man. (Heise, “Cultural Conversations,” 53)

Invisible Man is a classic example of the novelist’s experiment with the fictional craft. It blends stylistic features with the ‘universal’ appeal of literary art that writers attain at their best. In certain nonfictional works of his, such as in the essays of Shadow and Act, Ellison himself indicates the experimental nature of Invisible Man. It is interesting to discover how the novel progresses from the ‘Prologue’ to the ‘Epilogue.’ While the ‘Prologue’ foreshadows the upcoming actions of the invisible man as being a spiritual voyage, the ‘Epilogue’ concludes the story-cum-memoir. It enfolds the series of actions undertaken by the protagonist during his development. His progress from illusion to enlightenment is divided into various stages, which correspond with concurrent shifts in style. Ellison himself commented upon this in an interview: I wanted to throw the reader off balance – make him accept certain nonnaturalistic effects … For another thing, the styles of life presented are different. In the South, where he ([the] hero) was trying to fit into a traditional pattern and where his sense of certainty had not yet been challenged, I felt a more naturalistic treatment was adequate. The college Trustee’s speech to the students is really an echo of a certain kind of Southern rhetoric, and I enjoyed trying to re-create it. As the hero passes from the South to the North, from the relatively stable to the swiftly changing, his sense of certainty is lost, and the style becomes expressionistic. Later on, during his fall from grace [when] in the Brotherhood, [the style] becomes somewhat surrealistic. The styles try to express both his state of consciousness and the state of society. (Ellison, Shadow and Act, 178-179)

The stylistic features of Invisible Man astonish the reader, since very few authors make such a promising first appearance. Invisible Man was Ellison’s first novel. In fact, after this great masterpiece, he could not provide another magnum opus to satisfy the restless cravings of his curious readers. Ellison always intended to make his fictional work broader in its implications. Resultantly, his fiction turns into a larger cultural discourse—which implies the need for having difficult conversations. As eloquently worded by Heise: In Ellison’s works, conversations are rarely easy, perhaps because they are metaphors for larger, national conversations covering race, culture, and history. In both Invisible Man and his short stories, Ellison pursues this premise, but it is not until Juneteenth, his forty-year-in-the-making,

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Heise was right in his discernment that Ellison had wished to work out his second novel on an epic scale. But how far Ellison could execute his original plan is a matter of careful assessment. He, indeed, had begun with an ambitious project; however, what he could give was a rough draft. It consists of a significant number of random pages of his forty-year workin-progress, later to be cobbled down into the shape of a novel by his literary executor John F. Callahan. Adam Bradley’s recent work Ralph Ellison-in-Progress draws on both of Ellison’s novels’ rich textual archives – the handwritten journals, typescripts, computer drafts, and notes that comprise his fiction – to explain the nature of his work. Bradley realizes in his latest study that Ellison becomes most visible when he is seen through the process of his composition. Jennifer Howard also quotes Bradley in her article, “Ralph Ellison’s Never-Ending Novel,” while attempting to trace the connection in his two novels. She refers to Bradley’s identification of the “dilated realism” (which is more naturalism than usually practiced by the realist writers, though not surrealism) as being the governing philosophy of both the books. Indeed, the loss (in a fire) of the first original manuscript of his second ambitious novel was a huge loss, impossible to be compensated. Moreover, what Ellison could retrieve through his memory in the form of those thousands of unorganized pages before his death in 1995 was merely a shadow of what could be seen as being his second opus, Juneteenth. Juneteenth is a commendable but not wholly Ellisonian work. Since the first rudimentary draft arrives to us second-hand, having at first and later been re-worked by others, the Ellisonian artistic vision loses its force and originality. It appears like a patchwork of dreamlike sequences threaded between the centrally staged dialogue between its two principal characters. Like Wright’s The Long Dream, Ellison’s Juneteenth is also a story of a father and his son. However, unlike the intimate relationship of Tyree and Fishbelly, here both the father and the son play isolated roles. They stand on the opposite ends of a long-drawn-out surreptitious world, with many new revelations yet to come through their long conversation. Their field of action is essentially marked with two distinct identities of ‘black’ and ‘white.’ Interestingly, their bond is not a blood relation, since Bliss is the adopted son of his foster father, Hickman. In the midst of unusual and unbelievable circumstances, Hickman finds a white or near-white baby. He is churned out of the troubled sea of an unpredictable situation. The unexplained mysterious conditions of his birth symbolize the American racial reality of the unclaimed mixed progeny. He has no specific

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‘identity’ of either black or white. In fact, his body is incarnated in flesh and blood in the womb of the same white woman who had falsely blamed Hickman’s innocent brother Bob for its existence. The white woman’s accusation, as usual, results in Bob’s being lynched to death. The identity of the father of the child remains a secret – even by the end of the novel. Hickman, a jazz musician turned revivalist preacher, is the soul of the narrative. At first, he had thought to (and indeed, had intended to) destroy the white mother, the sinful creator of the unborn illegitimate child. She came as a curse – not only to his family but also to the black community at large. However, he could kill neither the mother nor her bastard son but only his own ever-consuming hatred that had drawn the dividing line between black and white. His sublimated disposition as a revivalist preacher fails to take revenge on the innocent baby. On the contrary, in his deeply meditative thoughts, he searches for a possibility of human compassion amidst the rampant cruelty of the surrounding world. Making up his mind, he finally extends his hand to draw life out of death—and Bliss is born on the same bed where Hickman’s mother had withered away, having simmered in the pain of having lost her faultless son. It brings out the irony of the African American experience. Hickman’s endorsement of the living over the dead symbolizes the African American hope for regeneration in the expansive wasteland. His noble gesture signifies the African American endeavor to establish a real faith over the negative vehemence. Hickman tries to raise Bliss as a follower of God. He trains him in revivalist preaching to spread the divine gospel of compassionate love in a bleak and unjust world. However, the parable of hope turns out to be a tale of iterative betrayal. Bliss runs away from the Church to become a moviemaker and, later, finally, assumes the new identity of Adam Sunraider, the senator. With his transformed personality, the prospective preacher becomes a greedy politician. The adopted white or near-white son foils the humanitarian effort of the black father—reducing it to a farce. Bliss evades not only Hickman and his spiritual world but also his father’s lofty ideals. He prefers to implicate his mind in various avaricious designs. He masters the pragmatic art of how to manipulate racial disparity for fulfilling one’s political ends. Although both the father and the son swerve in different directions, their lives remain far from being severed. Moving away in opposite directions, they tread separate paths and foster antitheses. However, fate being the linking factor for both, they stay intrinsically connected. Quite paradoxically, standing isolated but interspersed, they confront each other at life’s critical moment. Since one’s presence affirms the reality of the

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other, they need each other more than anything else. How it could be otherwise for both of them? Their parallel lives postulate a co-existence of values that are poles apart. The strange ways of a mysterious world render human fate unpredictable. Hickman keeps an eye on the senator’s progress with unflinching optimism. He believes that one day, his son Bliss will speak for those generous people—who have saved him from being doomed. On their behalf, he will elucidate the true African American sentiment to the deliberately deaf and blind white world. He hopes to “speak for our condition from inside the only acceptable mask … he would embody our spirit in the council of our enemies” (Charles, “Preface,” xvi). Ellison aims to reveal the African American heart. He fathoms its depth and wishes to speak for the entire community, which is impersonated in the figure of Hickman. He stands for the true African American spirit. Perhaps the reality of the black man, like that of Hickman, persuades him to dedicate – as portended in his own words – his second magnum opus “To That Vanished Tribe into which I Was Born: The American Negroes.” Reverend Alonzo Hickman represents the same benevolent tribe in Juneteenth. Contrary to Hickman’s expectation, Bliss disregards the African American sentiment and discards the culture that has once nurtured his soul. He derides the joy and pain of the people who have lived through the substantial black experience. Bliss scorns the piety and sublimity of their moral strength, tolerance, and forgiveness. He not only mocks at their very existence but also laughs at their traumatic experience—shattering the dreams of his black father-savior. Acting as a race baiter, the senator – on account of his political speeches – arouses black resentment. Consequently, one day, an unidentified black assassin guns him down on the Senate floor. Hickman, having been pre-informed about the imminent conspiracy against the Senator, had arrived on scene, intending to foil the planned murder in time. However, he had not been able to succeed in meeting the highprofile state leader. Despite all his goodhearted and peace-oriented endeavors, he fails to stop the ultimate hate crime. The unfortunate occurrence exposes the unbridgeable gap within the racially divided society. His pious efforts, undertaken at the beginning of the narrative and meant for choosing life over death, finally end in the violence. Hate again overpowers the philanthropic spirit of ‘live and let live.’ Dialing down expectations, the resultant loss of humanity shatters the hope of racial reconciliation. Hickman’s optimistic faith that had sprouted in the senator’s birth as Bliss amidst the gloom of betrayal, hatred, lies, pain,

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suffering, anger, and vengeance shrivels with the senator’s death in the hospital. The Hickman-Bliss episode of Juneteenth portrays the African American sacrifice. Hickman becomes a symbol of Afro American faith in life. Although his human effort to keep ‘love’ alive amidst an overwhelming ‘hate’ is foiled, he never loses hope. Despite being betrayed in his attempt to save humanity from the selfishness of his own son, Hickman never quits. On the contrary, he continues his endeavors with even more intensity. Otherwise, why does he take so much pain to save an impostor? Hickman’s generosity configures the African American benevolence reflected in their constructive approach at the community level. It is a part of their historical stride from racial hatred to a harmonized racial bond. Hickman draws his strength from the black church that pleads for altruism amidst the darkness of the soul. Here, what distinguishes Ellison from Wright and Baldwin, is his positive outlook towards the African American institutions. In Ellison’s view, many sociocultural institutions have contributed to the development of the blacks. They have partaken in the transformation of the initially brought indentured black slave into a duly recognized respectable citizen of American society. Ellison was never unaware of the potential for, and indeed the existence of religious hypocrisy; however, his unflinching optimism inspired him to look for the positive values of the age-old African American institutions. In his opinion, unlike Wright, religion does not serve merely as opium to blunt black prudence and consequently to curb black anger. Nor does it work as an antidote used by the racist society to arrest the growth of black masculinity, as depicted by Baldwin. He attributes a very different role to the African American church in Juneteenth. It is observed neither as a house of hypocrisy nor as a negative force. On the contrary, it professes allegiance to life and assures the triumph of truth over deception. Ellison is regarded the most optimistic of the three literary stalwarts. Wright’s naturalism and Baldwin’s ambivalence somewhere, consciously or unconsciously, obstruct a complete realization of humanity for the Negro, which is – contrastingly – fully acknowledged by Ellison in his fiction. In response to Irving Howe’s “Black Boys and Native Sons,” Ellison responds that unrelieved suffering is not the only ‘real’ Negro experience. In his attempt to defend Wright, Howe accused Ellison and Baldwin of betraying the black sentiment. However, Ellison – professing the independence of the black experience – claims in “The World and the Jug”:

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Hence, Ellison’s fiction opens up new possibilities in terms of drawing upon a rich African American heritage. The Negro, in the past, had been uprooted. Nonetheless, over the course of time, he has re-rooted himself in the American soil—which he has made his own. The forceful assertion of the blues and jazz beats, the body of their folklore, their gospels and spirituals, their Americanized Negro dialect, and many such artistic manifestations of their unique experience reflect African American distinctiveness. All dimensions converge upon the central theme of African American cultural identity. In spite of many inherent ironies, paradoxes, and equivocation, the African American canon demonstrates a matchless equipoise that is capable of sustaining them. Moreover, it is the task of an artist to reveal its beauty for the aesthetic enjoyment of others. No doubt, Ellison himself successfully practices these theoretical tenets in his fictional rendering. He always tries to preserve the objectivity of art that results in yielding his fictional works to an artistic equilibrium. Art is, of course, a representation of life – but it is the craftsmanship of an artist that turns a simple textual composition into an outstanding piece. The objectivity of artistry imparts art a universal value. Ellison chooses the literary genre of novel to translate his belief in artistic objectivity. He finds the novel to be the most suitable axiomatic document, and discovers that the American novel brings “to the surface those values, those patterns of conduct, those dilemmas, psychological and technological, which abide within the human predicament” (Ellison, “Novel,” 1023). He further explains in an interview: The novel is a complex agency for the symbolic depiction of experience, and it demands that the writer be willing to look at both sides of characters and issues … You might say that the form of the novel imposes its morality upon the novelist by demanding a complexity of vision and an openness to the variety and depth of experience. (Ellison, “Study,” 428)

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Art objectifies the subjective experiences. As a literary artist, Ellison believes in the building of an integral relationship between the author and the reader. An artist is not supposed to merely present life as it comes to him in the crude form. Rather, an author is to transform diverse life experiences through his artistic sensibility before it is presented to the reader for an aesthetic perusal of the presentation. Each form of art, including the rhetoric of American fiction, is a two-way process. It is not a monologue but rather a dialogue in which both the creator and the receiver find themselves engaged. Every artist should know about maintaining the high standards for himself and his audience. In Ellison’s fiction, he lives up to what he says in his famous and frequently quoted critical essay “The Little Man at Chehaw Station.” According to him: By playing artfully upon the audience’s sense of experience and form, the artist seeks to shape its emotions and perceptions to his vision; while it, in turn, simultaneously cooperates and resists, says yes and says no in an ittakes-two-to-tango binary response to his effort. As representative of the American audience writ small, the little man draws upon the uncodified Americanness of his experience- whether of life or of art- as he engages in a silent dialogue with the artist’s exposition of forms, offering or rejecting the work of art on the basis of what he feels to be its affirmation and distortion of American experience (Ellison, “Little Man,” 174).

Ellison’s objective stance does not muddle up the individual issues chosen by him for careful deliberation. In fact, the artistic treatment given to the different African American concerns he addresses subsequently results in producing coherence, generally perceived by his critics as an order drawn from the prevailing chaos. His works may occasionally depict racial and political integrity; however, that does not mar his loyalty to the specificities of individual experience. Ellison’s fictional masterpiece, Invisible Man, revolves around three main ideologies – the Washingtonian accommodation in Bledsoe’s Southern college, the Communist class struggle in the depiction of the Brotherhood, and the militant black separatism embodied in Ras the Destroyer. Interestingly, all three ideological commitments fail to comprehend the African American predicament in a complete sense. Moreover, they miss the mark in terms of suggesting any effective cure for the general human plight. Amidst the said ideological chaos, the invisible man grapples to identify his inner voice. Numerous speeches, which he delivers throughout the novel, are his search to discriminate between ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ rather than merely a search to disentangle truth from political propaganda. His public orations sound like a protest against the

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agonies of growing up – a process of realizing his own invisibility rather than of coming to accept any standing political pedagogy. Ellison displays a comparatively generous view of African American consciousness – in contrast to Wright and Baldwin, the harshness and resentment of whose protagonists fail to discount the sins of others. Ellison’s Invisible Man as well as his other protagonist, Hickman, embrace the challenges of the African American experience—since both of them believe in its diversity, fluidity, and wonder. Perhaps, that is why the naïve protagonist of Invisible Man finally assumes the ever-changing identity of Rinehart, who is both ‘everyone’ and ‘no one’ at the same time. From Rinehart’s example, Invisible [M]an learns the potential that inheres in an identity that shifts, lies, swirls, and disappears. Much like Ellison’s refusal to be pigeonholed as a writer, Rinehart resists categorization. Like Wheatstraw[] (another folk figure in Invisible Man)[,] Rinehart is an antinomian figure, a trickster from African American folklore who collapses hierarchies of authority and power, deflating egos in the process (Heise, “Cultural Conversations,” 60).

Ellison has written only two novels, but he accomplishes in these two works what others would not have attained in a fairly large number of publications. He is one of the most distinguished literary figures of his time. As Nathan A. Scott, Jr., remarks: In a period when, no doubt under the influence of the new vogue of Henry James, so many representative American writers- Jean Stafford, Jane Bowles, Frederick Buechner, Isabel Bolton, William Goyen- were choosing to seek their effects by the unsaid and the withheld, by the dryly ironic analogy and the muted voice, Ellison, like Faulkner and Penn Warren, seemed notable in part for being unafraid to make his fiction howl and rage and hoot with laughter over “the complex fate” of the homo Americanus (Scott, “Black Literature,” 295).

Ellison’s fiction speaks volumes as to the hitherto unarticulated sentiments of the black man. It presents newly experimental stylistics that, in a way, had not been tested by his predecessors. His works echo a transracial understanding of American culture. Given the separatist rhetoric of the 1960s – as reflected in the critiques of Irving Howe, Harold Cruse, Amiri Baraka, and many others who criticized Ellison’s commitment to fraternity – his stand can be considered as being a rare and courageous promulgation of fraternity in the prevalent anti-fraternal conditions of his time. It reinforces the idea of harmonic cultural pluralism—an ideal which America has always striven for in endorsement of its multicultural

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identity. The emotional and ideological conceptions, manifested in Ellison’s fiction and non-fiction works, have triggered a multitudinous critical response. His fiction epitomizes a triumph of conscious thought over the ‘unconscious’—unconscious thought that involves the elements of irregularity, blind faith, prejudice, and many unorganized irrational forces. What he proclaims is that the Negro cannot be shackled in stereotypes since he does not exist just as an idea in one’s mind. The black man in America is an inescapable human reality. His identity cannot be defined merely in terms of the other. His existence is independent of any reductive scientific and analytical description. In “The World and the Jug,” he declares: It is not the skin color which makes a Negro American but cultural heritage as shaped by the American experience, the social and political predicament, a sharing of that “concord of sensibilities” which the group expresses through historical circumstances… (Ellison, Shadow and Act, 136)

Anthony West, agreeing with the assumed equipoise of the narrator in the novel Invisible Man, substantiates Ellison’s proclamation. In his view, Invisible Man is, of course, not at all a ‘grievance book.’ West had initially intended to invigorate a political reading of Ellison’s work but instead found his fictional corpus transcending all ideological affiliations. In fact, critics like Tony Tanner, Jerry Gafio Watts, and Richard Kostelanetz have pointed out Ellison for rejecting almost all the possible choices available to the African American. According to them, Ellison’s ‘invisible man’ repudiates all the ideological possibilities available to him, which he comes across one by one in his spiritual odyssey. To conclude, Ellison never aimed for any ideological pronouncement. On the contrary, what he had always been the most concerned with was the craft of writing. His works attune to the ‘dialectic’ that he artfully incorporates in his fiction. The range of his dialectic is quite vast. It includes history, race, culture, and humanity in general. The inductive method, which he adopts, facilitates a fictional movement from individual to general—infusing the universality of human experiences in the ordeal of a dispossessed. As goes with the common perception, an artist is also a social reformer to a great extent. He is a philosopher, guide, and prophet all bundled into one. He may prove to be a revealer of a true path if his art transcends personal constraints and acquires a universal orientation. Ellison, too, excellently portrays the African American agony and its inherent ironies—but, at the same time, endeavors to transcend them. In the absence of any effective ideological solution, he resorts to strong

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individualism to counter the hostile forces he encounters. Whether it is a personal awakening of the vagabond narrator in Invisible Man or the spiritual strength of the lone crusader in Juneteenth, his novels end up in a strong assertion of ‘individualism.’ The progress is from the social reality to ‘individual’ idealism. The race line is transcended, and an individual is made responsible for his actions. It is in complete contrast to the Wrightean perspective, one which highlights the role of external forces in the conditioning of an individual. But it does not deprive Ellison, as had generally been concluded, of black protestation. Protest is an immortal element of the art. And notwithstanding Ellison’s strong claim for artistic objectivity, the simmering presence of ‘protest’ is felt ubiquitously. Whenever the author indicates social and political hypocrisy, it is done with a tone of conviction. That enables the reader to realize the extent of that hypocrisy more intensely. Ellison’s fiction is an amazing blend of art and protest that indicates the literary growth of the African American artist in the course of his development. The historical journey of the black artist facilitates an emotional and intellectual growth of the black man. That the artistically woven literary manifestations prominently showcase the African American presence is in evidence. Ellison’s fiction is also an exemplar of African American literary growth and maturity. His artistic equilibrium makes him stand apart from his peers—despite the scant paucity of his output when viewed in comparison with the more voluminous output of a large number of more prolific authorial contemporaries of his stature.

Notes 1

Ellison reminds the reader of the very talented poet and precursor of Romanticism, Thomas Gray. Gray’s elegy stands unmatched in its literary and historical significance. Gray’s literary output, like Ellison, is less – but whatever he has penned down is worth binding between golden covers. Both of them were gifted writers of their respective times, and their works indubitably heralded a new era at different historical junctures. 2 In the context of the American Negro, the metaphor of invisibility becomes exemplary of his historical negation. It is experienced by every black man in his day-to-day life. For an average African American, the disavowal of his blackness is worked out to such an extent that it finally becomes a living reality. African American artists use the trope of invisibility in their works in myriad forms. Wright creates the blind white character of Mary Dalton’s mother to depict the dangerous implications of such invisibility; whereas Ellison’s anonymous protagonist is obliquely addressed as the ‘Invisible Man’ to clarify his status and to cast light on his condition. In the same vein, Baldwin’s essay collection Nobody

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Knows My Name captions, by means of the title itself, this sense of historical repudiation. 3 As illustrated in Dr. Franklin Frazier’s The Negro in the United States, Dr. Gunnar Myrdel’s American Dilemma: The Negro Problem and American Democracy, John Hope Franklin’s From Slavery to Freedom: A History of American Negroes, and Professor James D. Unnever’s Sociological Comparisons between African Americans and Whites, many historical and sociological studies validate the Negro charge of their having been deliberately marginalized by the American white. While viewed in comparison with the American white, the American black finds himself long being strategically deprived of the American dream of prosperity. It was indeed black labor that made white cotton king; that constructed roads and railroads; and that contributed to American economic development. In fact, America would not have been so prosperous had there been no cheap Negro labor working to build the New World. And yet, whenever the black populace in general sought proper recognition and an equal share, they were disappointed—and were asked to remain in their designated place. 4 Jack the Bear is a folk figure in the African American tradition. What Ellison refers to through this address is that the Invisible Man will not for sure lose or sacrifice his blackness in the process of his resurrection. Here, the author indirectly indicates two feasible undercurrents interlaced in the overall pattern of the African American adjustment with the rigidly structured racial American society. A black man is bound to resolve his identity crisis. By and large, as perceived in the African American case of mixed blood, some of the blacks with hybrid fair skin opt to pass as ‘whites’ taking advantage of their nearly white complexion. It represents the tragic ‘mulatto’ situation as exemplified in Johnson’s The Autobiography of an Ex-colored Man (1912). However, contrary to this tendency, there are others who ardently wish to retain their black identity. They, in fact, prefer to retain their African features. ‘Jack the Bear’ symbolizes the same disposition. 5 Many of the Black political vanguards tried to streamline the African American leadership, as it took different directions at different historical junctures. Booker T. Washington’s conciliatory approach, which seemed appropriate at a particular historical point for successfully channeling Negro emotions in a constructive direction, later became an object of criticism. It became a synonym of everlasting black subservience to the whites. Young political ideologues raised their voice against it. The renowned black intellectual Du Bois Hayward vehemently criticized Washington’s integrationist approach. In fact, as an alternative political stand, he visited Africa at the invitation of the President of Ghana and wrote Encyclopedia Africana to endorse the idea of Black Americans’ recognition of their having cultural roots in Africa. 6 The Great Migration was a movement of 6 million African Americans from the rural South to the urban North – a movement that occurred between 1916 and 1970. The mass migration of the blacks took place in the hope of better living conditions in the comparatively liberal North. They migrated in search of new employment opportunities, better academic prospects, freedom from the racial oppression of the conservative South, and an escape from the Jim Crow laws.

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Northern cities like Chicago and New York were perceived as being lands of immense possibilities for black growth and development. African Americans regarded these metropolitan centers as being the final resort for the blacks, who for generations had been unbearably crushed by the racial South. The entire range of black fiction projects the movement of a black aspirant from the South to the North as being an act of liberation. It comprises hope – yet ironically, for many of them, it results in even greater disappointment and utter despair in the end. 7 Gestalt is a German word meaning a ‘form’ or ‘configuration.’ It refers to the specific approach taken by Max Wertheimer and his colleagues Kurt Koffka and Wolfgang Kohler in the development of a new school of psychology. All of them eventually migrated to the United States. Gestalt psychologists believe that perceptual experiences depend on the patterns formed by stimuli and an organization of the overall experience. Their primary interest is in the ‘perception’ of a thing. They propound that what one sees is related not only to the background against which an object appears but also to the other aspects of the overall pattern of stimulation. An object is seen as being a single form or a Gestalt rather than as an assemblage of its constituent parts. Soloman Asch (1946) extended the Gestalt notion, stating that people see the whole rather than its isolated parts. It is seen as applying in all cases, whether in the simple case of the perception of an ‘object’ or in the more complex case of the perception of a ‘person.’ As per the assumption, drawn from Gestalt psychology, Ellison reveals that in the case of the ‘invisible man,’ the doctors are focused on how to make him emerge as an entirely new person irrespective of the negative impact of the whole therapeutic process. They seem to be utterly unconcerned with what happens to the mental and emotional constitution of the patient as an adverse side effect of the applied medication. 8 Unlike Wright, who was more interested in the behaviorist-existentialist interpretation of black psychology, Ellison introduces the ‘Gestalt’ perspective to account for the psychological damage experienced by the Afro-Americans in the process of their Americanization. He shifts the focus from the conditioned responses of the Wrightean characters to the deceptive self-perception assumed by the blacks. It features in his fictional creations like the ‘Invisible Man.’ What he argues for, through such depictions, is that false perception renders the black man incapable of understanding his own ‘blackness’ – as happens in the case of the Invisible Man.

Works Cited Bradley, Adam. Ralph Ellison-in-Progress. New Haven: Yale Univ. Press, 2010. Ellison, Ralph. Invisible Man. New York: New American Library, 1952. —. Juneteenth. New York: Vintage International, 2000. —. “The Art of Fiction: An Interview.” In Shadow and Act. New York: New American Library, 1966. —. “The World and the Jug.” In Shadow and Act. New York: New American Library, 1966.

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—. “The Novel as a Function of American Democracy.” Wilson Library Bulletin (June 1967). —. “Study and Experience: An Interview with Ralph Ellison.” With Michael S. Harper and Robert B. Stepto. Massachusetts Review 18 (Autumn 1977). —. “The Little Man at Chehaw Station: The American Artist and His Audience.” In African American Literary Criticism, 1773 to 2000, edited by Hazel Arnett Ervin. New York: Twayne Publishers, 1999. Franklin, John H. From Slavery to Freedom: A History of American Negroes. New York: Knopf, 1966. Frazier, Franklin. The Negro in the United States. New York: Macmillan Co., 1961. Johnson, Charles. “Preface” to Juneteenth. New York: Vintage International, 2000. Heise, Thomas. “Race, Writing, and Morality: Cultural Conversations in the Works of Ralph Ellison.” In Bloom’s Biocritiques: Ralph Ellison. Philadelphia: Chelsea House, 2003. Howard, Jennifer. “Ralph Ellison’s Never-Ending Novel.” Chronicle of Higher Education 56 (35), 2010. Howe, Irving. “Black Boys and Native Sons,” Dissent 10 (Fall 1963). Kostelanetz, Richard. Politics in the African-American Novel: James Weldon Johnson, W. E. B. Du Bois, Richard Wright, and Ralph Ellison. New York: Greenwood Press, 1991. Myrdal, Gunnar. American Dilemma: The Negro Problem and American Democracy. New York: Harper & Brothers, 1944. Scott, Nathan A., Jr. “Black Literature.” In Harvard Guide to Contemporary American Writing, edited by Daniel Hoffman. New Delhi: Oxford Univ. Press, 2004. Smith, Edward E. et al., eds. Atkinson & Hilgard’s Introduction to Psychology. 14th ed. U. S.: Thomson Wadsworth, 2004. Tanner, Tony. City of Words: American Fiction 1950-1970. New York: Harper & Row, 1971. Watts, Jerry Gafio. Heroism and the Black Intellectual: Ralph Ellison, Politics, and Afro-American Intellectual Life. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1994. West, Anthony. “Black Man’s Burden.” In Twentieth Century Interpretations of Invisible Man, edited by John M. Reilly. Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey: Prentice-Hall, 1970.

CHAPTER IV JAMES BALDWIN: FROM CHAOS TO COSMOS

James Arthur Baldwin, the youngest of the Wright-Ellison-Baldwin trio, is another prolific writer in the Afro American tradition. He has a wide range of works to his credit. Works include six novels – Go Tell It On the Mountain (1953), Giovanni’s Room (1956), Another Country (1962), Tell Me How Long the Train’s Been Gone (1968), If Beale Street Could Talk (1974), and Just Above My Head (1979) – along with one collection of stories called Going To Meet The Man (1965), and one children-book titled Little Man Little Man: A Story Of Childhood (1976). His plays, Blues For Mr. Charlie (1964) and The Amen Corner (1968), drew the attention of contemporary critics for the racial element involved in their plot. He also runs the gamut of nonfiction with his famous collections of essays1, two conversations2, and some other works3 in different genres. With such a wide range of creative output, Baldwin – undoubtedly – carves a separate niche for him. But, at the same time, his works assimilate into the rich repository of African American literature, which is a part of the American mainstream and which efficaciously represents the American sub-culture. His works imbibe all the characteristic features of the black tradition. Doubtlessly, as a writer, he enjoys an independent status – but his writings carry a literary legacy, especially when considered in relation to Richard Wright and Ralph Ellison. Baldwin’s fiction demonstrates inescapable connectivity that relates it to the other African American literary works in their historiographic engagement with the socio-political reality of the time. Contrary to Baldwin’s earlier claim of a marked departure from the contemporary protest literature, one can observe an undercurrent of protest in his entire range of fiction. Protest being the soul of any creative art that intends to bring change to society, it is hard to disengage from the emotional articulations of the artist. A real artist, notwithstanding his conscious or unconscious aesthetic concern, spontaneously strives for social betterment and necessarily comments on the conditions prevailing in society. He/she

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discovers new ways and means to voice human wrongs. Baldwin, too, follows the same impulse. It is the emotional fierceness of Wright’s protest that strongly echoes in Baldwin’s fictional voices. However, what distinguishes Baldwin from his literary predecessor is that instead of turning black anger into a destructive narcissistic rage, he translates the Afro-American agony into an impassioned rancor of the average black. Baldwin intends to redefine the black experience. Each author, drawing upon her or his personal experiences, treads the literary path in a particular way. Hence, Baldwin also creates his own fictional world that is peculiar in its own sense. What he seems to promulgate is that his experience is different from that of Wright, Ellison, or, for that matter, any other African American novelist. His works enquire: Is an Afro-American merely an object of constant white hatred? Or, on the contrary, the emotions of the blacks having inverted with the passage of time, has this inversion shifted him away from the position of being an object? Has the African American turned into a conscious subject and carried the black hatred for the whites? Can these psychological challenges be overcome through a commitment to integrationist ideology? Or, are these two completely contrasting worlds destined to forever remain separate on account of the political failure to resolve the racial issue in America? How is it possible to recount the black experience in the literary articulation of an overall American sentiment? Should one believe in the hitherto-portrayed naturalistic interpretation of the black reality? Or, having dismissed it for being partial, does one require a further and more in-depth probe into the convoluted implications of racism? The very inception of Baldwin’s literary career evinces an ambivalence that characterizes his fiction in varied form throughout. Baldwin regarded Wright as being his literary father. After reading Wright’s works, he said: In Uncle Tom’s Children, in Native Son, and above all, in Black Boy, I found expressed, for the first time in my life the sorrow, the rage, and the murderous bitterness which was eating up my life and the lives of those around me. (Bell, Bearing Witness, 143)

He could identify with the pain and anger delineated by Wright. Nevertheless, he was also aware of being overshadowed by Wright’s massive presence in the literary scene. Hence, he began his literary career with a deliberate and purposive iconoclasm, rejecting the genre of protest novel that Wright had practiced. He called Bigger “Uncle Tom’s descendent” (Baldwin, Notes, 22) and summed up his rejection of Wright’s approach thus:

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Chapter IV The failure of the protest novel lies in its rejection of life, the human being, the denial of his beauty, dread, power, in its insistence that it is his categorization alone which is real and which cannot be transcended.” (Baldwin, Notes, 23)

Baldwin’s rejection intends to declare the inadequacy of the Wrightean cult that bounds discussion of the whole range of black experience within the inadequately narrow confines of just one category. Baldwin feels that it makes the portrayal of the Negro reality lopsided. It was an attempt of self-liberation that brought an apparent change in the contemporary trend. Baldwin’s protest against the protest tradition shifts the African American literary course of development in the 1950s. He seems to move towards a more accommodating outlook. The more human, tender, and sensitive protagonists – ones with growing sensibilities – replace Wright’s rebellious and demonic figures. Baldwin’s fiction deals with a broader range of emotions than that projected by Wright. It makes him affirm the broader perspective of his contemporary, Ralph Ellison. In fact, he acknowledges the superiority of Ellison’s craftsmanship over the naturalistic and existentialist interpretation of the Negro predicament. Baldwin finds Ellison’s artistic and intellectual brush strokes comparatively more comprehensive, forceful, and effective in voicing the African American experience. He wrote in 1955, “Mr. Ellison … is the first Negro novelist I have ever read to utilize in language, and brilliantly, some of the ambiguity and irony of Negro life.” (Baldwin, Notes, 8) Ralph Ellison and James Baldwin were the emerging voices of the 1950s. Their perspective was new and comparatively broader than the earlier writers of the protest tradition such as Wright. Although the reputable stature of Richard Wright aided as well as influenced their literary attempts, they succeeded in giving a new direction to the AfroAmerican literary tradition. Both of them aimed to explore the positive values inherent in the black experience. What their works strive to project is that if there had been no constructive value in the black experience, the Afro-Americans could not have sustained themselves amidst such bleak circumstances. The black journey4 might have started with an imposed and stereotyped derogatory image of the so-called ‘brute n-gger’ – but it ultimately culminates in his transformed cultural version in the form of the ‘African American.’ Only the artistic vision of the black writers is capable of tracing this miraculous cultural metamorphosis of the black man at both the individual and collective levels. The socio-political interpretation, indeed, aids to comprehend the historical scenario; but, in the end, it remains the task of an artist to finally articulate the upheavals of human emotions and thoughts corresponding to the socio-political and economic

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milieu that partakes in the shaping of a distinct culture. Hostile surroundings can be regarded as being the negative force that arrests the collective growth of a community. Its oppressive weight frustrates the attempts of a minority group to integrate with the majority culture. The enlightenment, however, comes from inside. Hence, one requires defining oneself more in terms of the internally discovered truths rather than the externally imposed stereotyped identities. The above assertion serves as a basis of Baldwin’s literary explorations. Baldwin’s fictional journey is an attempt to facilitate some repose for the Afro American hopes and expectations. Through his art, he tries to debunk the image of the “bad n-gger” and replace it with an alternate representation of black sentiments. In many respects, his ‘Negro’ is a counterpart to the previously drawn images and seems capable of overcoming hate with love. In fact, Baldwin’s fictional heroes are Bigger’s successors, who internalize many of the positive traits of the Afro American character rather than their destructive tendencies. Love, howsoever religious or sexual (or both, as in the case of Baldwin) they may be, may prove to be a regenerating factor to arouse faith in life. Notwithstanding how far Baldwin succeeds in his endeavor, it is evident that his fictional world characterizes a quest for some positive values. These values not only prop up the black man mentally but also provide ethics that characters can hinge on to arrest the process of self-destruction. Since the black experience is so overwrought with a sense of shame, guilt, and hatred, the black man is compelled to tightly hold onto his trembling soul, if he is to not succumb to its negativity. Baldwin’s fiction poses a query regarding the black sustenance amidst such dismal conditions. Is there any possibility of conquering the overwhelming hate with love; the sense of shame with self-assertion; and the senselessness of their existence with the sense of meaningfulness? His fictional characters set about to explore these possibilities – and a few of these characters indubitably, succeed. They break through the impositions and appropriate larger spaces in which to transcend their limitations. Baldwin aptly portrays the disoriented gloominess and constant suffering of the blacks; however, his account echoes a strong positive note throughout. A close study of his fiction reveals that he specifically creates all of his novels’ plots – except one5 – for the portrayal of the Negro theme. The lead men and women, and even the minor characters, of his novels illustrate the black experience. Drawing upon his own experiences, Baldwin elicits his views through them. Baldwin’s first novel Go Tell It On the Mountain can be called the inception of his spiritual odyssey. The novel narrates the story of the 14-

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year-old boy John Grimes, who visualizes his liberation in terms of setting himself free from the tyrannical authority of his stepfather, Reverend Gabriel Grimes. John, the eldest of the four siblings in Grimes family, is the illegitimate son of Elizabeth and her deceased lover, Richard. Gabriel does not like him on account of his bastardy and, for that matter, his being a constant reminder of his bastard son Royal by Esther whom he could never bring himself to socially accept. John is indeed a promising boy – and everybody predicts that he will become a preacher like his father. However, there reverberates a rebellious note in John’s invariably thoughtful mind. In spite of being conscious of his predicament, he is firmly determined to absolve himself of that destiny: He does not intend to follow his father. His adolescent stage makes him aware of his carnal desires. His physical growth inflames a sexuality that arouses a sense of sinfulness in him. Although he is aware of his queer sexual orientation, he acknowledges the same with reluctance. In fact, there is a deliberate approval within himself to let it overpower him: The darkness of his sin was in the hardheartedness with which he resisted God’s power; in the scorn that was often his while he listened to the crying, breaking voices, and watched the black skin glisten while they lifted up their arms and fell on their faces before the lord. For he had made his decision. He would have another life. (Baldwin, Go Tell It, 20)

However, the vision of this ‘other life’ is not clear to him. The darkness, filth, shame, horror, and hypocrisy which surround him have not allowed him much of comfort and progress to visualize. He realizes the filthiness of his surrounding in every object presently part of his world, from every corner of his room to the sagged walls and ceiling. It fills his heart with horror, shame, and helpless anger. It compels him to identify himself with the omnipresent filthiness. Even his name, Grimes, inherits it. The room was narrow and dirty; nothing could alter its dimensions, no labor could ever make it clean… Dirt was in every corner, angle, crevice of the monstrous stove, and lived behind it in delirious communion with the corrupted wall…. John thought with shame and horror, yet in angry hardness of heart: he who is filthy, let him be filthy still. (Baldwin, Go Tell It, 23-24)

A feeling of revolt rippling in his heart drags him towards the sinfulness of secular world, away from the hypocritical sacredness of the fake religiosity of his family. Would he ever be able to break these walls? Or would he, smoldering in utter hopelessness, finally perish? Uncertain of his future, he is quite obsessed with his sense of confinement.

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In the narrow way, the way of the cross, there awaited him only humiliation forever; there awaited him, one day, a house like his father’s house, and a church like his father’s, and a job like his father’s, where he would grow old and black with hunger and toil. (Baldwin, Go Tell It, 38)

What John feels is that he has inherited a predestined life. All the members of the Grimes family stand under the aegis of the Lord – but John senses the same filthiness hanging over all. Is it only the sludge and slime that life has to give? Does the church have anything worthwhile to offer? The first part of the novel ends with many questions dangling in the air. The second part opens with an intention to seek answers that could resolve the Afro American dilemma posed in the form of John’s plight. Chapter 2 consists of three prayers offered by the adult members of the Grimes family – John’s aunt Florence, his father Gabriel, and his mother, Elizabeth. They undergo a cathartic experience in their respective correspondence with God. Their prayers purge a sense of sinfulness from their souls. Each of them has a dark secret to share with God. These prayers are in the form of reminiscences articulated in a confessional tone. All of them recollect their past and reinterpret it in terms of their present predicament. They find such expression instrumental in relieving their heart and acquire the moral courage to live and bear the burden of life. The reverberating restlessness reflected in words which they utter indicates the misery of their life. A belief in the existence of the Almighty seems to fulfill their craving for an emotional prop. Their prayers, which are purgative in nature, enable them to carry on – despite the dirt and darkness all around. Here, the author seems to signify the functional role of the church6 in the Afro-American emotional odyssey. Church has always provided an outlet for the otherwise suffocated sentiments of this community. It emerges as a place to unburden one’s soul and as a source of emotional sustenance. It subscribes to the idea of constructive role played by the institutionalized religion, notwithstanding the human frailties infused within. The second part ends with John lying astonished beneath the power of Lord, foreshadowing the hysteria of the threshing floor that sets the opening scene of the next chapter. Chapter 3 reinstates John, placing him at the center. He is torn apart in two equally attractive worlds – religious and secular. He undergoes an internal conflict. It is the inevitable clash between his sexual desires and a wish to surrender. He finds himself plunging deep down and crushingly weighed down by the power of God, but there is an increase in his resignation. Horrified and hallucinated, he realizes that his identity is bound to his color—the curse with which he had inescapably been born.

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Chapter IV Then the ironic voice, terrified, it seemed, of no depth, no darkness, demanded of John, scornfully, if he believed that he was cursed. All n[]ggers had been cursed; the ironic voice reminded him, all n[-]ggers had come from this most undutiful of Noah’s sons. (Baldwin, Go Tell It, 226)

John identifies himself with his race and, concomitantly, the collective doom of the blacks. Would he ever be able to overcome this darkness? His melee has been a battle of despair and hope. He can either give up or persist in this crusade. He is expected to find a way out for himself. John’s internal conflict symbolizes the Afro American emotional discord that characterizes their collective consciousness. But he could never go through this darkness…. His strength is finished, and he could not move. He belonged to the darkness- the darkness from which he had thought to flee had claimed him… And yet, it came to him that he must move; for there was a light somewhere, and life, and joy, and singing – somewhere, somewhere above him…. Then John saw the Lord…. Then, in a moment, he was set free; his tears sprang from a fountain; his heart, like a fountain of waters, burst. (Baldwin, Go Tell It, 232-233)

Baldwin’s search for real faith orientates him to overcome despair with hope. In Go Tell It On the Mountain, John’s homosexual attraction to Elisha becomes instrumental in lifting his soul. His carnal desires blended with the religious ones lead him to a spiritual awakening. Amidst the hysteria of crying and moaning, as soon as he hears Elisha’s voice, his heart is filled with sweetness, and his soul drifts to anchor in the love of God. He visualizes, “The light and the darkness had kissed each other, and were married now forever, in the life and vision of John’s soul” (Baldwin, Go Tell It, 234). The third chapter has a lyrical quality with the metaphors of darkness and light intricately woven in it. It seems paradoxical, but John realizes his soul getting relieved in its being chained to God’s love. He discovers joy in pain and suffering. Baldwin peeps into the emotional vacillations of the Afro American psyche through John’s equivocation. His heart witnesses an interplay of joy and sorrow: “His heart swelled, lifted up, faltered, and was dumb. Out of joy strength came, strength that was fashioned to bear sorrow: sorrow brought forth joy. Forever” (Baldwin, Go Tell It, 249). John comes out victorious in the ongoing battle. In his spiritual adventure, he turns out to be a tough man. He overcomes his worldly weakness and joins the group of saints. The novel ends imparting a ray of hope to John in the glare of Elisha’s heroic figure. There is always hope – even in the utter bleakness of despair. The sun emerges from the dark

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womb of night, and John discovers this simplest truth in his terrible religious ordeal. And such a realization leaves him elevated and overjoyed. Through John, Baldwin discovers his way to overcome hatred that grasps the Afro American mind and corrodes every black soul. An association of one’s soul with someone’s love may displace hatred. Its radiance has the strength to overpower all the murky realities, and one’s life may be released to move ahead. John is also branded as a ‘saint’ by Elisha’s holy kiss. He remains no more ‘ugly’ and ‘sinful’ as he had previously been declared by his father. Having found an independent path for himself, he is no more under the aegis of his father. It inaugurates liberation for his soul. He has conquered hate by love and despair by hope. Baldwin seems to show an avenue to the American blacks—as their historical journey needs to continue, in spite of all the frustration they have undergone. Hence, the novel concludes with the words of its protagonist, who enthusiastically responds to his mother’s call, proclaiming, “I’m ready”—“I’m coming. I’m on my way” (Baldwin, Go Tell It, 254). His words indicate his newly acquired confidence and optimism to explore the significance of his existence. It characterizes the resilience of the Afro American spirit that has always sustained the black populace through the most troublesome period of their lives. John attains spiritual liberation, which is symbolic of his regeneration. But to what extent, does John’s liberation symbolize the collective African American victory at a socio-religious level? Could the individual accomplishment of John be generalized for all blacks? In spite of rejecting the Wrightean version of the Negro reality and demonstrating an optimistic flair in his first novel, Baldwin himself cannot deny the role of external forces7 in molding the Afro-American character. It intensifies his ambivalence, which becomes more evident in his next novel Another Country. There is a significant shift from the spiritual world of Go Tell It On the Mountain to the secular world of Another Country. Chiefly set in Greenwich Village, this novel is a portrayal of bohemian life. It incorporates the emotional chaos of Afro Americans and their disorientation in the course of their battle against injudicious forces. The novel also delineates the complicated human relationship in the black and white world with its all-pervading sexual desirability and perversion. Race and sexuality appear as its leitmotifs. Baldwin creates a blended world of the black and white characters—an endeavor, on his part, to overcome racial demarcation. However, the racial consciousness is so enforcing and engrossing that an individual either fails altogether, or exhausts himself, in his attempt to conquer it. The novel begins with the Harlemite black jazzman Rufus’s love affair with a southern white girl, Leona. In a disclosure half

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reminiscence and half presence of mind, Rufus identifies that Leona is his nerve-racking reality—an evidence of his failure to love, and a deliberate attempt to deny his own identity: For to remember Leona was also, somehow, to remember the eyes of his mother, the rage of his father, the beauty of his sister… and he had fled, so he had thought[,] from the beat of Harlem, which was simply the beat of his own heart. (Baldwin, Another Country, 4-5)

Rufus is so bound [up] with his color consciousness that he fails to have a healthy relationship, not only with the white Leona but also with everyone he comes across. His ‘blackness’ generates self-hatred and fuels his masochism. In spite of being aware of Leona’s genuine sentiments for him, he beats her because she is white. He can’t help it, because it indemnifies his black male ego. His physical and mental abuses drive the poor girl insane, leading her to finally be confined in a mental hospital. Rufus has other white friends such as Vivaldo, Cass, and his homosexual partner Eric. However, his hatred for the whites, juxtaposed with selfhatred, aborts all his endeavors to accept them on equal terms, “Rufus had despised him (Eric) because he came from Alabama; perhaps he had allowed Eric to make love to him in order to despise him more completely” (Baldwin, Another Country, 35). The question writ-large in the novel is: Where would such love-hate relationships lead the individuals involved? And the answer is simultaneously indicated to be largely negative. In the author’s opinion, it will lead them either to insanity or to self-destruction. Hence, Leona ends up in a mental asylum, and Rufus commits suicide jumping off the George Washington Bridge. Only Eric manages to escape because he succeeds in realizing Rufus’s ambivalence to a great extent, and prefers to choose for a temporary exile. In spite of being very close to Rufus, Vivaldo and Cass cannot comprehend his fluctuating mood and self-destructive moves—as, being white, they are unable to put themselves in his shoes. Despite their good intentions, they fail to identify with the perturbations of his heart, as that heart’s recesses remain unfathomable to them. Baldwin indicates a white inability to understand the black’s emotional exhaustion that is, in fact, on the verge of self-annihilation. How the constant torture of being black – a torture that is (doubly) imposed both by one’s consciousness and the white-dominated racial society – depletes an individual of human love and tender feelings. It also exposes the racial environment of America that brutalizes both whites and blacks equally. In such an atmosphere, there cannot be healthy love between a black male and a white female, or vice versa. Racial consciousness further deteriorates the gender relationships.

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Unlike Bigger, Rufus does not kill Leona but rather drives her insane and then kills himself. Here, the question may arise: Does Rufus differ from Bigger? Like Bigger, he is unable to love not only the white Leona and Eric but also himself. His ever-afflicting awareness of the blackness of his skin; his intense hatred for a white world which he believes is responsible for making his skin a smoldering reality; and the internalization of this hatred into self-hatred devastate his emotional integrity. The inability of Vivaldo and Cass to decipher Rufus’s agony signifies the failure of the white world to identify the emotional reality of the blacks. They have neither experienced nor have ever realized what it actually means, emotionally, to be a black in an American racial society. Rufus’s suicide shocks Vivaldo; however, Vivaldo’s innocence in some way dissembles his sense of responsibility for this tragic consequence. It represents white apathy to the Afro American emotional plight. The white world needs to be shaken out of its deliberate dormancy—and Baldwin makes Rufus’s sister, Ida an instrumental tool for this. She makes everyone conscious of their own guilt. Ida is spiritually stronger and wiser than Rufus. She makes Vivaldo and Cass realize their responsibility in Rufus’s death—questioning its very nature. Is it to be called a suicide or a murder, as repetitively imposed by Ida? Ida’s point of view signifies that Rufus trusted his white friends, but they failed to fulfill their promise. They could neither understand him nor were they present there when he most expected them to be with him. Had they heeded Rufus’s emotional needs, they would have saved him. Ida, in spite of being stronger than Rufus, also gets exasperated in the attempt to overcome her color consciousness. Although she could discover the beauty of ‘black’ and transcend self-hatred by self-love, her racial consciousness hinders the development of tender feelings. Her inability to overlook ‘whiteness’ blurs her vision. She finds that her association with Vivaldo becomes frustrated on account of it. She acknowledges their mutual love but cannot forgive his whiteness, a continual reminder of his responsibility in her brother’s suicide-cum-murder. It evokes the archetype of a white assassin and a black victim. There are countless ‘Rufuses’ killed by obsessive whiteness, without white guilt either being known or realized by the guilty. Ida’s retaliation is meant to arouse white conscience for recognizing the truth of their ‘betrayal.’ Whites need to identify with the black experience if racial consciousness is to be transcended and the love between the two is ever to be realized. Ida, being aware of the everexisting chasm between the two, labels racial integration as an illusion. When Vivaldo claims to love her, she says, “How can you love somebody

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you don’t know anything about? You don’t know where I’ve been. You don’t know what life is like for me” (Baldwin, Another Country, 253). It is mutual distrust of the color of their skin that denigrates their tender emotion of love for each other. Ida’s affection for Vivaldo gets subverted by the feeling of revenge. Her dilemma indicates an emotional perplexity inherent in the Afro American experience in general. It always results in ambivalence. They can neither accept nor entirely reject the white world. The integration of black and white enfolds the elements of disintegration side by side. The socio-psychological complexity of their experience makes it, to a great extent, unattainable. Baldwin’s perception encompasses all those social and psychological attributes that interweave through the Afro-American emotional fabric. Baldwin acknowledges the emotionally ‘freak’ nature of a frustrated man like Rufus. He also manifests how difficult it is to discount one’s prejudices as in the case of Ida and Vivaldo. Whether a black or a white, one needs to honestly recognize and affirm one’s failure in surmounting racial barriers. Only an honest selfidentification combined with moral courage on the part of the individual may pave the way to bridge the racial gulf and break one’s psyche free from psychological predetermination. In this context, only Rufus’s lover Eric seems to be the most honest confessor. He never tries to condone or evade from the stark realities of human nature. His truthfulness to himself gives him the insight to plumb the depth of his different sexual and emotional associations. His bisexuality leads to sharing relationships with almost all the major characters including Rufus, Cass, and Vivaldo. He recognizes the susceptible emotions of each and also the role which those feelings play in one’s elevation or destruction. The fickleness and dubiety of the bohemian life in Another Country represent the Afro American emotional flux. It indicates their vehement search for a redeeming force that could save them from a complete breakdown. Could love be such a reclaiming force? The author assumes that it may be – but he still seems suspicious of its feasibility amidst the deeply rooted race consciousness. It makes the author’s perspective equivocal. The Afro American experience inherits this distrust. Being continuously robbed of their delicate emotions, and being repeatedly betrayed at the ideological junctures in the long course of their historical journey, their doubt always overshadows their hope. While Vivaldo believes in overcoming the psychological implications of racial prejudices through love, Ida disagrees: “People don’t have any mercy. They tear you limb from limb, in the name of love” (Baldwin, Another Country, 206). Regardless of the suffocating circumscription felt in the case of blacks, Baldwin seems to believe in the benefits of having a positive attitude. He

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postulates that momentary despair should not even allow for the possibility of a complete dismissal of faith. It should not altogether overshadow the possibility of a soul’s resurrection. Another Country, like his other fictional masterpieces, endeavors to extract hope out of the surrounding apocalypse. Human bonds comprise contradictory emotions. An emotive impulse consists of both attraction and repulsion. In fact, the feeling of love itself is a complex passion. Human nature persuades people to embrace what is different. Opposites always attract – but, at the same time, they repulse each other as well. The forged force of attraction and repulsion fixes an individual in its orbit within the comprehensive social scheme. It frames a separate circuitous zone for each person who cannot comprehend this emotional paradox. Such implanted isolation is more stiffened through the outwardly imposed segregating consciousness based on various categorizations—viz. class, creed, gender, or race. A juxtaposition of contradictory feelings requires a strong and purged emotional force to transcend these alienated fixations. And what Baldwin envisions is that it is possible to produce such an outcome. Rufus fails to rise above his emotional confinement because his feelings betray him. His distrust and hatred, being internalized like Bigger’s, makes him wither away. Ida also follows her brother so much that she injures herself in nurturing their shared hatred in spite of real affection for the ‘other,’ here represented in the figure of Vivaldo. However, unlike Rufus, she doesn’t internalize self-hatred. On the contrary, her belief in the beauty of blackness enables her to survive. In spite of her being carried away by emotional turmoil, she persists. The strength of her character – a strength that lies in moral courage – saves her from being doomed. Vivaldo, too, makes genuine efforts to embrace his white reality with boldness – but it is Eric, the white bisexual, who outlives the emotional ‘Armageddon’ by virtue of his sheer moral strength. He identifies the redemptive power of true love and wins— conquering emotional chaos. The novel ends with Eric waiting for his lover Yves who is coming from Paris. Love transcends all the racial, sexual, and national boundaries. Perhaps such love, being true in nature and exalted in spirit, can outstrip all the petty notions involved in the egoistic and arbitrary definitions of identities categorically constituted as being separate. On account of the emotional force of love, Yves can envision ‘another country’ – a heavenly country – in America. This conception of another country is an almost tangible manifestation of Baldwin’s belief in the possibility of a transformative makeover of American society— one which he expresses with a note of optimism.

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Doubtless, Baldwin’s fiction represents a societal change towards a more accommodative outlook. There is a deliberate departure from Wright’s aggressive approach. Wright focuses on the emotional trauma that an average black male passes through while coming across the white world. He not only gets scared, but he also feels hurt and harmed. He undergoes the psychological torture of being identified with a number of derogatory tags and chooses to destroy all who may be held responsible for his disparagement. In contrast to this, Baldwin’s world comprises both the blacks and whites on comparatively equal terms. He facilitates an overt interaction between the two. White society tolerates the blacks and demonstrates a comparatively more liberal and progressive attitude than that portrayed by Wright as being representative of a completely hostile society. Baldwin’s next novel, Tell Me How Long the Train’s Been Gone, appears as a refurbishment of the old American success story – but what makes it different is its interpretation of that story from a black perspective. The ‘alternate’ version differentiates the story from the prevalent white narratives in the same genre. The protagonist of the novel, Leo Proudhammer, is a successful Negro actor in his middle years. He, who has come from the dark alleys of a ghetto, undergoes a gradual realization of the self while passing through the process of climbing the social ladder. His achievement becomes significant in the context of the black community (which he belongs to), as well as in the context of the white world (where he always wishes to prove his worth). It has been a tremendous experience for him to cross the racially laid boundaries and enter into the world of glamour and affluence. The plot of the novel reveals that ‘celebrity’ status is not so easily accessible to a black artist. The American Dream is infused with magical charm – but the ray of hope underlining its concrete realization is reserved only for the faircomplexioned denizens of America, since a black man requires double courage and four times greater efforts to aim and embrace it. Racial factors make Leo’s success a debatable issue. What does Leo’s success story prove? Does it show the ubiquitous nature of the American Dream? Or, on the contrary, does it demonstrate there being a strong denial – by society – of that dream for the blacks? The argument persists:

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‘Hell no,’ Ken said. ‘He just made his own way. And anybody can make his way in this country, no matter, what color he is.’ I thought, Great God, I’m not going to be able to take this much longer… ‘You’re not embarrassing me. But there’s no point in pretending that Negroes are treated like white people in this country because they’re not, and we all know that.’ (Baldwin, Train’s Been Gone, 395-396)

A straightforward declaration of the racial division not only of American society but also of the American dream, which this country has always boasted of, puts forward the black objection to this racial hypocrisy. It questions the long-celebrated generosity and hope of the country’s democratic assertions. The novel, manifesting the duality of American ideals, calls for a reassessment of the situation. Leo had had the courage necessary to dream as well as to profess what he had always wanted for himself. However, what he attains for himself becomes instrumental in signifying the collective African American identity. His name is very significant in this regard, as it embodies the black proclamation of the post-‘Civil Rights Movement’ sentiment. It was the phase of Black Nationalism that had succeeded the integrationist approach of the 1950s. Leo refers to the ‘lion,’ the king of the forest. He has come out of dark Harlem to assert his black ‘pride’ with the force of a ‘hammer.’ Given Baldwin’s numerous Judeo-Christian-related references, the term could also be drawing upon the tradition of the Maccabean revolt. ‘Maccabee’ – an honorific meaning ‘hammer’ – was a title given to a famous revolutionary of Judea who had boldly confronted and stood up to the systemically oppressive Roman powers of his day. Leo Proudhammer’s career signifies the Afro American journey from the unknown to the known, which is indicated in his movement from the darkness of his Harlem boyhood to the limelight of a stage show. On his way to success, Leo partakes in a couple of emotional involvements which remain foundational in sustaining him through the hardships of life. In his early days, as a member of a commonplace lowerclass ‘N-gger’ family of Harlem, he realizes his social constraints. But the strength of family ties, one of the primary sources of emotional sustenance in the African American experience, makes him live the formative years of his life with courage. Notably, he shares a unique relationship, marked by selfless love and fondling caresses, with his brother Caleb. Both of these black brothers, serving as an emotional prop to each other, explore the pleasures and threats of Harlem boyhood. They encounter the terrible realities of the world they have inherited; and they learn how difficult the life is and what will make them survive. Later, as a struggling artist residing in Greenwich Village, Leo comes across a white girl from

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Kentucky. She is the struggling actress Barbara. They come close to each other; but the connection they feel with each other seems due more to the similarity of their poor conditions than to anything else. Their affair remains a lifetime association. Here, while delineating the interracial gender relationship, the author underlines how the class-consciousness takes over the racial consciousness. Indeed, Baldwin seems to define the black man and white woman relationship from an entirely different perspective. It drastically differs from many other writers, especially Richard Wright. A nameless fear, along with a deep hatred, constricts Wright’s interpretation of the interracial gender relationship. Unlike Wright’s characters, Barbara remains committed to Leo till the end of the novel – although they don’t marry. Having been asked the reason thereof, Leo replies to his black lover, Christopher: ‘It would just have been a terrible marriage.’ ‘Because she is white?’ ‘Partly, I don’t mean that it’s her fault.’ (Baldwin, Train’s Been Gone, 389)

Barbara’s white complexion does matter – although Leo is aware of that it should not. His apprehension reminds the reader of the frustrated relationships of Ida-Vivaldo and Rufus-Leona in Another Country. How their failure to set themselves free from the color consciousness devastatingly affects their intense feelings. It results in the slow erosion of their relationship that finally succumbs to the internalized feelings of hatred and revenge. Baldwin’s proposition of homosexual love finds expression in Leo’s attachment to the young black militant Christopher. It reflects the emotional instability of a mind crowded with conflicting sentiments. Racial and gender disparities frustrate the process of assimilation. However, human nature functions to attract the opposites perceived in the contrasting conceptions of the ‘self’ and the ‘other.’ Leo’s case shows that emotional bonds are so delicate and fragile that one needs to be extra cautious at the stressful moments of reciprocity. One always walks on a double-edged sword to remain committed to the original passion. In fact, the thread that bounds two disparate people together is very slender. It may be broken in the effort to possess the other. One cannot disclaim the fickleness of human nature. Nor can one gainsay the instinctive disparities of the individuals involved. The brief affair of Christopher and Barbara substantiates the presence of these challenges. Barbara confesses to Leo how complex it is to understand one’s own emotions. She, while talking to Leo, comments on her relationship with Christopher:

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‘I think he wanted to find out- if love was possible. If it was really possible[.] I think he had to find out what I thought of his body, by taking mine.’ She paused. ‘It wasn’t like that,’ she said, ‘with you and me.’ (Baldwin, Train’s Been Gone, 402)

She further states: ‘I’m glad for one thing,’ she said. ‘I was afraid that I’d- seduced Christopher or allowed Christopher to seduce me, only in order to hurt you. I was terribly afraid that I was only acting out of bitterness. And that would have had to mean that I’d been bitter all this time. But it wasn’t that. It was just- you. That’s terrible in its way, but it’s true. I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I was trying to get back to you. And he realized that, oh, very quickly. Then, he realized that love was possible.’ (Baldwin, Train’s Been Gone, 402)

Of Leo, Barbara, and Christopher, all the three are honest to the extent that they acknowledge their weaknesses—weaknesses either inherent in their human nature or externally grafted by the given social condition. Baldwin puts faith in their honesty and moral courage to accept their flaws and failures. It is the only hope for humankind amidst the crumbling and excruciating reality. But, the flame of hope quivers when one feels the unbearable nature of the oppressive surroundings. So, it becomes a Herculean task to keep this flicker alive and to remain hopeful despite incessant discouragement. In the Afro American consciousness, each day reiterates the black man’s historical battle for survival in a hostile world. Leo’s success, no doubt, earns an individual identity for him. Moreover, it may also stand for the collective black triumph. Still, relentlessly guarding what one has acquired is an exhausting ordeal. Leo’s privileged position makes him ever conscious of how long he is going to stand at the place that he has secured through his enormous efforts. The transient nature of acquisition, especially when earned so hard, generates a melancholy feeling. Leo, too, cannot escape despair – despite his tremendous triumph. He ponders this: I had worked hard, hard, it certainly should have been possible by now for me to have a safe, quiet, comfortable life, a life I could devote to my work and to those I loved, without being bugged to death. But I knew it wasn’t possible. There was a sense in which it certainly could be said that my endeavor had been for nothing. Indeed, I had conquered the city: but the city was stricken with the plague. Not in my life time would this plague end, and, now, all that I most treasured, wine, talk, laughter, love, the embrace of a friend, the light in the eyes of a lover, the touch of a lover, that smell, the contest, that beautiful torment, and the mighty joy of a good

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day’s work, would have to be stolen, each moment lived as though it were the last, for my own mortality was not more certain than the storm that was rising to engulf us all. (Baldwin, Train’s Been Gone, 406)

Besides such emotional probing, the novel has an ideological orientation. In the first place, it drifts away from Baldwin’s earlier stances as witnessed in his previous works. No more does his hope carry the dogma of church as in Go Tell It On the Mountain. Nor does it repeat the imaginative emotional upsurge of Another Country. The author subscribes to the idea of the American success story. It is to be discovered in the living reality of the secular world. Consequently, the concrete political and economic actualities dominate the thoughts of the characters. Although sometimes, the author seems confused and indeterminate amidst the polemics, his artistic disposition aids in taking a stand – howsoever elusive his stance may be. The novel is, incidentally, one of his less-acclaimed works. Irving Howe comments on it in the following statement: Tell Me How Long the Train’s Been Gone is a remarkably bad novel, signaling the collapse of a writer of some distinction. But, apart from its intrinsic qualities, it helps make clear that neither militancy nor its refusal, neither a program of aesthetic autonomy nor its denial, seems enough for the Negro novelist who wishes to transmute the life of his people into a serious piece of fiction. No program, no rhetoric, no political position makes that much difference. (Kinnamon, Critical Essays, 98)

In spite of the fact that Tell Me How Long the Train’s Been Gone appeared to eminent critics such Howe to be “a remarkably bad novel, signaling the collapse of a writer of some distinction,” the same Howe found some intrinsic qualities in Baldwin’s creation. Judged thus, Baldwin’s literary worth becomes self-evident without any need of further argument to counter such critical observations. Baldwin’s approach definitely has some attributes essential to comprehending the complexity of the black experience—an experience which is historically undergone by every black man. He exposes the ideological propaganda8 of his time. His fiction, of course, condemns social injustice – but, at the same time, he reiterates that art is not pure propaganda. As an artist, Baldwin takes an objective stance. However, his fiction professes the need to change the Afro American approach. For him, ‘Uncle Toms’ have no constructive role to play in the altered realities of the changing times. Returning from his previous standpoint taken in the first fictional masterpiece Go Tell It On the Mountain – wherein John prefers the positivity of the church to realize his identity and succeeds in breaking himself free from his stepfather’s dominance – the protagonist of the novel Tell Me How Long the Train’s

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Been Gone opts for an altogether different pathway of taking the glamorous profession of a theatre artist. He rejects the Christianity9 of Uncle Tom (impersonated in the form of his brother Caleb) for the more ‘condemned’ profession of the artist. The world may frequently label his profession as a dubious, corrupt, and morally degenerated field; but Leo favors materialistic success over sacrificial religiosity. His choice, founded on the rejection of the conventional way of surrender, affirms black pride. In fact, he condemns the hypocritical church for curbing black rage and for subversively converting the blacks into mere submissive slaves. He deplores Caleb’s embrace of the church: What a slimy gang of creeps and cowards those old church fathers must have been, and remained; and what was my brother doing in that company? … How can you stand in the company of our murderers, how can you kiss the monstrous cross, how can you kiss them with the kiss of love? How can you? (Baldwin, Train’s Been Gone, 286)

It is the same Baldwin who initially found John’s liberation and his spiritual sublimation under the shadow of the Cross. The African American artist witnesses various transformational phases in his emotional and intellectual journey. His growing sensibility makes him pass through a series of successive disillusionments. It anticipates a periodic revaluation of his faith and beliefs. Baldwin, too, comes across multiple exposures and some unexpected revelations in the course of his spiritual growth as an artist. His aesthetic sense is accompanied by a parallel search for the social and political significance of art. Consequently, he assumes the role of the black spokesperson. His artistic expression is the representative black voice. Given the people’s present predicament, Baldwin realizes the need for a revised interpretation of the time-honored conventions and institutions. ‘Uncle Tom’s children’ succeeded ‘Uncle Tom’; but the author feels the need for their further replacement by ‘Uncle Tom’s grandchildren,’ who would be able to embody black aestheticism10. In his opinion, it is the new generation of black heroes that may announce, with conviction, that ‘black is beautiful.’ Having been an ardent public speaker of the Civil Rights Movement of the 1950s, he passed through the consequent disappointment of the said political upsurge. Despite being an integrationist, somewhere his disillusionment with the same persuades him to sympathize with Black Nationalism. The author, who warned the racial society of the ‘fire next time’11 in 1963, announces – in the words of the black radical Christopher – in 1968:

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‘…. You’d done already killed off most of the Indians and you’d robbed them of their land and now you had all these blacks working for you for nothing and you didn’t want no black cat from Walla Walla being able to talk to no black cat from Boola Boola. If they could have talked to each other, they might have figured out a way of chopping off your heads, and getting rid of You’… ‘So you gave us Jesus. And told us it was the Lord’s will that we should be toting the barges and lifting the bales while you sat on your big, fat, white behinds and got rich.’ (Baldwin, Train’s Been Gone, 393-394)

Baldwin’s drift from his earlier passions and convictions becomes evident in his later fictional works. His novels of the 1970s do not portray the blended cosmopolitan world as portrayed by its saloon culture (a culture which he viewed as being truly integrationist.) This culture pervades Giovanni’s Room, Another Country, and (to some extent) Tell Me How Long the Train’s Been Gone. Having witnessed the decline of the Civil Rights era and the subsequent recovery from that setback, Baldwin hails the inception of Black Nationalism. In fact, in this later phase of his literary career, he wears a black mask and seeks retrieval of the Black Americans’ shared experiences—experiences which exclusively draw upon the unique African American identity. It echoes the same sentiment with which he started his fictional journey in Go Tell It On the Mountain. Baldwin’s ambivalent approach has rendered him vulnerable to the vehement accusations by the groups of both liberals and extremists. It has aroused a lot of controversial criticism that has resulted in a never-ending debate. The review of Herb Boyd’s Baldwin’s Harlem: A Biography of James Baldwin (2008) by William S. Cook indicates how its author (while interpreting the comments of Baldwin’s critics, particularly Harold Cruse) falls short of expectations. Cook’s article ends by declaring: Baldwin did his best to negotiate the “white world” to help African Americans. However, unlike Richard Wright’s Reverend Taylor12, he avoided the beating that would have rendered him unconscious. (Cook, “Review of Baldwin’s Harlem,” 386)

Baldwin’s last two novels are a specimen of Baldwin’s return to the African American roots. His novel, If Beale Street Could Talk, is purely a tale of black agony and torment—reconstituting the archetype of the white oppressor with a black scapegoat. The writer poignantly delineates how a racial society devours the vitality of black manhood. Furthermore, it raises the intended meaning to the level of a fundamental truth. Despite the agelong Afro American struggle, the American social setup has not shrugged off its racial prejudices and it misconception of white superiority. The

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article, “Baldwin, James” (2009) in the sixth edition of The Columbia Encyclopedia defines If Beale Street Could Talk as being a story of a young black victimized by the judicial system. The questions raised by the novel include: What would lead the black victim to his destination, and where does his destination lie? Can the conflict be finally resolved? Or, is it a perpetual phenomenon that will always end nowhere but in a blind alley? The most important aspect of the novel is its passionate examination of the African American vulnerability to the racial system. The book asks; how long will a black victim adjust with the status quo? Ever standing as an unknown black figure, will he just give a nonchalant shrug to the injustice done every time? How could he maintain a nonresponsive approach throughout? Perhaps, it is high time to react openly. Hence, Baldwin’s black hero searches for a prop to hinge. His flickering faith survives. Since the strong filial ties have enabled the generations to save their progeny, he looks back to his ‘own’ people. The author strolls in the Harlem streets to find out something positive that can salvage the black hope from a complete collapse. The black artist becomes an eyewitness to speak for his people and reveal what happens in the dark alleys and sneaky corners. Being noticed by his black brother, perhaps, the black man may feel less neglected. The narrative centers on the affair between the nineteen-year-old girl Tish Fisher and the twenty-two-year-old sculptor Fonny Hunt. The casual relationship that crops up in the streets of Harlem gradually crystallizes in a spiritual bond. Fanciful notions become the most beautiful reality of their life. They envisage a happy life together and plan to marry. But, unexpectedly, the rite of passage jolts them out of their romantic world. Fonny is falsely charged with rape by a racist cop and is sent to Tomb jail. With the intrusion of cruel realities into their dream-world, the course of life changes completely for both of them. The author indicates that the world has not changed much for the blacks. It is the same as it had been years back—consuming the essence of black manhood, and testing the moral strength of the feminine forbearance. Tish finds herself three months pregnant by her fiancé that makes her ordeal all the more challenging. Both of them struggle to survive through the troubled waters; adhering to a disembodied hope. Their families, except for Fonny’s religious mother and sisters, back them up at their best (in fact), in a selfsacrificing way, to help them win the battle of life. Reiterating the hollowness of the sacred church – a hollowness that Baldwin hints at in his other novel, Tell Me How Long the Train’s Been Gone, too – the author shows the extremity of religious hypocrisy in its

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sheer negation of humanity. While the rest of the family members – including Fonny’s father Frank, Tish’s parents Joseph and Sharon, and her elder sister Ernestine – go out of the way to rescue innocent Fonny and the life evolving in Tish’s womb, the regular church-going Mrs. Hunt discards the unborn baby as being an incarnation of sin. Her words echo the empty pretentiousness of a systematized religious training that has robbed the blacks of their humanity in a ritualistic manner. Her sacredness rejects not only ‘love’ – one of the most precious human emotions – but also the life itself. She announces: “I guess you call your lustful action love,” she said. “I don’t. I always knew that you would be the destruction of my son. You have a demon in you- I always knew it. My God caused me to know it many a year ago. The Holy Ghost will cause that child to shrivel in your womb.” (Baldwin, Beale Street, 74)

It arouses a family scuffle that subsequently reveals the clash of diverse faiths. Nevertheless, what the author primarily intends to project is a fake religiosity which enters into the Afro American family bonds and which gradually dehumanizes the soul of its follower. In fact, the person is not aware of the damage being done. The argument ends with the complete rejection of God and religion, as expressed in the words of Ernestine: “You just cursed the child in my sister’s womb. Don’t you never let me see you again, you broken down half-white bride of Christ!” And she spat in Mrs. Hunt’s face, and then let the elevator door close. And she yelled down the shaft, “That’s your flesh and blood you were cursing, you sick, filthy dried-up cunt! And you carry that message to the Holy Ghost and if He don’t like it you tell Him I said He’s a faggot and He better not come nowhere near me.” (Baldwin, Beale Street, 80)

The mocking, ridiculing, and (in fact) highly abusive language reflects the African American anger for being dehumanized through institutionalized religion. They view it as nothing but a white modus operandi to subvert their fiery rage under the suffocating cloak of bourgeois values. Amidst the adverse conditions, Fonny and Tish get spiritually toughened in the course of their fight. Their unflinching commitment to their love saves them from being shattered; and they turn back to their spiritual bond for emotional sustenance. Their romance takes concrete shape in the form of their unborn baby growing along with the passage of time. Unfortunately, the jail authorities do not release Fonny, despite all the efforts put in by both the families to secure his release. Frank commits suicide for failing his son’s hope (which the author leaves unstated.) The novel ends with the

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newly born baby’s cry—as that baby makes a desperate attempt to get the unjust world to realize its existence. However, what he awaits remains mostly unsaid. The reader becomes curious. Would this call succeed in awakening a deaf world? It is a matter of time to enquire and witness as well. Baldwin leaves the future of African American hope open-ended. Fonny is working on the wood, on the stone, whistling, smiling. And, from far away, but coming nearer, the baby cries and cries and cries and cries and cries and cries and cries and cries, cries like it means to wake the dead. (Baldwin, Beale Street, 213)

The novel is unique in its portrayal of feminine sensibility. It is a complete reversal of Baldwin’s earlier stance—one that rejects heterosexual love for a homosexual one. Interestingly, the book If Beale Street Could Talk allows for the juxtaposition of multiple sensibilities churned out of different social categorizations. Gender consciousness silently creeps into race consciousness to articulate the wounded sentiments of the most marginalized. What makes the novel amazing is its exploration of the feminine thoughts undertaken by the male author. Female perspectives are brought forth with so much clarity that one can only appreciate Baldwin’s honesty. The novel shows that the idea of male independence and female dependence is so overwhelmingly rooted in the social mindset that it does not need to seek an explanation. Nor does it question the validity of the same. Baldwin steps into a woman’s shoes to understand the world from the other gender’s perspective. In his attempt to cross the gender boundary, he creates an alternate first-person narrative. Baldwin seems to endorse what is propounded by many of the feminist critics—that being a woman is more of a mental state than a physical one. He uses Tish’s sensitivity to break through certain female stereotypes in the given patriarchal setup. His attempt to bring out a woman’s realization of patriarchy – in terms of her helplessness with regard to the patriarchal impositions – works at the imaginative level of the text. As Tish reveals in one of the interior monologues: I suppose that the root of the resentment-a resentment which hides a bottomless terror- has to do with the fact that a woman is tremendously controlled by what the man’s imagination makes of her- literally, hour by hour, day by day; so she becomes a woman. But a man exists in his imagination, and can never be at the mercy of a woman’s… The truth is that dealing with the reality of men leaves a woman very little time, or need, for imagination. (Baldwin, Beale Street, 64)

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Baldwin’s last novel, Just Above My Head, brings his spiritual odyssey – which had begun with his first novel, Go Tell It On the Mountain – to a tender melancholic close. The inception of the quest – announced as being the rebellion of an adolescent boy to acquire self-fulfillment through attaining an individual identity – subsequently results in the realization of the expropriating nature of life. Baldwin’s fictional journey ends with the middle-aged man’s reminiscences that echo the vibrating notes of human passions. It tears open close emotional bonds which somehow fail to reach the level of complete fulfillment. Just Above My Head is a story of two black brothers intimately committed to each other. Sharing an unbreakable fraternal bond, they grow up in the Harlem section of New York under the loving, caring, caressing, affectionate, and secure parentage of Paul and Florence. Their parents exemplify the role of the strong black family in strengthening the African American character. The story is narrated in retrospect. The opening scene announces the tragic death of younger brother Arthur, a gospel singer, at 39 from a stroke when in the toilet of a London pub. Two years after his death, the 48-year-old elder brother, Hall Montana, gathers the courage to share that unrelenting moment of his life with his son. Hall has kept the memories of his deceased brother closed for a long time; and in finally giving those pent-up emotions an outlet, he lets them have free course. While talking about the most sensitive episode of his life to someone other than himself, he looks back to discover what is lost. It is the innocent query of his fifteen-year-old son Tony that triggers his long-silenced memories. “What was my uncle – Arthur – like?” … “They say – he was a faggot.” … “What did you think of your uncle?” … “I thought he was a crazy, beautiful cat.” (Baldwin, Above My Head, 30-31)

As soon as Hall begins, it seems as though he strikes the most sensitive note of the African American love song, which probes into the emotional fabric of their mental makeup. Passing through the long, meandering memory lanes, Hall narrates his story, divided by the author into five sections – “Have Mercy,” “Twelve Gates to the City,” “The Gospel Singer,” “Step Child,” and “The Gates of a Hell.’ The narrative recapitulates the past. Arthur chose music as his career and was soon christened ‘The Soul Emperor.’ He and his friends Crunch, Red, and Peanut formed a gospel quartet called ‘The Trumpets of Zion’ and gave some excellent performances at different places. Their travels included an adventurous

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visit to the racial South. However, in the course of time, their group got dispersed. Crunch preferred a company job to music; whereas two of his other companions incidentally met a tragic end. Red succumbed to racial hatred and his subsequent drug addiction. He had fallen prey to the habit due to the haunting memories of the incident. He thought that his inebriated state would help him to erase the emotional scars of his trauma. Peanut suddenly disappeared during his second visit to the South. The episode reflects the dread of the American South and the toll taken by it. Through the tragic end of both Red and Peanut, the author implies neverending racial violence and how such violence has unscrupulously resorted to upholding Jim Crow ethics and the notion of white superiority. Arthur did not deviate from his commitment to music. His life became a desperate crusade to claim ecstasy of the soul; and he made black church music instrumental in attaining it. In 39 years of his life, he had ardently been striving for true love that could sublimate his soul. In fact, he became a star. But his dazzling stardom could not compensate for the emptiness of his soul. His spiritual craving constantly persuaded him to grope for the meaning of life. He discovered it, to some extent, in his homosexual associations. His endeavor to associate first with Crunch and then with Jimmy provided him solace, since such selfless connections transcended all the racial and gender canons. He realized the power of love to lift the human soul and let the soul feel its tremor. However, in both cases, the bond could not be fully accomplished. He wished to live the songs he sang – but faltered, as he realized very soon that life never offers anything in absolute. It is a blend of joy and sorrow, beauty and filth, and a feeling of accomplishment with a sense of vacuum attached to it. Throughout his life, he lived this reality – and then, all of a sudden, he died unexpectedly at quite an early age. Although Jimmy’s love gave Arthur emotional stability for a while, he could not impart the sense of completion. His casual quarrel with Jimmy created a pause in their affair; and Arthur’s sudden demise left it forever forsaken. The ardently sought love is somewhere dismissed amidst the emotional chaos. Arthur’s quest remained incomplete. He visited the whole world – but yet could not attain the ‘completeness’ he had aspired. Love, in spite of being a healing force, always remained a puzzle for him—an attraction blended with repulsion. As his brother, Hall, sensed in his letters, Arthur went west, and then, from Seattle, back to Canada, and then, for the first time, to London, and visited, for the first time, Paris, Geneva, and Rome. His postcards were laconic, and I sensed in him a new note- dry, wary, bitter. It’s lonely as a mother out here, he wrote, but may be that’s the best way for it to be. Can’t nobody hurt you if they can’t get close to

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you. But this formula was not entirely satisfactory: Love must be the rarest, most precious thing on earth, brother, where is it hiding? (Baldwin, Above My Head, 463)

The narrative incorporates many sub-plots which present a broad spectrum of life. These episodes, involving a wide range of other characters, reinforce the same idea of life’s trauma and love as a spiritual force capable of regenerating the human soul. In the ebb and flow of the memories, Hall’s narrative gives an account of the childhood friend Julia. She was a child evangelist—and, for that matter, was the privileged one in her family. The narrative reveals how the changed circumstances turn her life into a nightmare. After the death of her mother, her father incestuously violates her. Repeatedly abused and brutally beaten by her father, Julia turns into a symbol of female vulnerability and signifies the spiritual death of tender human relationships. However, love as a regenerating force saves her from complete collapse. Her genuine concern for her younger brother Jimmy becomes a prop for her to regain faith in life. She, too, gets revived through Hall’s love as well as through her emotional association with an African diplomat. Hall, too, undergoes emotional upheavals with the passage of time. His love for Julia – and then for Ruth, who later becomes his wife – makes him realize the value of delicate emotional bonds. Ruth remains his first real commitment he has ever made, outside his commitment to Arthur. It is her love that sustains him amidst the emotional turmoil. He finds himself inseparably bound with her. “I hold her in my arms, like some immense, unwieldy treasure. I, at least, thank God that I come out the wilderness. My soul shouts hallelujah, and I do thank God.” (Baldwin, Above My Head, 17) The novel brings homosexuality and race together under the purview of critical examination. The author opines that the racial factor has, doubtlessly, diminished with the passage of time. No more is the black man gullible. Moreover, he is adequately enlightened on account of his repetitive encounters with the racial white world. Baldwin’s earlier protagonists like John (Go Tell It On the Mountain), who loathed his darkness, and Rufus (Another Country), who committed suicide in a fit of self-hatred, are later replaced by Hall and Arthur who are no longer bothered with their color all the time. Elise Miller, in her psychoanalytical study of some selected American autobiographies, traces a peculiar subjective element in Baldwin’s literary output. It, according to her, reflects the African American resilience. She says, “Baldwin begins with an active creative desire to belong and concludes with an understanding that American ideals and traditions are permeable and malleable” (Miller, “The Maw of Western Culture,” 632).

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No doubt, Baldwin’s fictional renderings manifest the same spirit as is indicated by Miller. His later black protagonists are no more awed by the Euro-American culture. On the contrary, they do succeed in joining as well as adjusting to the mainstream. They seem more confident and less resistant. Having crossed through a long historical passage, they are better informed than they had been. In the course of their journey, they have discovered many things to claim their own. They are aware of their African roots; and they praise the beauty of their African features. They felicitate the rich African legacy, which has sustained their humanity. As Hall, while carefully observing his son, thinks: .

Yet he (Tony) can dance- very, very beautifully, I think; it’s strange to see all that awkwardness transformed, transcended, by something my son is hearing in the music, beneath the bone. He has enormous dark eyes – like [that of] his uncle Arthur – and hair somewhere between the Africa of Mississippi, where Ruth comes from, and the Indian-stained Africa of California, where I come from. (Baldwin, Above My Head, 13)

As the novel is set against the background of the Civil Rights Movement of the 1960s, Baldwin evinces that the situation is hitherto unchanged, even after the lapse of such a long period. The African American struggle for equal status is still not over. Peanut’s sudden disappearance in the South validates it. However, what the author intends to demonstrate is that now, the African American attitude is changed. Hall, while accompanying Arthur during his visit to the South, ponders over the following: If I could not conveniently die, or decently smile, gratefully labor, then I should be carried to a place of execution, the dog to feast on my sex; fire, air, wind, water, and, at last, the earth, my bones: it came to that, for me and mine, and in my own country, which I loved so much, and which I helped to build. (Baldwin, Above My Head, 548)

There is a sense of belongingness, an objection, an assertion, and a bold declaration. All are combined together in Hall’s speech. He further states: What do I care, if you are white? Be white: I do not have to prove my color. I wouldn’t be compelled to see your color, if you were not so anxious to prove it. Why? … But I know why. You are afraid that you have been here with me too long, and are not really white any more. That’s probably true, but you were never really white in the first place. Nobody is. Nobody has, even, ever wanted to be white, unless they are afraid of being black. But being black is nothing to be afraid of. I knew that before I met you, and I have learned it again, through you. (Baldwin, Above My Head, 549)

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The harder the black man tries to exorcise race from his mind, the stronger it becomes in its impact. It remains as a dominating factor in his consciousness. The white man never let him forget of his ‘blackness.’ Even after so many years of intimacy, the color line demarcates their separate zones—since the reality of their co-existence is intentionally evaded. The black man has the courage to face it, but the white man is scared of accepting his ‘racial impurity.’ Hall thinks: Not all of the Sheriff’s children are white[;] this knowledge was in every eye. Not all of my mother’s children are black. This knowledge, which is the same knowledge, was also in every eye, but with a difference. This difference is the difference between flight and confrontation. (Baldwin, Above My Head, 547-548)

The well-known truth of racial blending is still required to be acknowledged agreeably by the whites. Hence, this truth should be asserted by the black man with even more conviction. He needs to shake the white man out of his deliberate oblivion. Whenever the black man makes the claim of being equally there—in the promised land of America, the white man either keeps quiet or negates the fact of a black man’s equally valid presence. As an artist, Baldwin has courage to speak on behalf of Blacks in general and a subset of blacks in particular. However, his task remains more or less challenging due to the hostility of certain social factors existing around him. Baldwin, undoubtedly, transcends the racial and gender distinctions of binary oppositions through homosexual love. It is the rare artist, who speaks for the sexual minority within the larger racial minority, finds himself irresistibly constrained by the otherwise working social and moral norms. The social stigma associated with homosexual love constitutes the paradox of homosexuality in Baldwin’s fiction. The liberating force of ‘unqualified’ love, which enables a black artist like Baldwin to re-define racial identity for a more humanist outlook, is considered evil. It is seen as a sign of moral degradation. The sense of guilty consciousness clashes with the feeling of self-fulfillment. The author’s failure to find social acceptance for this hard-won, newly discovered liberating force torments his soul. All Baldwin’s artist-protagonists – John (an orator), Rufus (a jazz musician), Leo (an actor), and Arthur (a gospel singer) – undergo this experience. They either become frustrated or wear out. They fail to settle down satisfactorily, since their emotional conflicts destabilize them eventually. However, what distinguishes Baldwin’s fiction is the increasingly progressive approach taken by chronologically successive characters of his in the making of their own moral choices. John’s sense of sin and Rufus’s

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shame later give way to Leo’s more confident proclamation and Arthur’s bolder assertion of their respective homosexual associations. Baldwin’s characters undergo a real transformation, notwithstanding the peculiar nature of each character that differs in each case. One may term this transformation as being either religious or secular – or, perhaps, a combination of both – in terms of its spiritualistic manifestation. Their respective responses depend upon the nature of the experiences they have undergone. However, with growing maturity of the characters, they become stronger—especially in terms of their exuberant vitality. Although they experience some depressing moments, their strivings don’t end then and there. Except for Rufus in Another Country, the rest of Baldwin’s black protagonists succeed in overcoming the depressive phase of their lives. In fact, their emotional glitch enables them to identify the weak points symptomatic of various internalized racial ideas. Recognition of this internalization subsequently allows them to conquer their faltering flaws. Almost all of the major characters of Baldwin’s novels enter triumphantly into a new buoyant phase of revitalizing spiritual energy. One realization succeeds another, interweaving the emotional and ideological elements of the overall pattern of the plot. ‘Self-pity’ gradually gives way to moral and racial pride; and these black protagonists succeed in gathering the courage to proclaim their ‘self-esteem.’ Their consciousness of their African roots, and recurrent emotional associations with this, prove to be the most powerful factors in sustaining them throughout their ordeal. This sustaining helps them to withstand the emotional and ideological chaos. Doubtless, they are frequently left adrift by their emotions. Even, at times, their spirit breaks down; and sometimes, they almost veer away from the usual safe path. Nevertheless, they insist on undertaking such adventures in a quest for self-cultivation—and later, they attain spiritual peace. Chaos turns into the cosmos, and their overall perspective widens, reflecting the vividness and dynamism of the African American experience. Providing space for various contradictory impulses, Baldwin allows for an uninhibited emotional churning. It helps him to identify the universal elements inherent in the seemingly restrained black experience. He makes his characters instrumental in imparting to a black a redemptive spirit. His characters experience the sublimating moments of humanity that transcend all race, class, and gender discriminations. Baldwin’s perspective is the hallmark of African American cultural growth. It demonstrates a progressive mood through showing the American Negro’s adaption to the times—and, at the same time, showing their (own) simultaneous claiming of a separate cultural identity for the African Americans. His fiction facilitates a gradual evolution from narrow

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societal definitions of ‘race’ and ‘gender’ to a cosmic visualization of human thoughts and emotions.

Notes 1

Baldwin’s non-fiction enjoys a permanent status in American literature. He is known as a moral essayist. His evangelical heritage gives him a noteworthy fervor, and he emerges like a preacher in the vigorous utterance of his essays. His essay collections – Notes of a Native Son (1955), Nobody Knows My Name: More Notes of a Native Son (1961), The Fire Next Time (1963), Nothing Personal (1964), No Name in the Street (1972), and The Devil Finds Work (1976) – soon after their publication, were received widely across a diverse readership. They possess an enduring quality and are still applauded even more than his fictional works are celebrated. 2 Two works by Baldwin, written in the form of conversations, were published. The first one was created in collaboration with an anthropologist and was entitled A Rap on Race: Margaret Mead and J. Baldwin (1971). Another, created in collaboration with the poet and activist Nikki Giovanni, was published under the title A Dialogue: J. Baldwin and Nikki Giovanni (1973). 3 It includes One Day When I Was Lost (1971), a portrayal of the scenario based on Alex Haley’s The Autobiography of Malcolm X; The Evidence of Things Not Seen (1985), a report on the racial murder in Atlanta; and Jimmy’s Blues (1985), a slim collection of poetry. 4 The American Negro, in his historical journey, has evolved along with the progressive passage of time ranging from ‘slavery’ on plantation to a ‘step inside’ the White House. Even the terminology used for the Black has passed through various stages. During the stay of more than 400 years or so, the Negro in America has been referred to, with endless inventions, as ‘n-gger,’ ‘nigra,’ ‘coon,’ ‘darky,’ ‘dinge,’ ‘smoke,’ ‘spook,’ ‘spade,’ ‘shine,’ ‘jig,’ ‘jigaboo,’ ‘boo,’ ‘boot,’ ‘boogie,’ ‘boy,’ ‘colored,’ ‘negro,’ ‘Negro,’ and ‘American Negro’ (Various terms used for indicating the American Negro’s racial nomenclature—as quoted by G. D. Paliwal in his article, “Socio-Psychic Dilemmas and Artistic Tasks of Afro-American Authorship”), and so on. It further proceeds to invent terms like ‘Black American,’ and ‘Afro-American,’ etc. Now the term ‘African American’ is in vogue. The present nomenclature is a symbol of a cultural blend that constitutes the identity of the American Black. ‘African American’ is a two-word phrase which has an elliptical space in between for an invisible hyphen. The hyphen disappears as the ‘African American’ may claim to have absorbed both cultures located at opposite ends of the pre-existing hyphen. 5 Out of six novels written by Baldwin, only the second one – Giovanni’s Room – has a white protagonist. The novel is concerned more with Baldwin’s ambivalence towards homosexuality than his emotional urge to retaliate against racial oppression. Chiefly focused on the white man’s dilemma between his heterosexual mindset and his homosexual attraction, Giovanni’s Room sidelines Baldwin’s

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racial consciousness—a consciousness which underscores the rest of his fictional works. 6 Despite focusing on the spiritual force of Christianity, Baldwin could not wholeheartedly defend the institution of the church. It makes his views paradoxical. Does the ‘White God’ really deserve to be embraced? In fact, the allprevailing dirt and darkness of Go Tell It On the Mountain makes the role of the ‘Church’ self-contradictory. The poverty of the Grimes family is a covert blow to the democratic intentions of America. Extreme religiosity hinders the flowering of black individualism and dissuades the black community in general from achieving greater materialistic growth. It is what America has done to the poor Negroes. Instead of giving them a ‘fair share’ in American prosperity, the white world grants them a fatalistic attitude. The Church teaches them to bear with, and adapt to, their harsh surroundings. Their mind is crippled by inheriting the narrow vision of forbearance. Had there been other options open to him, John (who had begun his journey with a rebellious instinct) could have chosen any secular profession rather than feeling constrained to follow his step-father’s footsteps. 7 Although Baldwin’s fiction is an attempt to liberate the artist from the excessive naturalistic interpretation of the Black experience, one wonders whether he truly offers an alternative approach. It is easy for a critic to condemn Wright’s protest tradition as incarnated in Bigger, Cross, and Jake – but it is equally difficult for a black writer to escape from that tradition. Baldwin’s black characters are inexorably chained to their surroundings. Since the external conditions for the blacks had not changed much, how could Baldwin have replaced Bigger and Cross by the New Negro—someone with nothing but love for his oppressor? However, the influence of the Church (as in the case of John and Arthur), white liberalism (as reciprocated by Ida and Leo), and black family values (as illustrated through Fonny’s forbearance) indeed soften the attitude of his black protagonists. They don’t physically retaliate like Bigger, Cross, and Jake do – but do they truly stand independent of their environment? Can their life and character indeed be understood without any reference to external forces – or do external forces eventually shape them? A naturalistic vision is inherent in the black predicament itself. When Baldwin’s characters do not translate Bigger’s aggressiveness into their own actions, do they propagate Uncle Tom’s subservience? In any case, they are molded by the external forces which shape their actions—and even their thoughts. 8 Baldwin’s political involvement has always been a debatable issue. In fact, the debate still goes on. Bill Lyne’s latest article, “God’s Black Revolutionary Mouth: James Baldwin’s Black Radicalism” (published in Science and Society), talks about Baldwin’s radical inclination having provoked debates since the start of his literary career. 9 It is neither new nor radical on the part of Baldwin to condemn religious hypocrisy and to identify the role of Christianity. American literary history illustrates many such progressive shifts away from the ‘providential’ view and towards the ‘secular’ approach taken by many other literary stalwarts. In 1938, when Emerson – in “The Divinity School Address” – reminded the young ministers of a scholar’s necessary self-trust and bravery, his criticism of religious

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traditions and conformity was received as being an attack upon Christianity itself. In fact, both Emerson and Baldwin never intended to reject ‘God’ or to discard the importance of ‘faith’ in the fulfillment of human potential. Moreover, regarding the African American experience, the Church has been a source of solace for a long time. These progressive writers object: Why is Church placed in opposition to the human soul? They proposed that sometimes, Christianity – when manipulated by the religious elite – cripples the personality of the people. Emerson embraced secularism because he, too, found church life to be neither convenient for, nor conducive to, the growth of the individual. 10 It was indeed an extension of Wright’s approach – rather than (as wrongly claimed by some critics) a deviation from it. Wright, too, expressed almost same sentiments while articulating the aesthetics of being (and living) ‘black’ in his well-known nonfictional work White Man Listen! (1957). He urged, “Be proud of being black … love black, die black, eat black, sleep black, buy black, sell black, and love black” (195). 11 The Fire Next Time, the 1963 book by James Baldwin, draws its title from the couplet “God gave Noah the rainbow sign / No more water – but fire next time.” It is featured as a part of the lyrics in Mary, Don’t You Weep, a Negro spiritual. Baldwin’s work consists of two essays: “My Dungeon Shook — Letter to my Nephew on the One-Hundredth Anniversary of Emancipation,” and “Down at the Cross — Letter from a Region of My Mind.” The first essay discusses the role of race in American history, whereas the second piece deals with the relation between race and religion. Both the aforesaid issues constitute the problem of re-defining race-religion matrix in terms of the progressing ‘Negro.’ Coping (in a major way) with the ‘Negro Problem,’ Baldwin, in these essays, undertakes an examination of the shallowness and ineffectiveness of religious faith on the one hand, and probes into intergenerational influences and relationships on the other hand. Moreover, here Baldwin uses the 2 Peter 2:5-6-based couplet (based on Genesis 9:11; 19:23; and 2 Peter 2:5-6). Baldwin is making a biblical allusion to Genesis 9:11 (NIV: "never again will there be a flood to destroy the earth'"); Genesis 19:23 (NIV: "the LORD rained down burning sulfur on Sodom and Gomorrah"); and (principally) 2 Peter 2:5-6, which states that the Christian God "did not spare the ancient world when he brought the flood on its ungodly people, but protected Noah, a preacher of righteousness, and seven others;" and that "he condemned the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah by burning them to ashes, and made them an example of what is going to happen to the ungodly" (NIV). A feature of cultural life in Sodom and Gomorrah had been homosexuality, traditionally identified as being a religiously disallowed practice; and traditional teaching had taught that divine judgment of that practice had been expressed in the fire that had destroyed both cities. Thus, given the prominent role of homosexual union in Baldwin's work, his title (with its allusion to 2 Peter being recognizable by readers of his day) specifically identifies a traditional religious element that his characters boldly, strongly, and (at times) vehemently critique. 12 Dan Taylor is the name of a character who appears in Richard Wright’s wellknown story “Fire and Cloud” (Uncle Tom’s Children, 1938). He is a liberal black preacher who negotiates for his community and simultaneously tries to be civil

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with the white world. Baldwin does not seem to be far from Taylor’s approach. William S. Cook, in concluding his article, refers to the resemblance between the two.

Works Cited Baldwin, James. Notes of a Native Son. Boston: The Beacon Press, 1955. —. Nobody Knows My Name: More Notes of a Native Son. New York: Delta, 1962. Bell, Bernard W. Bearing Witness to African American Literature: Validating and Valorizing Its Authority, Authenticity, and Agency. Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 2012. Cook, William S. “A Review of [Herb Boyd’s] Baldwin’s Harlem: A Biography of James Baldwin.” In The Western Journal of Black Studies 34, no. 3. (Washington State University Press, 2010). Kinnamon, Keneth, ed. James Baldwin: A Collection of Critical Essays. New Jersey: Prentice Hall, 1974. Lyne, Bill. “God’s Black Revolutionary Mouth: James Baldwin’s Black Radicalism.” In Science and Society 74, no. 1 (January 2010). Miller, Elise. “The Maw of Western Culture: James Baldwin and the Anxieties of Influence.” In African American Review 38, no. 4 (2004). Paliwal, G. D. “Socio-Psychic Dilemmas and Artistic Tasks of AfroAmerican Authorship.” In Rajasthan University Studies in English 16 (Rajasthan Univ. Press, 1984). Wright, Richard. Uncle Tom’s Children. New York: Harper and Row, 1965.

Website Questia. http://www.questia.com/libraryencyclopedia/baldwin-james.jsp

CHAPTER V AFRICAN AMERICAN STALWARTS AND THE ART OF NARRATION

African American narrative art is rooted in the oral traditions of the plantations. Chiefly autobiographical, those plantation stories began as an initiative with the goal of translating the peculiar Afro American experience into words. It was a spontaneous human endeavor on the part of the most dispossessed and disinherited of the American settlers, who had been brought from the remote land of Africa as slaves. Amidst the grim reality of their existence, they embraced orality as a means to give voice to their agony. On the one hand, the process provided them a medium to articulate their inner pain and sufferings; on the other hand, it facilitated the entrusting of the folk wisdom from one generation to another. Told in the typical Negro dialect, these initial imaginative renderings collectively comprise the legacy of the Afro American culture and leaves indelible imprints on the lately developed, sophisticated genre of African American fiction. In spite of having initially been presented in the form of slave narratives (real-life accounts of bonded plantation labor), the black narrative tradition does not remain confined to the genre of autobiography. Surprisingly, African American narratives have measured the vast canvas of fictional writing ranging from the life history of a black fugitive to the galactic world of science fiction. It is interesting to note that the black narratives are not narrowed down only to journalistic depictions of black history. Nor do they render the Black American experience only as memoirs. On the contrary, they are quite diverse in featuring the emotions and ideological engagements of blacks in America. Moreover, with both the people’s and genre’s corresponding socio-cultural development, their scope has widened – and, consequently, enhanced – African American fiction’s multifarious dimensions. Black fiction has witnessed a dynamic growth, assimilating the diverse components of the narrative art in its incessant evolutionary reformulation. It not only draws upon the mainstream Euro-American literary cult but also researches and further

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explores African roots and folk traditions. The whole endeavor has imparted additional aesthetic value to the cumulative, inherently aesthetic black experience. Nurtured by many authors of great eminence, the African American literary tradition has a long legacy; and the trio of Wright-Ellison-Baldwin holds a distinct place in this lineage. Their fictional works, paving the way for higher distillation and further experimentation in the realm of narrative art, have contributed to the growth of the genre. The most striking feature of their novels is that they blend art with protest—and what makes their role significant in this regard is the socio-political implication of the entire overture. In their hands, literature becomes instrumental in giving the Afro Americans an artistic perspective from which to view their own historical, socio-political, economic, and psychic realities. Their fiction manifests how an artist’s creative faculty grapples with strong ambivalence in the absence of any justified interpretation of the human predicament reflected in the inhuman practice of slavery and a failure of democratic ideals. Their works project the African American artistic dilemma of the time. They engage in an elaborate enquiry pertaining to various critical issues. For instance: What is expected from a black artist? Should an author identify oneself with the sublimity of art; or accept his role as a spokesperson for the dispossessed community? Does the black artist have a mandatory political role to play? Should he remain committed to the desired objectivity of the artistic outlook throughout, or is he allowed to give some space to his subjectivity? A close perusal of their works reveals these oscillations and shifts in their orientation. It is interesting to observe how far these three authors embrace – as well as refute – the widely propagated artistic ideals of beauty, coherence, creativity, faithfulness to life and imaginative recreation of an artist’s own experiences while simultaneously maintaining artistic detachment. Each artist is placed between two equally attractive motifs. These objectives are alternately drawn from the conflicting ideas of ‘aesthetic of stylistics’ on the one hand, and the ‘social significance of art’ on the other. Sometimes, the artist seems to balance the scale successfully by blending and stirring both elements together through a well-managed disposition. Hence, the critical question that looms large in the critical discourse around these three authors is: How does the African American artist face the challenge of balancing art with social protest? There are some specific features that mark the complex structure of these writers’ common fictional framework comprising plot; development of the

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action; characterization; scenic delineation; overall symmetry; narrative patterns; pace; and language. Richard Wright, the eldest of the three novelists, is designated the first place in creating the fiction packed with the emotional force of black anger, which persistently storms the heart of every ‘native son.’ He has successfully molded the Afro American protest in an artistic frame by rendering the unforgettable narrative of Bigger Thomas. The protagonist of the Native Son becomes a symbol of psychological distortion and dehumanization of the Afro American character caused by the racial elements of American society. Bigger’s story is narrated by a third-person omniscient narrator. It is structured in three parts—namely ‘Fear,’ ‘Flight,’ and ‘Fate.’ These sections represent three phases of the protagonist’s life that he subsequently passes through. The beginning of this classic tale is astounding, as it dramatizes two basic emotions of the Afro-American consciousness – ‘fear’ and ‘violence’ – which circumstantially shape their psyche. The opening of the first section, the rat-killing episode, declares the living reality of the Afro American life that determines their fate. Fear evokes the tendency towards an increasing aggression—and only murderous violence can overcome such fear. Whatever the claim about the larger socio-political conditions may be, certain factors like color consciousness, poverty, and prevailing racial prejudices ultimately compel Bigger to live in the eternal hell of fear and despair. The protagonist tries to evade such a dreadful reality. He wears a mask and hides his true self behind a fake persona. As in Bigger's case, his characteristic carelessness and overbearing demeanor disguise his real essence. However, reality overpowers him anyhow and finally enters into his psyche. The complete consciousness of shame and misery, associated with the manner in which they are forced to live, threatens to engulf the protagonist in constant fear and despair. It may prove fatal to him and to society as well. Wright uses a limited-omniscient narrator; as the naturalistic setup of the novel doesn’t allow the author to fully control his characters. The environment without, and the impulses (generated by it) within, already control them – even beyond the author’s wish. Nor do they develop on their own, as they are the product of a shaping externality. The thirdperson objective narrator peeps into the heart of the protagonist. His attempt to decipher his inner mental workings succeeds to the extent it gives the reader a glimpse into Bigger’s psyche. As the limited-omniscient narrator announces, “He knew that the moment he allowed what his life meant to enter fully into his consciousness, he would either kill himself or someone else” (Wright, Native Son, 14).

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Fear and an endeavor to escape from the same are the central themes of the Book One. Bigger’s consciousness filters through what he experiences as a terrified black. It serves as a source of strength as well as a weakness in the novel. Wright provides a dramatic intensity and an intimacy to the narrative by restricting its focus to Bigger’s mind. He seems to intervene occasionally, especially at the moments when the book tries to propound the author’s ideological concerns. In his study, Bernard W. Bell (in the following words) comments on Wright’s engagement with motives other than literary ones: Although much of the narrative comes to us through the consciousness of Bigger Thomas, it is a consciousness rendered in the language of Richard Wright. Thus we understand more than Bigger does. On the other hand, Wright sacrifices verisimilitude and [the] intellectual integrity of his protagonist in his effort to universalize the psychological and sociological message of the book. (Bell, Afro-American Novel and Its Tradition, 158)

There are a great number of statements by Bigger which seem to be uttered by Wright. As Bigger asks his friend, Gus, “Why they make us live in one corner of the city? … Why don't they let us fly planes and run ships?” (Wright, Native Son, 23). The opening scene itself is a metaphorical portrayal of the Afro American socio-psychic condition. The author uses the trapped rat as a trope to announce the Afro American fate. The running rat raises a ruckus in the closed room before finally being killed by Bigger. The black man also feels trapped like it. It also foretells his tragic end, as there is no escape for him. Wright further extends the metaphor and combines it with the myth of the ‘bad n-gger.’ His protagonist gradually internalizes the white reiteration of the black stereotype—and finally turns into the figure of the black ‘brute.’ Book Two throws light on the development of action in this direction. It reveals how Bigger is pushed to incarnate the projected myth. The narrator, continually witnessing how the individual psyche takes shape, gives an account of the transformational process and the factors responsible for it. The narrative develops interpreting the events from Bigger’s perspective. The author interlinks all the events of the fastmoving plot and manages the pace fairly in the methodically laid narration. His identification with the protagonist, although limited, enables him to give an authentic picture of what happens next—doing so with a collateral explanation of ongoing incidents in terms of both ‘why’ and ‘how.’

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Book Three is the culmination of Bigger’s tragic story, the end of which is already foreshadowed in the opening scene of the novel. Bigger shares the appalling end of the trapped rat, which has drawn attention to the heartrending plight of a creature on the run, doomed to be trapped and killed. It also raises a question as to the significance of the 20-page-long plea made by Max on behalf of Bigger in the trial scene. The narrator becomes a mute spectator when he let the Deputy Coroner and Bigger’s communist lawyer speak. In fact, the last section of the book is an evident incorporation of Wright’s own emotional and ideological concerns. The author’s associations and interpretations underlie Max’s observations and arguments. The narrative is inclined to give an impression of a carefully worked out sociological documentation and psycho-analytical study of the African American mind. It turns out to be an emotionally charged oration delivered by the author in the garb of Max, who is chosen by Wright to evince his passionate faith in communism. Displacing the narrator, Wright himself occupies the podium and directly addresses the reader cum audience. One may question the real identity of the speaker in the following speech: If only ten or twenty Negroes had been put into slavery, we could call it injustice, but there were hundreds of thousands of them throughout the country. If this state of affair[s] had lasted for two or three years, we could say that it was unjust; but it lasted for more than two hundred years. Injustice which last[s] for three long centuries and which exist[s] among millions of people over thousands of square miles of territory, is injustice no longer; it is an accomplished fact of life. Men adjust themselves to their land; they create their own laws of being; their notions of right or wrong. (Wright, Native Son, 360)

The novel ends with the narrator re-occupying his place to report on the sad farewell of the bad n-gger. Executed in a dialogue form that takes place between the victim-turned-culprit Bigger and his failed defender Max, the final part of the narration superimposes the African American nightmare. Structured like a crime thriller, Native Son demonstrates the immense possibility of exploring the unattended motives and hithertounearthed psychic orientations of the black character’s inner life. It reveals the scope of the genre. Wright makes it a vehicle for penetrating the truths of the dehumanizing and oppressive racial elements of society. Here lie the widespread appeal and moral strength of the novel. M. L. Raina comments on Wright’s narrative skills in one of his articles: [That] Wright succeeds in raising the level of our understanding above our normal conditioned responses is a tribute to his superior craftsmanship.

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The novel’s prose, tensile and alert throughout, holds us [–] gripped [–] right from the beginning is further proof of the author’s control over his material. (Raina, “Black Violence: Black Despair,” 145)

Wright’s discovery of the subversive potential of excessive ‘rage’, quite viable for fitting into a story of ‘anger and revenge’ that outlines a crime thriller, motivated him for the further experimentation in the said genre. It aptly goes along with the sociological study, psychoanalysis, and ideological pronouncement of the writer. The well-delineated complexity of Bigger’s character reflects, in turn, the intricacies of the given social situation. Wright’s orientation paved the way for envisaging a range of more thoughtful, pragmatic, rational, intellectual, and real characters like Cross, Tyree, Fishbelly, and Jake in his later fiction. He has subjected not only the crude, illiterate, and ignorant ways of Bigger but also the philosophical exposition of Cross, the corrupt pragmatism of Tyree, and the simple everyday routine of Jake Jackson to an artistic treatment. The input of crime – whether manifested in its incidental occurrence (as with Tyree’s resorting to illegal means of climbing the social ladder) or in its extreme form (as with the physical violence aimed by Jake at his sick wife; or the gratuitous murders committed by Cross) – is dexterously exploited by Wright with the goal of permeating the physical and mental realities of the Afro American experience. Wright not only perceives the irrational realities existent in the outer world but also traces how they enter into the personality of an individual. In his fictional fabrication, he brings out such distortions, working at both the personal and the social level. Moreover, he handles them quite artistically. In The Outsider, Cross Demon finds meaning in two senseless murders. Wright employs the third-person intimate narrator to probe into the consciousness of the protagonist. This is essential, since the novel floats at the intellectual level. Ideas dominate its plot, its characters, and even its style of prose. Hence, the real narrative progresses mainly through the interior monologues, interspersed with the random renderings of elaborate dialogues. Now and then, the intermittent disembodied voice of the third-person narrator introduces the relevant description and functional details of the setting and characters. The novel begins in the style of expository prose but later evolves into an argumentative style. Wright makes effective use of dialectics. It takes the form of an intellectual debate as well as of philosophical reasoning—thereby intensifying the incorporated tension. The ideological expostulations of Cross and District attorney Ely Houston and lengthy discussions among Cross, Hilton, Gil Blount, and Blimin on the nature of man, life, and politics particularly frame the real meaning of The Outsider. When the high-profile communist

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leader Blimin interrogates Cross as to who he is and what opinions he holds, Cross gives a 14-page account of his viewpoint. The Outsider is an interesting experiment in the realm of philosophical novels, as it combines Shaws’s technique of multi-angular dramatic debate with the existentialist content of Camus and Sartre. Cross acquires a new identity in the name of ‘Lionel.’ This presents an unpredictable situation in the very beginning of the novel. The author substitutes Cross’s statistical death and subsequent anonymity by his potential rebirth. The black protagonist assumes the new identity that promises a sense of fulfillment. His existence, as well, as perspective becomes more definitive and established. Wright artistically re-creates the protagonist and brings his world (reconstructed by him, for himself) to center stage. Beautifully implicating the metaphor of ‘space’ for the lost African American man, Wright makes him transcend the constraints of time and place. He is now prepared to expound his point of view. However, Wright’s oscillation between Marxism and Existentialism turns him into a mere mouthpiece of those said philosophies. Still, the humanistic element of his artistic creation does not fail altogether. One may observe gradual progress when Cross-cum-Lionel’s narrow motives dissolve into the broad, undefined ‘motivelessness.’ It replicates the predicament of every modern man in terms of how his aspiration for self-fulfillment and unlimited expansion comes to nothing—leading him to nihilism. Divided into five parts, the novel meanders in the dark alleys of philosophical thought. The narrative is chiefly an expostulation of the author’s intellectual and ideological preoccupations. Although there are occasional manifestations of the emotional bearings of the Afro American psyche, it is more of a philosophical novel than a racial account of the Afro American condition. What differentiates Wright’s next novel, The Long Dream, from his other novels is the well-devised pattern of two shifting perspectives. The novel introduces two protagonists, Tyree and Fishbelly, who envision the world from their respective points of view. Both of them appear simultaneously at the inception of the story. However, the first controls the earlier part of the narrative whereas the other dominates the latter half of it. They share an intimate bond, being father and son – but the author makes them stand, in a sense, as an antithesis to each other. Tyree's hardcore, practical ways represent a more real and pragmatic outlook in contrast to his young son’s daydreaming and nightmarish visualizations of the realities he sees. Fishbelly grows along with the development of the plot. His perspective incorporates the sensitivity of a child in his comprehension of the outer world and its inner realization of authenticity involved in every life experience. His growth admits a gradual shift from

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immaturity to maturity – and, at the same time, admits a transition from idealism to realism. It results in a polemical beginning which later moves towards sympathetic reconciliation. Given the unified black sensibility that stands against the prevalent white oppression in Clintonville, the author evokes Fishbelly’s identification with his father’s point of view. Wright's experiment with the intended switchover in The Long Dream reduces, to some extent, the concentrated power of Native Son and The Outsider. However, this switchover undoubtedly accommodates the variability of the assumed perspectives with an embedded gesture of plausibility. Keneth Kinnamon, while introducing the novel The Long Dream, elaborates how the intended shift pictures, quite convincingly, “the complexity of the black community and its culture in which these characters come to life” (Kinnamon, “Foreword,” xiv). The novel shows Wright's preference for using the third-person narrative to artistically re-create the firsthand feelings, experiences, and emotions of the African Americans in the form of fiction. Perhaps he finds the detachment of the omniscient narrator conducive to deal with the subject matter, which is otherwise so close to his heart. A third-person narration gives him the objectivity required to arrest the overtones of the personal involvement of the black writer in handling the African American material. The narrative in The Long Dream develops with the growing sensibility of the child Fishbelly – accounting for his years of childhood, adolescence, and manhood. It consists of three sections of unequal weight. The first part, “Daydreams and Nightdreams,” dominates the book in terms of its length and structure (it covers almost half of the book). The plot assumes an episodic nature, as the narrative …shifts back and forth between Fishbelly’s [day-to-day] life, his fantasies, his illusions, his values, his relationship to friends and family and the great world beyond- and [his unconscious dreams] and desires that are conveyed in [an] italicized stream of consciousness prose. (Edward, Art of Richard Wright, 153)

Such a narrative device places the dreamy world of the protagonist at the center of focus; displacing the real surroundings for a while. The focus is on fanciful perception and on the realities comprehended by an innocent wit rather than by or through logical explanations. The author relies more on the protagonist’s growing sensibility and original point of view than on use of expository passages to convey the realities being discussed by others around him. At the beginning of the narrative, the story unravels in the form of a tete-a-tete that carries the natural cadences and everyday vocabulary of a boy’s world. There are occasional autobiographical

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accounts of emotional awakening and enlightenment. The adolescent protagonist's increasing awareness of his surroundings facilitates recognition of his black reality. He grasps the close connection between race, sex, and violence in the black world known to the protagonist. As the story progresses, the protagonist enters into the social, political, and economic concreteness of the adult world—leaving his dreamy boyhood behind. The tone and pace of the narrative changes accordingly. The author switches to a straightforward narration provided from Fishbelly’s point of view. It gradually reduces the role of the adolescent peer-group dialogues in revealing the harsh realities of racial elements of American society confronted by the protagonist. The novel is a specimen of Wright’s deviation from his two previous works. It is for the first time that he subsumes the black bourgeois perspective in defining the African American quest for their fundamental rights. The black man strives hard for a respectable identity; and Tyree incorporates that viewpoint—doing so unfailingly. He speaks for those black aspirants who, irrespective of the nature of their means, are solely committed to the ends he seeks. He does not concern himself over whether his means are good or bad; right or wrong. Moreover, indifferent to the given morals of honesty and transparency, he believes in snatching every possible business opportunity for success. Tyree assumes that these morals are for those who can maintain their dignity without money. Since being a black he needs extra money to bribe corrupt forces for his and his family’s protection, he is not bound to these morals. In fact, he knows well that he has to fight against the cruel world by all available means. Tyree’s stance represents the dispossessed black’s materialistic approach to the liberation of his ‘self’ from fatalistic interpretations. Since ‘Fate’ predestines the Black to be eternally doomed – as it is his understanding of racial forces’ impact on a black man’s life – the black man now requires looking for new, pragmatic ways to achieve his salvation. Tyree, irrefutably, seems radical. In the lineage of Bigger and Cross, he, too, emerges as an anti-hero but stays away from the murderous instincts of his predecessors. Well distinguished from Wright's other emotional, intellectual, and ideological types, he stands apart for his unparalleled pragmatism. The heretofore-muffled voice of the Negro middle class – lost in the proletarian sentiments of Wright’s earlier fiction – now finds an utterance through him. It advocates the vital role played by money in climbing the social ladder and an apparently open African American desire to obtain it. Wright seems to give space to the black bourgeois point of view in his narrative, when one finds Tyree proclaiming:

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“How you think we n[-]ggers live? I want a wife. A car. A house to live in. The white man’s got’em. Then how come I can’t have’em? And when I git’em the only way I can, you say I’m corrupt. Mr. McWilliams, if we n[-] ggers didn’t buy justice from the white man, we’d never git any.” (Wright, Long Dream, 273)

Wright beautifully uses the southern Negro dialect to provide a realistic portrayal of black Clintonville in Mississippi. He implants his characters in the Southern soil. They are real, since they are not created merely to present the author’s point of view. The way they speak, live, act, move, and behave proves their having been drawn from the real world. They inhabit the American South, which is still the same even after the lapse of so many years of emancipation. The narrative gathers tempo after the end of the first part. With Fishbelly entering into his manhood, the narration foregoes the free and imaginative note of Part One’s “Daydreams and Nightdreams…” for the increasingly concrete tone taken by Part Two and Three – entitled “Days and Nights…” and “Waking Dream…,” respectively. The catastrophe of the devastating fire that breaks out in the club and which takes a toll on the lives of forty-two people triggers the action. Its farreaching consequences comprise the remainder of the novel. The events take place at fast pace, occurring one after the other without much deliberation. These happenings reach the climax in the form of Tyree’s being unlawfully killed by the chief of police, Cantley. And, with Tyree’s tragic death, the black ordeal comes to a halt. However, it later paves the way for further action through Fishbelly’s long and persistent crusade for justice. After delineating a gripping narrative full of curiosity and amazement provoking scenes, the novel ends on a positive note. Wright’s excellent handling of the inner elements that constitute his characters’ psyches helps him imbue his novels with dramatic force. His artistic control over the arrangement of the events makes them flow smoothly, despite the fast pace of the narratives. The novelist’s art sometimes falls short of perfection. However, the peculiar scheme deployed by him never lets the whole configuration fall. In fact, each of Wright’s novels serves as an apt illustration of his adroit art. The protagonist of Lawd Today, Jake Jackson, seems a caricature of the black urban worker who incarnates black frustration, shame, and misery. Like other Wrightean protagonists, Jake’s world comprises his inner thoughts, nightmares, and haunting fears mingled with the realities he lives and experiences daily. In the said novel, the third-person omniscient narrator begins Jake’s story by referring to his nightmare. Interestingly, the detached narrator enters into the dream of the protagonist, allowing the story to open a channel for inner visualization. By watching the character

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as he is struggling inside, the reader may fathom the depth of Jake’s aberrant visions. The implied author describes the protagonist’s attempt to climb the unending staircase, which signifies the Afro American’s daily ordeal. Jake’s vision pinpoints how the black man strives hard to reach what unfortunately turns out to be nowhere. This constitutes the paradox of his life. It is manifested in the opening scene, wherein Jake finally finds himself at the same point from where he started. Lawd Today was published posthumously – but it had been written by Wright first, even before Native Son. The novel serves as an exemplar of Wright’s early experiment with the third-person omniscient point of view. The external world and the people inhabiting it have been observed and comprehended from Jake’s perspective. There are multi-phonal intrusions in Jake’s stream of consciousness. The day being Lincon's birthday, American radio declares the historical importance of the Emancipation that Jake finds elusive. Besides, the frequent radio announcements on the profundity of the black liberation; a number of dubious commercial advertisements displayed on the signboards and placards; the snake man’s public claim of a mysterious herb from Africa; an emotionless professional call made by the supervisor of the mailing division; the alternate pleading and threats given by his importunate wife; and all the warnings and admonitions of the white Mr. Swanson intermittently encroach upon his inner peace. They drag him out of his ‘self,’ compelling him to meet the demands imposed upon him by the external world. He is required to face reality—and, in the process of doing so, discerns the surrounding hypocrisy. Like The Long Dream, the narrative of Lawd Today incorporates long, italicized passages and frequent placing of the words in capital letters within run-on sentences. Such technique is applied not only to emphasize the words and phrases but also to serve the other purposes as well. The italicized parts of the sentences convey the haziness of the inner thoughts and visions. They also accentuate the relevant segments and arouse the sense of immediacy. What differentiates the narrative of Jake from that of Bigger, Cross, and Fishbelly is the moral and intellectual distance of the implied author. Wright does not identify with Jake. He is not bound to him emotionally, as he does with Bigger and Fishbelly. Nor does he feel any intellectual connection, as happens in the case of Cross. There exists a fairly observable detachment. Moreover, the author uses both description and dialogues to evolve the plot, detail the settings, and develop the characters. He interprets the people, places, and things chiefly from Jake’s point of view. At various junctures, the short, terse, and reportorial nature of the dialogues increases the pace of the narrative – which is dexterously

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set within the orbit of a single day. The day (as mentioned above) happens to be Lincoln’s birthday, one of the great days in American history. Jake of Lawd Today becomes a prototype of thousands of such Jakes in the urban North. He becomes a symbol of the urban poor – to be specific, the African American who had had high hopes of success from the Great Migration. By now, however, he is disillusioned with the claimed generosity of the American North. Wright’s artistic acumen is never exhausted while exploring the novel’s ways of wielding his firsthand experiences in dexterous fictional fabrication. Whatever the method Wright adopts to develop his narratives, the emotional force involved in its execution fastens the reader. He sets up the plot of his novels around the male protagonist; and all his male protagonists, except the hero of Savage Holiday1, are the black antiheroes. They are a frank projection of the African American trauma. Their plight – whether emotional, existential, or intellectual – depends upon the specific context. Deep honesty that underlies their personality makes the reader sympathize with them. Their minds are, more or less, distorted by the external factors; hence, they cannot be held solely responsible for what they become. Whether in the case of Bigger, Cross, Tyree, or Jake, the novelist succeeds in presenting a strong argument in their favor and explains their inherent negativity. However, the given justification differs in each case. It is important to note that one cannot empathize with Cross and Jake to the extent that one can empathize with Bigger and Tyree. Still, Cross and Jake emerge as an unavoidable product of the corrupt and insensitive system. The writer succeeds in the artistic projection of “the Afro American as the metaphor for America and modern man” (Bell, Afro American Novel and Its Tradition, 167) by creating them. Wright prefers the third-person narrative as his favored means of telling their tales. His protagonists seem alternately self-asserting and self-effacing—and the narrator, gradually, gets involved in their feelings and thoughts. The black author identifies with their complexion that matters to every black more than anything else. And, despite maintaining an artistic detachment, he becomes somewhere emotionally attached to them. He sympathizes with their ordeal in the garb of the implied author. Ellison and Baldwin, who endeavored to put more art than protest in their fictional writings, carried Wright’s narrative tradition forward. What Wright announces in the “Blueprint for Negro Writing” (1937) is comparatively more realized in the works of these two writers, especially in Ellison’s novels. Ellison seems to follow Wright’s blueprint more than Wright himself. Wright defines the role of the Negro writer in the following words:

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What Wright instructed to the upcoming black writers, Ellison practically incorporated in his works. Ellison discovered that the Negro culture, stemming from the Negro church and the folklore of the Negro people, would have an immense role in nurturing the Negro art. His literary masterpiece, Invisible Man, is an excellent realization of his artistic striving. Many critics have often termed it as being a “blue novel.” Invisible Man is a fine specimen of beautiful fiction, originated in the artistic consciousness of the author. However, it is equally rooted in the folkways of the group. It exemplifies how the folkloric ways of the community could transcend group-specific situations to render the universal human experience. In the words of one of the critics: Invisible Man was [–] par excellence [–] the literary extension of the blues. It was as if Ellison had taken an everyday twelve[–]bar blues time (by a man from down South sitting in a manhole up North singing and signifying about how he got there) and scored it for [a] full orchestra… it had new dimensions of rhetorical resonance… it was a first rate novel, a blue odyssey, a tall tale… And like the blues, and echoing the irrepressibility of America itself, it ended on a note of promise[ –] ironic and ambiguous, but a note of promise still. The blues[,] with no aid from existentialism[,] have always known that there were no clear-cut solutions for the (visceral) human situations. (Murray, Omni-Americans, 167)

The novel draws its theme, symbols, and images from the folk sources and fabricates an artistic mosaic that reflects the fluidity and variety of the black experience. The dispossession, with regard to the racial elements of American society, is shared by all African Americans. It induces them into inheriting the collective consciousness of their uprooted past, their reminiscences of plantation life, and various folk traditions and rituals, which serve as a perennial source of strength and inspiration. Ellison puts together all those Afro American folkloric traditions, myths, and legends – all of which are resonant in the blues and jazz beats. He weaves them into the very texture and structure of the novel. The intimacy of the Negro dialect incorporated in the narrative makes the narration forceful. It reverberates through that narrative—reflecting the essence of the African American life. The protagonist of this monumental work begins as the

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‘blue hero’ whose spiritual odyssey spreads over a complex and spacious setting. He is the anonymous ethnic hero who comes across various allegorical and legendary characters. His life story mentions the inherent ironies of the apparent black and white world. The author tells the story in the first-person narrative that imparts an intimacy and accuracy to it. Divided into 25 chapters with an added prologue and an epilogue, it traces the journey from naivety to enlightenment. The invisible man attains this enlightenment through the affirmation of his ‘self’ and of his own society. On the other hand, he acknowledges the revitalizing potential of Afro American folk wisdom. His spiritual adventures, almost picaresque in nature and tempo, make the plot episodic. However, the blue mood and jazz beat unite the narrative throughout; giving an impression of its being ‘whole’ than a series of ‘parts.’ The story, set on an epic scale, begins ‘ in medias res.’ The firstperson narrator-hero, having spent a considerable part of his life in learning who he is and what the significance of his inessential existence is in this ever-confusing world, shares his experiences with the hypothetical reader. Sitting in an illuminated underground hole, he ponders upon the metaphorical coexistence of light and darkness. His life history parallels the African American journey from self-negation to self-assertion, which rests on the mythic ‘death and rebirth’ motif. The way Ellison structurally devises the parallel is praiseworthy. The whole narrative scheme epitomizes his hold over the fictional craft. There are a number of such patterns intricately incorporated into the everevolving plot of this novel. Invisible Man is written in the form of a bildungsroman. One episode paves the way for the other and the narrative proceeds with a smooth transition from one chapter to the next. The greenhorn narrator wakes up in the world of blended realities and illusions. He grasps his experiences to attain pragmatism – and conveys those experiences through various images and allusions. As during his earlier academic career, the vision of the college founder juxtaposes the legend of Washington with the metaphor of blindness. The implied author through Barbee’s sightless eyes indicates “various kinds and degrees of blindness to spiritual and social truths” (Ellison, Invisible Man, 199). At the end of Reverend Homer A. Barbee’s turgid speech on the visionary greatness of the founder, the novice protagonist discovers to his amazement: It was when he raised his head that I saw it. For a swift instant, between the gesture and [the] opaque glitter of his glasses, I saw the blinking of sightless eyes. Homer A. Barbee was blind. (Ellison, Invisible Man, 133)

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Barbee lives in the sightless world of illusions and misconceptions. His physical blindness suggests his obliviousness to the facts. Similarly, the invisible man’s one-day errand in ‘Liberty Paints’ exposes the irony of the white American myth of racial purity. Ellison’s characteristic humor and irony are revealed in the wry hilarity and satirical density of the episode. The invisible man is neither a comic hero nor a stereotyped ‘black clown.’ However, he helplessly falls into comic situations. His miserable condition makes him the butt of mockery for a while. Nevertheless, such exposures save him from being permanently fooled by a litany of false assumptions and assertions of the white world. These experiences come as a revelation to his consciousness. Even the accident that occurs in the factory basement – an accident that ultimately ends in his medical admittance – is an opportunity for him to learn. He is kept in the hospital machine, where the author intervenes to suggest a few shocking details. Since the mechanical iron world reinforces the dehumanizing impact of modern technology, the scene alludes to the human predicament. The entire episode showcases how the machine robs a man of his humanity. The invisible man, being a black, is required to look for some countermeasures. Hence, he identifies the ways to dodge the forces which push him back and – somehow – manages to escape. It is the resilience imparted by folk wisdom that rescues him from psychological devastation. The author resuscitates his humanity. The narrator hero’s subsequent meetings with Mary Rambo and the junkman in Harlem are an attempt on the part of the author to resurrect African American folk figures. These inspirational figures have never disappointed the black man. Nor do they ever let the African American’s hope extinguish. These folk figures recuperate history and reinstate the life force. The narrator-hero, passing through his ‘brotherhood’ days, finally steals the identity of Rinehart—a man who is the master of disguise. Rinehart is the Afro American folk trickster whose flexibility and swiftness outsmart every attempt made by his enemies to pull him back. So, he never stops. He never stays in one place. Nor is he ever caught. It symbolizes the African American sustenance, embodied in the example of a living legend. Finally, the apprentice-hero – in the garb of Rinehart – plunges into the darkness of the hole to be reborn as the enlightened Invisible Man. The narrative, in the course of its development, moves in two ways. It evolves horizontally through the chronological depiction of the narrator’s life episodes – and, at the same time, it moves vertically in the sense of his moral elevation. The narrative’s progress parallels the protagonist’s spiritual odyssey. The naïve hero shuttles back and forth between the disappointment of his past and hope for future accomplishments.

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Sometimes, he seems to move ahead. At other times, he finds (to his surprise) that he has retreated to the same regressive reality as previously after having gone on a short, self-indulgent, imaginative flight. What the author so amazingly portrays here is the irony of the Invisible Man’s life. He confidently shares his reminiscences. However, from the description of him, he appears uncertain of what lies next. The implied author suggests as though he does not know what is in store for him in the time to come. It makes him both dubious and cautious at the same time. The suspense as to what lies next arouses the curiosity of the reader. The narrator speaks regarding his past. The very next moment, he seems to comment on what he will meet next. Interestingly, the naïve narrator-hero travels around the whole gamut of the space available. His journey covers a long span of time, which helps him to grow in the process. Finally, the story of the narrator-hero concludes by locating him in the same hole from where he began—thereby reinforcing the cyclic pattern of the African American fiction. It mirrors the nightmare of striving to attain something that proves elusive—as the dreamer (Jake Jackson in Wright’s Lawd Today) finds himself right back where he had started. To quote Roger Rosenblatt: The patterns in the black fiction are cyclical, enclosed and self-sufficient… the certainty of a hero’s entrapment gives him a certain strength, but it also peters him out, and therefore, when he has reached the end of his efforts, after starting out on a circular track, after attempting to change direction by means of his youth, education, love, or humour, or by trying to escape into his own elusive and vague history, after discovering in the failure of all such attempts that the world which has caused all this failure is not only unattainable but undesirable, the hero vanishes. (Rosenblatt, Black Fiction, 199)

The reader finds the Invisible Man disappear in the paradoxically illuminated darkness of the underground hole. Still, the words of the narrator-hero echo optimism as he assures the reader of his reappearance. His assertions underscore his imminent decisive role in future, but how and when, it remains unspoken. The novel can be called an open-ended classic that closes its first-person narrative at one of the critical moments of the African American experience. Having produced a masterpiece in his first fictional attempt, Ralph Ellison took a long time to bring out his other magnum opus Juneteenth. It was published by his literary executor J. F. Callahan. He published Ellison’s second novel posthumously and commented upon its dynamic plan. In his view, Ellison’s craft would have turned Juneteenth into another specimen of artistic excellence if he had not lost its original manuscript. He says, “In [its] conception and execution, Juneteenth is

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multifarious, multifaceted, multifocused, multivoiced, [and] multitoned” (Callahan, “Introduction,” xxix). The novel is unique in its structure and design. What places it among the notable pieces of fictional art is the use of innovative techniques on the part of the author. It is a rare combination of reality and dream. The concretely detailed narrative is imbued with a dreaminess that sustains its wistful nature throughout the development of the plot. The story pegs two protagonists, Hickman and Bliss, at opposite ends in many ways. They are poles apart in their disposition, conviction, cognition, and temperament. Hickman incarnates the Afro American generosity and forgiveness – whereas his adopted son Bliss, whose racial identity remains obscured, exemplifies racial betrayal. The narrative opens with the father attending his dying son who, by then, has turned into an influential Senator. He is shown lying injured in a hospital room. Although the setting is constrained by the four walls of the room, the narrative does not confine itself within temporal and spatial limitations. Both of the central characters travel back through their reminiscences. The plot evolves, building a dialogue between father and son. However, the communication seems to fail. Despite being placed adjacent to each other, they remain distant in many respects. They attempt to correspond – but fail to evoke intimacy in their conversation. Quite paradoxically, it seems as though they are talking to each other while standing on two separate shores—in isolation. Ellison outlines a polarized narrative structure to arrange the events. It exhibits the interlacing texture of the plot. The narrative is antiphonal, since it juxtaposes the voices of both father and son, who speak in alternation. In their attempt to communicate with, and to connect with, each other, they let the reader peep into their minds. The reader perceives the obscured junctions of their lives. The intricate rhythm of their consciousness is conveyed through an inventively woven narrative. Their mind realizes the profound relationship they share with each other. Still, they differ in their respective approaches. While the black father wishes to save his adopted son from being doomed, the son-turned-senator has no apparent regrets. Hickman is well aware of his son’s betrayal of the black world, which had sustained him at his birth. Hence, he assumes a forgiving tone. Both of them share equal space as narrators. However, their narrative stances entirely differ from each other. The narrative incorporates a series of flashbacks, which enable the protagonist’s reclaiming of the past. Having come across after a long span of separation, both the father and the son try to recall those incidents which could establish a connection between them. They endeavor to

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comprehend the meaning of their parallel, yet completely contrasting, lives. Such recuperation is aimed to revive their relationship. But, given their disparate levels of cognizance and comprehension, such a reconciliation seems impossible. The momentary renewal of the bond is illusory. Memories of childhood get juxtaposed with the senator’s feverish impressionistic recollections. The dialogue occurs in a state of halfconsciousness and half-trance. The limited third-person narrator seems to mediate between the two, and all of the three voices overlap. Nonetheless, it is only the third-person perspective which facilitates their dialogue-cuminterior-monologues. Many biblical allusions and archetypes, concomitant to the African American situations, are inventively knitted in the texture of the narrative. It insinuates the idea how the Afro American folk roots and religious faith have served as a perennial source of inspiration. Ellison uses the oratorical power of the gospel and sermons to make his narrative forceful in its approach. The revivalist preacher, Hickman, maintains his ceremonial tone throughout. His preaching conveys the spiritual power of the black church and signifies the role played by the church in shaping the Afro American character. These allusions bear symbolic significance and facilitate the artistic incorporation of the African American myths, legends, and rituals into the narrative. The title alludes to the Juneteenth gospel of African American historical celebration that includes public readings, singing traditional songs and organizing street fairs, reunions and parties etc. ‘Juneteenth,’ referring to June 19, 1865, is the day on which the Union troops entered Texas. It symbolizes the celebration of Black emancipation. Here, the implied author indirectly narrates the African American experience of pain, suffering, despair, death, hope, rejoice, rejuvenation, and resurrection in the American context. He artistically frames the African American predicament in the garb of a gospel. The sermon delivered by Reverend Hickman on this occasion is an evocation of the archetype of death and rebirth motif. It alludes to the biblical excerpt of the “Valley of Dry Bones” in Ezekiel’s dream. A political event interspersed with the historical, religious, and mythical implications becomes an African American parable in the hands of Ellison. He projects the multidimensional nature of the complex African American experience, chiseled in a superb artistic framework. The reader finds Hickman preaching: On this God-given day, brothers and sisters, when we have come together to praise God and celebrate our oneness, our slipping off the chains, let's begin this week of worship by taking a look at the ledger… nobody else is interested in it anyway, so let us enjoy it ourselves, yes, and learn from it…

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Chapter V We[’ve] come here out of Africa, son; out of Africa. Africa? Way over across the ocean? The black land? Where the elephants and monkeys and the lions and tigers are? Yes, [Rev.] Bliss, the jungle land. Some of us have fair skins like you, but [we have come] out of Africa[,] too. … Poor God must have wept like Jesus. Poor Jonah2 went down into the belly of [a] whale, but compared to our journey his was like a trip to paradise on a silver cloud… And they treated us like one great unhuman animal without any face… Without a face[,] Rev. Hickman? Without personality, without names, Rev. Bliss[;] we were made into nobody [–] and not even Mister Nobody either, just nobody. They left us without names… … We were eyeless[,] like Samson3 in Gaza? … Worse, Rev. Bliss, because they chopped us up into little bitty pieces like a farmer when he cuts up a potato. And they scattered us around the land. All the way from Kentucky to Florida; from Louisiana to Texas; from Missouri all the way down the great Mississippi to the Gulf. They scattered us around this land. … We were eyeless, tongueless[,] drumless, danceless, hornless, songless! All true, Rev. Bliss. No eyes to see. No tongue to speak or taste. No drums4 to raise the spirits and wake up our memories. No dance to stir the rhythm that makes life moves. No songs to give praise and prayers to God! … Ho, chant it with me, my young brothers and sisters! Eyeless, tongueless, drumless, danceless, songless, hornless, soundless, sightless, wrongless, rightless, motherless, fatherless, brotherless, sisterless, powerless… WE WERE LIKE THE VALLEY OF DRY BONES! Amen. Like the valley of Dry Bones in Ezekiel’s dream5. Hoooh!… – these dry bones live? Amen! And we heard and rose up… … And if they ask you in the city why we praise the Lord with brass drums and brass trombones[,] tell them we were rebirthed dancing[;] we were rebirthed crying6 affirmation of the Word, quickening7 our transcended flesh…. … Because we had received a new song in a new land and been resurrected [by] both the Word and Will of God! … (Ellison, Juneteenth, 117-127)

The sermon recapitulates the African American historical journey with its emotional overtones executed in its melodramatic manifestation. It gives the impression that the black father is imparting folk wisdom to his ‘miscegenated’ son who has lost his identity. In this racially blended world, the son remains neither black nor white. He is curious to know

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about the ordeals of his ancestors—as such knowledge can help him comprehend his fate. However, how far he will be able to identify himself with his forefathers is a question lurking in the darkness. He may discover his own identity by identifying himself with his forefathers or may not fully relate to them. This 15-page-long sermon is an excellent piece of literary articulation and illustrates Ellison’s mastery over the craft. It is structured in the form of a figurative catechism packed with a number of similes, historical and biblical allusions, reiterative passages, rhetorical questions, psychoanalytical insights, and poetic exuberance. The Juneteenth gospel navigates through the broad range of the main narrative; and the antiphonal nature of the novel keeps its polemics intact. Moreover, it intensifies the emotive impact of the presentation. However, the emotional overflow nowhere conceals the inherent irony of the Afro American experience. In fact, before Hickman can reveal the longpreserved impressions of the day, stored in the form of a collective African American consciousness, Bliss – as the race-baiting politician – expresses his doubt about its reality. He thinks, “So that was it, the night of [the] Juneteenth celebration, his mind went on. The celebration of a gaudy illusion” (Ellison, Juneteenth, 115). The Senator’s seasoned and corrupt perspective does not contain the curious innocence of Bliss’s childhood. His name, ‘Bliss,’ no longer holds true in terms of his christened identity. Hence, Ellison uses two parallel perspectives of father and son, wherein the former believes and sticks to the ideal whereas the latter mocks at the same in his respective position. These apparently opposite perspectives artistically refer to the complex nature of the African American experience. Whether it is the first-person narrative of Invisible Man or the thirdperson narrative of Juneteenth, Ellison’s artistic acumen imprints each episode and every event in both his novels. Despite having identified with the trauma of his protagonists, the writer maintains an artistic detachment. As Callahan aptly remarks, “In both novels, his strategy is one of connotation and infiltration as he seeks to open up associations and create symbolic significance for events in the narrative (Callahan, “Introduction,” xxiv). Like Ellison, Baldwin also acknowledges artistry as being a vital element in writing fiction. In his view, a writer’s skill is that of taking his creation beyond its socio-historical periphery and making it universal. In his essay “The Creative Process” (1962), he states: The artist is distinguished from all other responsible actors in society- the politicians, legislators, educators, and scientists- by the fact that he is his own test tube, his own laboratory, working according to very rigorous rules, however unstated these may be, and cannot allow any consideration

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His first novel, Go Tell It On the Mountain, exemplifies what he believes in as an artist. It is claimed to be one of his well-wrought novels in terms of using intense prose. Moreover, the writer’s artistic use of life’s observations distinguishes it from the journalistic account of black reality in many of his other novels. The novel reveals how the individual experiences of a boy transcend worldly limitations to delineate the general human predicament. Baldwin succeeds in symbolizing the human endeavor to conquer one’s inner wilderness, as depicted through the mental conflict of the protagonist. In this novel, Baldwin carefully portrays the crucial adolescent stage of the protagonist—specifically, his growing into manhood. The plot is well devised in three sections. The center of the action is the protagonist’s dilemma – one which also represents the collective religious experience of the blacks. The novel, which is quite identical to the theatrical mode of presentation, follows the unity of time, place, and action that makes its structure quite taut. Part One, entitled “The Seventh Day,” fixes its setting as Saturday, March 1935, in Harlem. The date also happens to be the ninth birthday of the protagonist John Grimes. The compactness provided by the threefold unity aids in intensifying the emotional impression it generates. The spatial setting of Harlem is adhered to until the end of the novel with only slight internal shifting from John’s apartment to Central Park, to a movie theater to the ‘Threshing Floor’ of a Pentecostal church. The omniscient third-person narrator, who gives an account of John’s inner battle, narrates his story. John’s bastardry and his black skin imply a sense of perdition as he is born not only out of wedlock but with the dark stigma of racial inferiority to be carried forever. Baldwin skillfully incorporates two metaphors to portray the black experience. The Afro American is the bastard son of the west; hence, his identity remains in flux. John, too, fails to get recognition from his stepfather. Similarly, John’s act of sweeping implies the Afro American desperation to wash away sins—sins implicated by the darkness of their skin. John, while cleaning the room, gets frustrated—since the dust settles back onto the carpet. It evinces how the African American can neither take off his skin nor even lighten its shade by the ritual of daily bathing. The antithesis of darkness and light, representing the ideas of damnation and salvation by means of conventional chiaroscurist symbolism, reinforces the protagonist’s obsession with a sense of shame and cleanliness. He is ashamed of his skin and would like to wash its darkness away.

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In spite of the given setting, the narrative is bound by neither temporal nor spatial constraints. The characters, who partake in the central action, broaden the narrative’s range through their reminiscences. A series of flashbacks formulate Part Two, entitled “The Prayer of the Saints.” Here, the author uses the act of ‘prayer’ as a trope. The title not only invokes the ritual of offering prayer in the black church but also makes it a symbol of the Afro American faith in terms of the redemptive power of religion. On the other hand, the oblique irony inherent in the so-called ‘saints’ hints at the questionable sainthood of the characters who offer those prayers. This section consists of three prayers by Gabriel, aunt Florence, and Elizabeth. These prayers are structured in the form of a retreat to memories; and constitute interior monologues that allow the omniscient narrator to probe into the thoughts and feelings of all three characters. Their prayers become instrumental in tracing African American history from the gloomy plantation life of the ‘Deep South’ to the later disillusionment of the Northern ghettos. The narrative also inquires as to the institutionalized setup of religion, which is nothing but a reflection of emotional desperation. What does this desperation signify? The church is the only institution endorsed, for the blacks, by the white world. Does it reveal the white world’s intention to grant blacks a sense of eternal damnation, along with an image of a benevolent white God? The multi-layered narrative of Go Tell It On the Mountain has a number of such opaque significations. The interior monologue framed in each prayer gives a glimpse into the draining of each precant’s moral strength. It also presents Baldwin’s reassessment of religious and cultural definitions of virtue and vice. Each one of them holds a personal sin on one’s part, which explains one’s present predicament. It makes the person herself/himself specifically responsible for her/his own damnation. Baldwin sounds pessimistic and one-sided in acknowledging only ‘damnation’ but no alternative (such as ‘salvation’). However, quite purposely, the author here indicates the common ironical situation a black finds herself/himself in—the situation, which holds the victimized black (rather than her/his victimizer - that is, racist elements of the white world that use religion as a weapon of psychological subjugation and internalized oppression) specifically responsible for her/his own ostracism and damnation. In fact, they account their sins for inheriting the type of life they have lived through, respectively. Baldwin seems to be saying that existentialism—by claiming that a person has "no excuses" and must take responsibility for the consequences of his own actions— has been used to subjugate blacks, and then he uses it in reverse to require the white world to take responsibility for having oppressed blacks (despite that world's devious attempt to claim

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that blacks themselves are responsible for the suffering caused by racist elements of the white world). Part Three “The Threshing-Floor” combines cinematographic commentary on John’s conversion, staged in front of the altar on the church floor, with a psychological reading of his mind. The omniscient narrator indicates a close identification with the protagonist that enables him to project his mental conflict. It finally ends in the spiritual resolve experienced by John after his religious ordeal is over. At the inception of Baldwin’s literary career, his narrative art seems to be at the height of perfection, as his later works lack the coherence of Go Tell It On the Mountain. In this novel, he not only weaves a series of flashbacks, shifting points of view, and interior monologues in the main narrative but also uses pulpit oratory to intensify the meaning. He artistically interpolates many biblical symbols and subtle metaphors within its narrative fabric. The author deftly transforms John’s anguish into the collective tragedy of the African Americans in general. The narrative observes a growth from a particular to the general connotation. The dexterity of the whole impression proves the artistic worth of the writer. What Baldwin exemplified in his first novel did not continue with the same force in his subsequent works. The narrative of Go Tell It On the Mountain was a shift from the protest novel to the artistic resurrection of the African American experience. In his essays “Everybody’s Protest Novel” and “Many Thousand Gone,” Baldwin had already criticized Richard Wright for having created Bigger Thomas as a figure who internalized the white myth of the ‘bad n-gger.’ Hence, Baldwin’s first novel Go Tell It On the Mountain was regarded as an inauguration of the new era of constructive possibilities. But, the author did not fulfill his promise further, to the fullest extent possible. Deviating from his artistic tenets, Baldwin’s later works appear to be more about protest than about an artistic re-creation of the black experience. However, his novels follow his professed aesthetics, to some extent. Although Baldwin’s later works do not epitomize pure art, their constitution as half-art, half-protest reflects the continuity of the African American literary tradition. Like Wright’s Bigger and Jake, Baldwin’s novel Another Country also seems to accept the debasing and dehumanized stereotype of the black as expressed in its central figure, Rufus. The novel, structured in three parts, portrays the blended black and white bohemian world. Interestingly, Baldwin’s bohemian world appears quite chaotic on account of an antithetical love-hate relationship writlarge. It is marked by compassion, intense fury, and rage—all at the same time. It also outlines a multi-tier structure which involves race, gender,

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and class. These elements not only affect the inclusion or exclusion of the individual in a specific group but also materialize the identity of that individual or group. It determines the overall socio-cultural milieu of that alternately created place. The whites stand above ground – whereas the blacks find themselves buried underneath, occupying space in the bottommost stratum. It reinforces the image of the black man living underground – having achieved vision and enlightenment, only to find himself buried in a place where that light cannot penetrate the white world (such as Ellison’s Invisible Man living in the hole).The author makes the omniscient third-person narrator penetrate the surface appearance. He digs into the underlying reality that exposes its split character. Moreover, he builds a paradox founded on the antithetical nature of these two worlds. The black underworld is capable of perceiving truths even more clearly amidst the darkness of life. This is in opposition to its white counterpart, which – even when those realities are clearly visible in broad daylight – is ironically oblivious to them. The implied author, having discerned the two parallel domains lying beneath the elusive unified exterior, builds the narrative. He sets it in Greenwich Village, delineating the surroundings and acquainting the reader with the people who dwell in the place. The world is perceived through Rufus’s consciousness. Other characters, too, partake in the narrative action; and the plot evolves. But to the utter surprise of the reader, the central figure Rufus commits suicide and disappears from the subsequent pages – even before the completion of the first half of the novel. This brings an unanticipated twist in the narrative, and simultaneously arouses curiosity regarding the fate of the story. How can the plot be carried convincingly in the absence of its protagonist? The novel progresses – and in the course of time, the reader discovers that Rufus, despite his early elimination, remains in the consciousness of all other characters. He might have departed physically – yet his halfarticulated sentiments irresistibly haunt the memories and actions of the others. His invisible presence exerts a strong influence—one which not only directs but also defines their moves. The narrative is woven around eight major characters—Rufus, Vivaldo, Ida, Cass, Richard, Leona, Eric, and Yves. The said ensemble in the novel dramatically creates a multi-dimensional scenario. All the characters sporadically confront each other in their sexual, racial, artistic, and intellectual overtures in terms of certain close personal and professional relationships. The author manipulates their exploits in ways designed to present diverse points of view. They become instrumental in interlinking, as well as contrasting, different stances. Rufus’s sister Ida becomes the voice of the absent protagonist and brings his point of view

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back into the limelight. Although Rufus is dead, his murder-cum-suicide becomes the center of discussion amidst the ongoing action, since Ida speaks for him. Similarly, Eric exposes the racial and sexual hypocrisy practiced by many people, and he does it by slashing through the barriers of color and sex. Vivaldo and Cass, while arguing for their own innocence, postulate the white point of view. All of them are trapped in an emotional vortex. They attempt to break free of it, but unfortunately find themselves plunging deeper into it. The entire narrative reverberates with the archproposition that exposes the white world’s inability to understand what it means to be a black. What is noteworthy here is that Rufus, Ida, Vivaldo, and Richard are all artists. However, their artistic sensibilities fail to bridge the gap that dissociates their consciousness along the dividing lines of race and color. Instead of interrupting the smooth flow of the narrative by directly interfering with it through the intervention of an omniscient voice, Baldwin prefers to implicate his arguments within the texture of the story itself. He incorporates the structural device of Vivaldo's ongoing ecriture. Vivaldo’s creation of a micro-world in the form of his unfinished novel interestingly represents the chaos experienced by everyone in their uncontrollable real life. Vivaldo’s manoeuver as a writer is an example of Baldwin’s artistic use of a ‘subtext’ within the text. In the whole episode, Vivaldo’s failure to understand the characters of his novel reflects as well as parallels his inability to perceive Rufus’s discomfort and despair. The narrative runs the entire gamut of human relationships. Given the existing racial and gender differences, these emotional bonds notably complicate life. And yet, the narrator intends to not only share but also comment on the reality of such experiences. Baldwin’s last three novels – Tell Me How Long the Train’s Been Gone, If Beale Street Could Talk, and Just Above My Head – were received in comparatively lower esteem because of the enormous success of his earlier works. Critics regarded them as representing an artistic decline in his literary career. These works were criticized for the inherent inconsistencies in their respective plots and characters. In fact, many critics called his novel Tell Me How Long the Train’s Been Gone thin, melodramatic, and suffering from conclusions not supported by its narrative. No doubt, in his later novels, the description seems to weaken at various points. Some passages appear overwritten; while a couple of others are discovered by some as being carelessly crafted. But a few imperfections cannot be taken as being the sole criterion used to assess the quality of his entire work. Hence, the pointed flaws do not justify the accusations on strong grounds. A few incidental lacunae cannot be sufficiently valid reasons for altogether discarding the novel’s worth.

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Definitely, at this later stage of his writing, Baldwin’s intent was more to experiment with the voice and form of his fiction than to merely once again demonstrate his already-demonstrated artistic perfection. One can observe a shift from a third-person narrative voice to first-person narration in his later works. Lynn Orilla Scott argues for Baldwin’s stylistic preference as having been a deliberate choice on his part. In her essay, “Baldwin’s Reception and the Challenge of His Legacy,” she states: Baldwin gave up the tighter, more formal structures of his earliest works. For example, the compartmentalized and isolated voices of the characters in Go Tell It On the Mountain give way to experiments in first-person narration. These novels demonstrate a relationship between author and character (i.e., Baldwin’s relationship to Leo Proudhammer, Tish Rivers, and Hall Montana) that parallels a jazz musician’s relationship to his instrument as an extension or elaboration of the performer’s self. (Scott, Baldwin’s Later Fiction, 104)

Tell Me How Long the Train’s Been Gone is a tale of the artist protagonist, Leo. The protagonist, imbued with a sense of authenticity, narrates it elaborately giving minute details of his life as it comes to him. In the thirdperson narration as used by Baldwin, there is usually a structure founded on inter-subjectivity. The voice of the third-person narrator coincides with the points of view of various characters involved in the story. But having been written in the first person, Tell Me How Long the Train’s Been Gone differs from Baldwin’s earlier narrative stance. There is no external voice. It is only Leo, the protagonist-narrator who shares his reminiscences with the reader, who voices his thoughts. The author gives space to experimentation in his narrative craft. He implicitly goes for the superimposition of two states of mind, manifested in the two stages of the narrator hero’s life. Akin to Ellison’s superb narrative of the life of the Invisible Man, it involves the act of retelling. The protagonist-narrator retraces the earlier course of his life from his ripened understanding of his later years. For example, the boyhood years of Leo in Harlem emerge out of the flashbacks provided. These glimpses into those years are interwoven with the main narrative, which deals with Leo’s struggle and his subsequent achievement of fame in the dazzling world of theatre. There are many such temporal shifts in the story. The adult Leo recapitulates his earlier life from a comparatively mature perspective—the vantage point of his lengthy experience. The distinction between the adult Leo and his younger-self establishes a pattern of related minds. Although both are the same person, the time elapsed in between distinguishes the earlier perspective from the latter one. Baldwin uses this technique well, though with certain limitations in terms of presenting contrasting motifs. Still, it

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undoubtedly exemplifies the experimental mode, which had already been applied earlier by Ellison in his monumental work Invisible Man. Baldwin continues with his experimental mode even in the fifth novel If Beale Street Could Talk, wherein he again uses first-person narrative. This time, however, the narrator is a nineteen-year-old woman. The physically delicate but spiritually strong black female protagonist replaces the black male protagonist of his last novel, Tell Me How Long the Train’s Been Gone. The author tells the story from the female perspective; and what makes this experiment interesting is that it investigates how the racial world systematically pulverizes black machismo using certain stereotypical images. The narrative shows how hard it is for the African American male to uphold his manhood—especially in a society that nurtures the myth of ‘black men as rapists.’ The entire administrative machinery facilitates exploitation of vulnerable blacks and makes street fights and police harassment a daily ritual in a world in which racist assumptions are writ large. It takes a toll on black womanhood, too. The author portrays the black woman’s trauma quite sensitively. The narratorheroine of the novel, Tish, probes into the matter of racial prejudices and operational mechanism of white-dominated state institutions. She tries to find answers to clear her doubts. The opening scene puts a question mark on the rationality of the world and its systems. Then, narrating her own story, she enquires into the senselessness of certain happenings. To her surprise, she discovers that fate punishes the innocent – and that life germinates under the curse of death. She also observes that one has no other choice but to live amidst utter meaninglessness. The plot unfolds through a series of flashbacks and interior monologues. The narrative begins: I look at myself in the mirror. I know that I was christened Clementine, and so it would make sense if people called me Clem, or even, come to think of it, Clementine, since that’s my name: but they don’t. People call me Tish. I guess that makes sense, too. I’m tired, and I’m beginning to think that may be everything that happens makes sense. Like, if it didn’t make sense, how could it happen? But that’s really a terrible thought. It can only come out of trouble- trouble that doesn’t make sense. (Baldwin, Beale Street, 3)

It was, indeed, a bold attempt on the part of Baldwin to narrate the story from a woman’s perspective. He was more likely to fail, since a male interpretation of feminine sentiments might not appear authentic. As predicted, the novel manifests certain limitations. However, the author admirably overcomes the obstacles to a great extent. Although the narration seems to weaken at places, the narrative develops convincingly and does not collapse completely. Being male, the author occasionally

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flounders in handling the female point of view, primarily when he deals with intricate female emotions. Still, he successfully carries the experiment through to its conclusion. Baldwin structures the novel in two parts – and, unexpectedly, allots unequal space to these divisions. The first part, “Trouble About My Soul,” is more than 100 pages long – in contrast to the (only 20 pages long) second part, entitled “Zion.” The strikingly uneven apportionment raises a number of valid questions about the author’s art. What could be the possible reason for such a lopsided structure? Is it an experiment for some specific purpose? Does author wish to create some impression through this skewed narrative schema? Perhaps the whole overture is a stylistic attempt to reflect the nature of the content through its form. Baldwin matches the content with the form through his experimentation. The novelistic division gives the impression of a long story concluded with a succinct end. Since the end of many African American tales of suffering is the same as it ever has been, its ending does not need explanation. As the title (“Trouble About My Soul”) indicates, the first part elaborates upon black agony and restlessness. The trouble of their soul is endless. Even after completing a long journey, the black man finds himself at the same place. There is no remarkable change in the outlook of the racial world. It deepens his agony. The ever-existing dilemma of hope and despair continues. Hence, the first section narrates the long story of suffering and pain—a story spanning over 100 pages. Now, what does the black man finally reach? Where does he go? The second part provides a brief conclusion of 20 pages, referring to the heavenly city of ‘Zion.’ With his enormous spiritual strength, the black man still keeps his hope alive. The end of each black story is almost same. It summarizes the African American fate, which is practically defined. What Baldwin seems to propose, through the brevity of the concluding part, is the two-line ending of seemingly every black tale. It echoes the collective truth of their lives. In the absence of any choice, they are compelled to accept their fate. The trauma continues. Perhaps, this has caused the author to deliberately opt for the awkward shift from the first person to the third person in the “Zion” section. The self-evident close does not require any subjective perception. In the very beginning of this section, the female protagonist announces, “Fonny is working in the wood. It is a soft, brown wood[;] it stands on his worktable. He has decided to do a bust of me. The wall is covered with sketches. I am not there’ (Baldwin, Beale Street, 191). The narrative, announcing the absence of the first-person narrator, is further carried along by the seemingly omniscient third-person narrator. Although it features the first-person ‘I,’ this is Fonny’s ‘I’—which is

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intermittently used by the third-person narrator in an attempt to peep into the protagonist’s mind. The narrative continues: But he does not know what day it is[;] he cannot remember how long ago it was that he was taken to the showers. I’ll ask somebody today, he thinks, and then I’ll remember. I’ve got to make myself remember. I can’t let myself go like this. He tries to remember everything he has ever read about life in prison. He can remember nothing. His mind is as empty as a shell; rings, like a shell, with a meaningless sound[;] no questions, no answers[—] nothing. And he stinks. … (Baldwin, Beale Street, 193)

Continuing with the experimentation, Baldwin again chooses the firstperson narrative in his last novel Just Above My Head. It is a story of two brothers. The elder one, Hall, narrates the story of his younger brother Arthur in the ebb and flow of his memory. The narrative, being the spiritual odyssey of a black artist, flows with a subtle connotation. Baldwin finds the subject very close to his heart. As an artist, he has always wished to purge his artistic sentiments. His excessive emotional involvement with the issue is both veiled and unveiled through his speculative craft. It has, in fact, helped him attain the detachment required for the aesthetic objectivity. Perhaps that is why Baldwin, instead of himself entering into the garb of the narrator, prefers one of the characters to perform that task. Here, the comparatively mature perspective of the elder brother Hall is used to decipher the feelings and thoughts of various other characters. The narrative doesn’t show a linear progression. On the contrary, it fluctuates among different points of time. The broken time sequence and use of flashbacks lead the narrative along a zigzag course. Hall’s memory, entering into various stages of life at multiple levels, moves to and fro in the course of narrating numerous incidents that develop the plot. The author, in the flow of his reminiscences, incidentally captures specific events and suggests their sequence in time—fixing them into a brokensequential frame. Hall thinks: We had decided that, just before he’d gone to London. It was Arthur who [had] insisted. I [then] worked in the advertising department of a black magazine… Arthur was around twenty-six, which means that we had edged into the sixties. (Baldwin, Above My Head, 54)

In spite of the story being recounted by the first-person narrator, Baldwin does not seem restricted by his limited access. He does not confine his narrator to a given time and place. Hall is capable of entering into and reading the minds of all other characters. His omniscience lies in his

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virtual presence, despite being absent from the scene. Whether he witnesses the scene or not, he knows what is happening around him. What are the characters talking about in their respective engagements with passing events? How are events moving in a particular direction? The reader observes that Hall doesn’t accompany his mother Florence and his girlfriend Martha when they plan to take Julia’s mother Amy for her medical check-up, yet he is capable of narrating in detail what happens there. What do they converse about? He is also well aware of what is going on between Julia and her father after Amy’s death. How does Julia bank (rely) on Crunch for emotional support? There are plenty of examples when Hall seems to narrate authentically without being physically present at the moment. The dramatic device of “willing suspension of disbelief” helps the reader to accept such an omnipresence of the first-person narrator. Otherwise, it is hard to convince readers of the narrator’s well-apprised updates with such detailed descriptions of what goes on in the minds of other characters. The narrative accommodates various characters’ separate but connected lives; and progresses with a convincing tone. The novels of Wright, Ellison, and Baldwin are exemplars of African American literary growth and of their experimentation with the art of narration. These stalwarts excel in their fictional craft in distinct ways. Their experimental mode makes their literary contribution even more significant in comparison to the works produced in conventional format. Perhaps it is the aesthetic sensibilities of the artist that makes the voice of the oppressed so forceful in their fictional renderings.

Notes 1

The exclusion of Savage Holiday, in the present analysis, is a deliberate omission on account of the absence of any black character in the novel. Published in 1954, Savage Holiday is the only published work of Richard Wright’s which contains no black character. In a nutshell, the novel narrates the story of its white protagonist, Erskine Fowler, who is an insurance executive. But – forced by corporate intrigue into the long holiday of retirement – he becomes entangled in the complexities of an unforeseen situation. He experiences a strange weekend of bizarre and bloody circumstances. Despite its marked detachment from the primary issue of ‘race,’ the novel depicts the same sense of confinement and self-destructive rage that characterizes the behavior of Wright’s other protagonists. Wright, in the case of Erskine Fowler, too, reveals the same troubled psyche and desperation experienced by his other black anti-heroes like Bigger, Cross, and Jake (in Native Son, The Outsider, and Lawd Today, respectively). The novel, being categorized as an

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experimental work, is considered as being an apt specimen of psychological fiction. 2 Jonah is the name given in the Hebrew Bible to a prophet of the northern Kingdom of Israel in about the 8th century BCE. The Hebrew word Jonah uses to describe how far down he went. It is the same word used elsewhere in the Hebrew scriptural canon to describe death itself. Ellison is using this analogy in comparison to the blacks' having gone down to the depths of despair, as Jonah did. "out of the belly of hell [i.e. the grave; death] cried I ... I went down to the bottoms of the mountains; the earth with her bars was about me forever: yet hast thou brought up my life" (Jonah 2:2,6 KJV). Ellison goes on to link this with the Ezekiel passage of the Dry Bones, which refers to the hope of being raised from death (in parallel to Jonah's hope of being liberated from the confinement of the whale--which, ironically, is the means of preserving his life (through the storm). This preservation of the life of Jonah later results in the rescue of countless lives of people in Nineveh in a dramatic reversal and astonishing twist so incredible that it astounds even Jonah. Ellison's implication would presumably be that, to use a biblical allusion, "I consider that our present sufferings are not comparable to the glory that will be revealed in us" (Romans 8:18, BSB 2016). 3 Ellison refers to Samson, a character mentioned in the Book of Judges in the Hebrew Bible and artistically builds a simile, “like a farmer when he cuts up a potato.” This clever - and, indeed, brilliant - analogy connects with the theme of hope even in the depths of despair. In the case of the Samson story, the hero/antihero is captured in bondage (like the blacks), and his eyes are put out. All hope seems lost. And yet, he sneakily uses his disability to place himself in a location where - after calling for divine assistance - he achieves his greatest victory. Ellison is using word play by connecting this to the multiple sprouts or 'eyes' of a potato. Like the blacks (whose families have been forcefully dismembered by cruel auctioning), a farmer's knife cuts out the eyes or sprouts of the potato--and from the potato's perspective, it might seem that all hope is lost. However, in a dramatic reversal, each of those sprouts - when sown in rich black soil and rooted within it - grow to emerge victorious in their production of an astonishingly large number of flourishing and thriving plants--all of which had come from a single potato. Just as Samson used his disability to his advantage, Ellison is portraying a dramatic reversal in which the very act of dominance (the blinding of Samson's eyes, or the cutting out of the eyes of a potato) proves to be essential to the astonishing victory to come (for instance, Samson's subsequent victory is greater than anything he had achieved earlier in his career). 4 One can observe the ethnography of spirit drumming (in which, under the influence of a hallucinogen, a drummer would use a talking drum - a kind of drum which has different sounds, enabling it to mimic human speech - to summon an ancestral spirit and 'vocalize' his or her words). Thus, the author's allusion literally 'gives voice' to black cultural heritage--which, though it might seem dead at times, lives on. 5 The reference is to Ezekiel 37, with its promise of new life in response to lost hope (vv. 11, 14). "Rose up" is an allusion to v. 10. Ezekiel was written during in the post-exilic period. Here, the passage is being cited in parallel to the 'exile' of

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enslaved blacks torn from their homeland--and yet imbued with renewed hope of a new birth of life and freedom. https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Ezekiel+37%3A1%2D14&versio n=NIV 6 This is an allusion to Psalm 150:3-4, "Praise him by blowing trumpets loudly ... Praise him by beating drums and by dancing" (UDB 2018), and v. 6, "Let everything that breathes praise ...!" (CSB 2017). Psalm 150 holds a special place in the Hebrew scriptural canon as it is the finale of the book of Psalms, which although it contains plenty of content about suffering (i.e. "there we wept") concludes on a dramatic high note. Ellison is implying that despite black suffering, their future is incredibly promising and joyous. 7 Ellison is connecting this with the previous mention of rebirth (which itself links to the Dry Bones passage). "Quickening" is a reference to the KJV translation of Romans 8:11, "he [God] that raised up Christ from the dead shall also quicken your mortal bodies"--"quicken" means "give life to" (NKJV)--which, in this context, means to "live again" (UDB 2018)--a resurrection; a rebirth (two terms used by Ellison here).

Works Cited Baldwin, James. “Creative Process.” In Creative America. New York: Ridge Press, 1962. Bell, Bernard W. The Afro American Novel and Its Tradition. Amherst: The University of Massachusetts Press, 1987. Bloom, Herold. James Baldwin. Philadelphia: Chelsea House, 2006. Ervin, Hazel Arnett, ed. African American Literary Criticism, 1773 to 2000. New York: Twayne Publishers, 1999. Margolies, Edward. The Art of Richard Wright. Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1969. Murray, Albert. The Omni-Americans. New York: Avon, 1970. Raina, M. L. ‘Black Violence: Black Despair: Richard Wright and Ralph Ellison.” In The American Political Novel: Critical Essays, edited by Harish Trivedi. New Delhi: Allied Publishers, 1984. Rosenblatt, Roger. Black Fiction. Cambridge: Harvard Univ. Press, 1974. Scott, Lynn Orilla. James Baldwin’s Later Fiction: Witness to the Journey. East Lansing: Michigan State Univ. Press, 2002.

CONCLUSION THE FINAL DESTINATION

The post/modern perspective views art in broad terms. The popular premise that literature is a structure of signs confers upon each text the status of a cultural signifier. Since a literary artist construes the inexhaustible human experience to showcase all its involved aesthetics, his work represents life in general. The text vivifies its subject matter— inculcating the living reality of diverse experiences – in all their fullness, intensity, and dynamism – into the mind of the reader. Hence, to decipher the inherent multi-layered significations of the text becomes a matter both of individual ingenuity and of the collective cognizance of existing internal and external truths. The artist’s creative faculty actively partakes in the process of undertaking such conscious efforts at the representation of living reality both in general and in particular forms. African American artists have translated their unique experience into verbal constructs. Literature, as a genre, has not only provided them a voice to articulate their sentiments but has also diverted their energy toward constructive channels. Instead of surrendering to an inevitable decimation amidst dark surroundings, they have pursued a creative expediency in the form of art (be it the heart-throbbing beats of jazz or the rich repository of African American literature). African American authors present their long tale in the form of an artistic design. The spectacle manifests as a panorama vibrant in all its nuances. Their narrative constitutes a historical discourse that subsumes all kinds of polemics— including the dialectics of fact or fiction, nurture versus nature, art or propaganda, and being or becoming. It gives an outlet to their individual and group sensibilities; and it accommodates numerous other critical, philosophical, intellectual, and ideological arguments. Many black artists have contributed to its growth; and a few stalwarts, such as Richard Wright, Ralph Ellison, and James Baldwin, in virtue of their dynamic and artistic articulation, carve a separate niche in the realm of literature. The works of African American writers evince distinct emotional and ideological patterns that relate the sensitivity of the human soul to the aesthetics of literary art presented in a socio-political frame. Their fictional

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personae incarnate the African American as being a marginal man alienated from American society. Although he is kept away from its rewarding paybacks, he remains rooted in place, immovable; belonging— an inescapable reality of being; a permanent force of nature like a terebinth tree – which, though battered by storms and tempests, can literally endure and flourish – for a thousand years. Moreover, he acquires double vision that enhances his insight on account of simultaneously existing both outside and inside the American culture. The African American man is capable of viewing his own “invisibility”—the invisibility itself is what induces retaliation. It turns into a recurrent trope for conveying his sociopolitical repudiation of a black man’s historic neglect. In fact, it becomes instrumental in showing the deliberate obliteration of his human existence. He questions; Why is he viewed as a non-entity? How long will the persecution continue? The fictional journey of the black protagonists parallels the African American historical journey from self-negation to self-assertion. Each of the three authors discussed in the present study beautifully incorporates the metaphors of ‘blindness’ and ‘journey’ to delineate the peculiar black experience. Their fictional world signifies the historic stance of the black Americans to counter the anti-democratic practices of the self-deceptive elements of American democratic society. It reflects their agenda of challenging the oppressive system. The coexistence of different values in a social setup creates a legal and moral dilemma—one which the system needs to reconcile within its contrite configuration. It needs to acknowledge that the racist hegemony and marginalization of the blacks have resulted in the distortion of the human psyche. African American fiction projects the pretentiousness of certain American ideals. Additionally, the African American becomes a vehicle by which to probe into these inconsistencies. Exposing the irony of some promulgated values, he evolves as a spiritual force—and represents the inner voice of human conscience. In the African American literary reconnaissance, the black writer’s expostulations turn into a strong plea, which aims to resolve the paradox. Wright, Ellison, and Baldwin succeed in their attempt to articulate the same black voice in their fiction. Wright, Ellison, and Baldwin convey the black collective consciousness throughout their works. However, they vary in their positioning and approach. Each of the three authors views the black reality from a different perspective. This provides a specific emotional and ideological orientation to their writings. Wright accuses the whites of manipulating and controlling black behavioral patterns as well as emotions. He depicts how it impairs not only the optimistic interracial prospects but also the Negro

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fellowship. For instance, Wright in The Long Dream indicates the fellowship between the son and his deceased father, in terms of drawing on his legacy. Likewise, Ellison, too, discusses fellowship in terms of cultural solidarity and religious union both in Invisible Man and Juneteenth. With regard to interracial prospects, Baldwin seems to portray pessimism in terms of impairment of the optimistic prospects. Sources of the optimism itself, though, have yet to be fully defined or explored. Ellison, for instance, referencing the Christian tradition, might draw on Galatians 3:28, "There is ... neither slave nor free, ... for you are all one"; all three authors, however, portray a love-hate interracial relationship which focuses on the impairment of fellowship, and how it can be torn down--but to a great extent these writers explore steps they believe both blacks and whites can take together to build a closer fellowship that endures all. They endeavor to identify the factors which could be inhibitive in realizing the American cultural idea of a ‘salad bowl.’ Hence, their fiction strives to address the problematic that restricts the actual realization of certain American values. Baldwin holds the blacks’ color consciousness responsible for their trauma, as it exists in their psyche as a continuous form of torture. In his view, the white world would never let the black forget the color of his skin – not even for a moment. Consequently, it distorts the emotional fabric of the individual and inhibits the growth of healthy feelings. The compulsion of finding some positive values to cling to persuades the African Americans into further investigation. They initiate an inner probing of the specifically identified problematic—problematic that may mar their hope of healthy race relations. It constitutes their spiritual journey. Almost all the protagonists of Wright, Ellison, and Baldwin undertake it. In the course of its progression, they endeavor to explore the possibilities of healthy interpersonal relationships. However, in view of the prevailing racial prejudices, they view the liaison between the two different races is doomed to fail. In fact, both the groups have been unable to reconcile with each other since their first racial encounter. Still, they sustain the hope of finding a concrete solution to the racial issue in the time to come. Wright invokes a sympathetic association among Max, Jane, and Bigger in Native Son, and between Cross and Ely Houston in The Outsider. On account of the limited scope and oppressive external impositions, these characters could not succeed in carrying the bond too far. Their association fails to attain a positive end – yet the undertaken effort enables them, at least, to understand each other. Interestingly, what facilitates the connection between them is the same sense of marginalization and relegation. All of them undergo the same persecution

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at different junctures in their respective lives. Max and Jane being communists, and Ely Houston being a hunchback, they become the outsiders like Bigger and Cross – and hence, they can empathize with these black anti-heroes. The author rests the fate of such association with the time to come. Perhaps, the future will reveal what lies ahead for the racial relationships in America. It depends on what the American society promises to both the races. How will it facilitate the growth of their emotional ties in a positive direction? Nevertheless, since the white heart is incapable of measuring the depth of the black sentiments, Baldwin’s couples Rufus-Leona and Vivaldo-Ida meet with the same disappointment that indicates the failure of the interracial relationship. Moreover, the racial milieu distorts the intra-racial ties, too. Jake beats Lil; Tyree exploits the ignorance and need of his community people; John rebels against his stepfather Reverend Gabriel; Fishbelly decides to play a “hit the n-gger game”; and Mr. Bledsoe manipulates the naïve protagonist of Invisible Man. The African American author shares the extent of the damage done by racism—and in a full sweeping wave, exposes the foibles of both the races. He shows how role-playing warps the black characters, which are compelled to live a self-deceiving life. His fictional configuration deliberately introduces a dramatic moment, which shakes his characters out of their illusions. These black characters, while trapped in some prototype situation, find themselves in a fix. Suddenly, they drop their outer persona—and transform! In the fiction of Wright, Ellison, and Baldwin, most of the characters (except for a few black heroes such as Fishbelly, the Invisible Man, and Hall) fail to cope with their concrete reality. Having been burdened with an imposed identity, they look for a way out – but (exasperatingly) end up with no hope or deliverance. If they succeed in liberating their soul to some extent, it is only through a metaphysical flight—since the actual world is as disappointing and consuming as it was when they began their spiritual odyssey. However, amidst all dread and despair, a few strong characters like Fishbelly, the Invisible Man, and Hall survive—giving a ray of hope for the new dawn. While Richard Wright and James Baldwin behold the black man in relation to the white world, its myths, and its widely propagated racial assumptions, Ralph Ellison slightly differs in his approach. He posits that the Negro is to be defined not only in reactive terms to the whites but also as an independent human being. The black man has his own formative experience. He does not exist solely in terms of his dependence on the white world for his recognition. Ellison’s fictional motif comprises the search for the Afro American folk roots that may redefine black existence.

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It changes the African American perspective, resulting in looking inward. First, he is required to figure out his own ‘self.’ Then, he must discover some meaning in the outwardly-seeming meaninglessness of the black experience. The African American historical context haunts the fictional narratives of all three authors. Wright and Baldwin recuperate the historical consciousness in their fiction, to a limited extent; whereas Ellison explores it to its full potential. The act of redefining the Afro American experience involves an acceptance both of one’s history and of its positive interpretation. In his quest, Wright discovers a number of white lies. However, the same revelations appear to Baldwin as being a mistaken judgment. Baldwin explicates those lies as a misrepresentation of the black emotions. Distinct from both of these stances, Ellison turns inward. He goes a step further—and, turning the historical disadvantage into a stepping stone, metaphorically portrays the black journey as being a learning experience. He is much advanced in his approach—and conveys, quite efficaciously, what a black man needs to unlearn. In his opinion, the ordeal passed through by the African American renders him more mature and intelligent. Wright’s anger, Baldwin’s sentimentality, and Ellison’s equanimity characterize their fiction, respectively; which the critics regard as being instrumental in giving the African American emotional and ideological strivings a direction at a particular historical juncture. Their writings – while put together in sync– create a watershed moment in the artistic delineation of African American journey to the power dome. Their novels hold a significant place in the African American literary quest for [integrating] their individual and collective identities. In the case of Wright, Ellison, and Baldwin, it is not merely the emotional quotient of fiction that inculcates force into their words. In fact, literature becomes a weapon, a tool, and a target (all three) in their hands. Their novels appear as a strong proclamation on the part of the voiceless community. Hence, whatever that concerns the black, or America, or humanity at large comes under the purview of the black American artist’s analytical eye. Within comprehensive literary designs, they thoroughly navigate black consciousness. Years of searching for reliable political solutions to black issues has left them seasoned. Their socio-political overture also finds a place in their literary articulation and subsequently the authors, by means of such overtures construct varied ideological patterns in the novels. Wright became a member of the Communist Party in 1934. Baldwin, too, had been a spokesman of the Civil Rights Movement since its inception in the 1950s. Both the writers remained connected throughout

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the African American political fight for equality and justice. However, they could not make up their mind about the final political recourse needed for resolving the African American issue. Despite providing an ideological orientation, their political engagements could not work out concrete solutions in their fiction. Their political endeavors somewhere failed the early aspirations and enthusiasm of their literary campaign. Their dream for a just society features in their writings as being a constant struggle with frequent ideological shifts. As revealed in the fictional world created by Wright, the author’s bent towards Communism leads to frustration and disenchantment. To his dismay, he ultimately discovers that his political move shows nothing but black dependence on an ideology conceived by the whites. The communist fervor has its roots in the white canon, which executes its tenets in the same condescending way. The socio-economic and cultural disparity between the two worlds always hinders the process of integration. Notwithstanding the best of the motives, it becomes explicit that the white setup does not fully embrace the black. On the contrary, the existent gap frustrates the positive endeavors of both races. Neither of them succeeds in embracing the other world as its own. Years of exploitation and injustice, unfulfilled promises, iterating deceits, and the feeling of being uprooted generate distrust and, furthermore, generate speculations about future. It stops the African American from committing to any single belief. How can one adhere to what does not belong to him? The sense of being manipulated overpowers faith in the good intentions of the other. The literary writings of the three evince that what is unfamiliar or borrowed from the opponent could not become the black ideology. It results in a constant search for the right tools and the best methods, which could constitute the separate black canon. They grope for a black ideology to believe in and aspire to follow with firm conviction. It either keeps the African American rolling (like the naïve protagonist of Invisible Man) or plants him at the fringe of the society (like Wright’s ostracized protagonist Cross). The alienated anti-hero of The Outsider shows the marginalized status of the blacks in American society. These fictional incarnations undoubtedly represent how the black tries to resist his subjugation and question white supremacy. Yet he fails to find the socio-political means adequate for ultimately achieving liberation. Consequently, he either keeps running in search of a meaningful and dignified life or he gets confused in the process of retaliation against the forces of oppression. John Grimes in Go Tell It On the Mountain, and Rufus and Ida in Another Country undergo the internal conflict as a result of such disbeliefs and qualms. The

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fiction of all three authors strongly affirms that the African American emotional and ideological disorientation is rooted in their rootlessness. Wright’s disappointment with Communism; Ellison’s drift over to an ideological stance that later leaves him altogether disillusioned and weary of all the socio-political institutions; and Baldwin’s shift from the early integrationist approach to the later Black Nationalist approach each reflects the African American association with one or the other ideology at different times. They strive for an antidote to the black predicament. For better or worse, art undertakes sociopolitical causes. It widens the range of black fiction, which succeeds in liberating the creative instinct of the writer from the set frontiers. In fact, literature trespasses the predefined artistic norms to enter into a philosophical and psychological domain. Its chief concern shifts from abstract deliberation to a probe into certain vital issues of actual life. The African American writer questions: How does hypocrisy disguise itself as ethics? What instigates religion – one of the most influential and profound human institutions – to be turned into a negative force? How does socio-political corruption lead to moral degradation? What compels the uprooted man to search for his roots? How difficult could it be to sustain one’s humanity amidst inhuman conditions? Black fiction provides space for an emotional and intellectual churning. At the same time, it challenges the whole system, which has so conveniently thrived on unfair practices. It wonders how an oppressive system bestows a subhuman status upon a chunk of the human race—and, further, maintains the same for quite a considerably long time. The fictional works of Wright, Ellison, and Baldwin indulge themselves in a serious investigation of the Black predicament. Voicing the long-strangulated black sentiments, they try to fill in the emotional and intellectual void of black historiography. Their literary endeavors, signifying the Afro-American1 political arousal, renew the search for the African American heritage, which they can claim as their own. In their opinion, it is bound to be a legacy rooted in the exclusive black experience instead of a borrowed notion. They affirm its origin in the shared traditions. However, its implications are a subject of the larger African American discourse. The desire to proudly proclaim black history triggers a nostalgic shift. With the assertion of ‘[let’s] go back to Africa,’ the AfroAmerican quandary intensifies. All three authors question it. Would such retrieval resolve the Black American plight? Had the return been so easy, all the conflicts could have been settled a long time ago. Certainly, the execution of a theoretical propagation is never smooth. How could the Black resume his pure African character in the blink of an eye? The black – having initially been brought over as an indentured slave – is later, for

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sure, Americanized over a gradual and long process of assimilation spreading over hundreds of years. How could socio-political change be realized through the sudden reversal of a long-developed history? How could the black – having been born and brought up in America, and now possessing the precisely unhyphenated identity of ‘African American,’ which has already replaced his initial nomenclature of ‘Negro’ – feel home in Africa? Is not the said black continent quite remote in terms of time, place, and its other anthropological characteristics? It makes the AfroAmerican writer uncertain of his stance. The said dilemma generates ambivalence about acknowledging any ‘pure’ African cultural heritage. In African American fiction, the Black characters celebrate their African roots but find it impossible as well as impractical to go back to Africa permanently. In fact, resembling their literary progenitors, they visit other parts of the world, but cannot find solace in such emigration. None of Wright’s, Ellison’s, or Baldwin’s characters leaves America willingly. They fight their battles on American land. Whether it is the ignorant Bigger, the pragmatic Tyree, the self-centered Jake, or the intellectual Cross, each one prefers to live and die in America rather than run away from there. If Fishbelly emigrates, it is a legal escape forced upon him by circumstance rather than being (in any way) a willing move. Ellison’s invisible man stays underground to complete his period of hibernation so as to re-emerge on the American ground and finally become visible. Rufus, Ida, Leo, Fonny, and Tish, all may either succeed or recede in their individually distinct maneuvers – but they are sure that the final accomplishment of their dream would occur nowhere but in America itself. Arthur may visit the whole world – but he cannot, at any point, cut himself off from his birthplace. No doubt, the identification of (and with) their African roots gives the black hero/ines a ground on which to stand with self-esteem, which is helpful for reincarnating their humanity. It also brings contentment to their routine life in which to boast of a dignified existence. However, it makes them realize how less African and more American they have become over the course of time. They may have inherited their physical features from their African ancestors; but their characters combine American virtues and vices. Whatever the cost, they belong to the American soil and need to attain an American identity. With growing assimilation, the extent of the African American’s ‘belongingness’ becomes a sensitive issue. The black man has been mostly treated like an ‘outsider’ with regard to mainstream American culture. Hence, reaching the combustion point of discontent, unrest, and retaliation, he realizes the need to know how far he belongs to America. He indubitably prefers to be called an ‘American’ – but chooses to denote

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his cultural roots via the deliberate addition of the evocative counter-term ‘African.’ The term ‘African’ precedes the term ‘American’ which shows his historical rootedness in the African past but, at the same time, facilitates a smooth transition to the latter part ‘American,’ giving the African American a renewed identity. The invention of such unhyphenated nomenclature heralds a crucial phase of African American history. The novels of Wright, Ellison, and Baldwin exhibit some common thematic concerns. For instance, the search for a promised land becomes a vital element in the fiction of all three. It is an indication of the African American need to feel home at a place that they can claim as one’s own. Their search becomes intensive and gives rise to migratory patterns. They wander either within the periphery of the promising land of America – or, otherwise, occasionally in the form of emigration from it. Almost all their works intricately incorporate the journey as a vital motif for serving its intended purpose of reaching to a point of fulfillment. This journey takes place in the form of an individual’s displacement from the conservative South to the comparatively liberal North, referring to the historical black mass migration of the 1930s. Else, their fictional personae undergo some hard-hitting experiences that change the course of their lives. Black characters explore the possibilities of new destinations like the black continent of Africa, comparatively less appalling European countries, or just a random place on the globe. It appears, more or less, to be a uniform signifier in the writings of all three authors. The disintegrative and reductive histories of the protagonists determine the respective pattern of their wanderings, shifts, and displacements – and (later) the eventual outcome of the journey undertaken by them. As a result, the consequences, too, differ. Sometimes, their flights prove worthy of undertaking – as in the case of the Invisible Man, Fishbelly, and Leo – since they gain something in terms of their materialistic or metaphysical accomplishments. However, at other times, it ends up in reaching nowhere (as for characters like Bigger, Cross, Hickman, Rufus, and Arthur). Still, it remains a learning process of helping them in attaining maturity. Their novels also identify some peculiar features generally associated with the Afro-American character. These attributes emerge on account of their having suffered years of subhuman treatment. Accusing the unjust racial society of having treated them wrongfully, their protagonists seek explanation from the same society for such historic ‘wrong.’ They object to the stereotyping of the blacks. Their fiction divulges the secret that the white world has always contrived to emasculate the black man. In fact, to show its profound impact, a few psychologically challenged characters are purposely configured as such in their works. They aim to reveal the

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emotional cost and psychic damage done to black ‘selfhood’ by the allpervasive racial milieu. Moreover, various aberrations such as claustrophobia, necrophilia, schizophrenia, paranoia, and sadomasochism are specifically invested in the thoughts and behaviors of these characters – so as to indicate this distortion. Their writings also investigate the mental and sexual perversions that may govern the actions and instincts of these characters. Though the society garbs the reality under a falsified façade, the keen observation of the artist exposes it in its stark nakedness. These anomalies can certainly be attributed to sociological factors. Although the white world makes it appear natural, the whole fictional panorama reveals how the racial elements of society – wrongly and quite calculatedly – justify their sinister notions on biological grounds. What Wright, Ellison, and Baldwin intend to emphasize through these delineations is the need to implant both white and black perspectives simultaneously. It calls for a judicious self-reflexivity that may explain one’s role in maintaining the racial structure. In their view, the first requirement is to honestly diagnose and admit certain behavioral flaws before taking up the quest for a cure—any cure. Their black protagonists’ self-assessment and objective observations release their stress and provide them strength to face the harsh realities. They prefer to confront those realities rather than refrain from them. All of them take different approaches in plunging into the depth of the human psyche. Wright’s characters cannot retain their humanity. Hence, most of them keep drifting aimlessly until the forces of oppression finally destroy them. Ellison’s protagonists possess equanimity that they draw from their folk roots. They don’t lose hope, nor do they completely surrender to their external surroundings. Baldwin’s chief concern remains focused on racial and gender identity. Henceforth, his characters strive to define and find true love that seems the only redeeming factor. However, their inability to figure out its intricate nature renders them confused and emotionally unstable. Each one of his characters continues the quest in a specifically unique manner. All of the three authors mainly focus on the male psyche, which results in comparatively less space for the female point of view. The predominance of the male voice obliterates the women characters and their ways of looking at the outside reality. But Baldwin, with the progress of his literary career, gradually accommodates the feminine sentiments, too. He has wonderfully broadened the range of his fictional ensemble through the inclusion of female perspectives. Baldwin draws his women characters more elaborately and intensely than do Wright or Ellison. In fact, his fiction is dominated by positive mother-son relationships which

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compensate for imperfect father figures. Either the father is not there to take care of and guide his progeny (as in the case of Rufus and Leo), or his relationship with it is inexorably stressed (as illustrated by John). However, his later fictional works demonstrate a shift in his attitude. He moves towards constructive parenthood, familial bonds, and intra-familial relations. The Frank-Fonny bond of If Beale Street Could Talk and the Hall-Paul bond of Just Above My Head replace the Gabriel-John bond of Go Tell It On the Mountain. The emotional trauma experienced by the black man in American society persuades him to recognize the sustaining power of the black family. Baldwin resumes his faith in its value but with the additional unconventional dimension of homosexuality. In his novels, it is either the mother or sister or beloved who plays a constructive role in defining the black man. But, in addition to these female figures, a male lover is also equally intense in assuming the same role on his part. Homosexuality exists as a leitmotif in his entire fictional range. It seems as though Baldwin strives to speak for a sexual minority within the racial minority through his fiction. Hence, his task becomes more difficult and more consuming than others. It proves strenuous to the extent that sometimes the effort results in the complete emotional exhaustion of the characters. Unstable homosexual, heterosexual, and bisexual relationships abound in Baldwin’s novels, since the author works them out at the cost of emotional stability. Richard Wright differs from Baldwin in his stance on the role of the black family in bolstering black manhood. His fiction portrays some irresolvable conflicts between black men and women. The clash surfaces in various forms, and is exhibited at different occasions – whether in routine conversations in Bigger’s family or in familial engagements and disengagements of Cross or Jake. In fact, the most pragmatic of his black heroes – Tyree – also seems to be in disagreement with his wife. Treating her almost as if she were non-existent, he never cares about her thoughts or opinions. The black man and woman find themselves pitted against each other. It is the racial structure of the society, which – by generating immense emotional pressure – renders them hostile to each other’s sentiments. One becomes an object of negation for the other. Each of them strives hard in search of the ‘self.’ Especially, the black protagonists in the novels of Wright are shown to be completely isolated from their families. They drift apart on account of excessive self-indulgence. In the absence of congenial family support, Wright’s heroes grope around to find some revitalizing force in their lives. It appears to them to be existent—but to be somewhere outside the familial domain. However, contrary to their expectations, their society does not have anything positive to offer.

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Ultimately, they are left alone—wholly immersed in the world of their own creation. They turn inward in the hope of discovering something substantial by which to affirm their existence. It leads each one of them to undertake a metaphysical flight of intensely emotional inner realization. Diverging from both the novelists, Ellison introduces an entirely different approach to portray the emotional bonding of the black families. His scarce fictional output and the distinct nature of the plots therein give limited scope to delineating the familial affairs in detail. Nonetheless, he refers to the underlying filial connection through the folk figures and archetypical situations he portrays. As at the moments of utter despair, the Invisible Man derives strength from the conventional black mother figure Mary and from the fatherly advice of Vet. Ellison aims at pointing out the ‘irony’ of black life. He exhibits that, amidst the surrounding hostility, the black family is dismembered outwardly. However, the family still exists in the African American consciousness as being a perpetual source of emotional sustenance. The black predicament gradually evolves into a paradox. On the one hand, the inhuman living conditions combined with the internalized idea of black primitivism lead the black father, Trueblood, to unintentionally engage in the sexual abuse of his daughter. On the other hand, Hickman’s magnanimity induces him to forgive the accused of his brother’s killing and to raise an orphan child as his son. Moreover, he wishes to turn the ‘bastard’ child into a symbol of black faith in humanity and life. The fictional journey of Wright, Ellison, and Baldwin is a unique blend of several traits—traits which are both complementary and contradictory at the same time. Their ambivalence as to accepting or negating the already-existing structures and accommodate the newly emerging values projects the long drawn emotional and ideological dilemma of the African American. It features not only an individual striving on the part of the writer but also a cumulative reflection of the period that foreshadows the upcoming changes. It blends the African American collective sense of rootedness with the desperate metaphysical flights of their protagonists. It also induces the recuperation of the folkways while reconciling the old values with a much-needed adaptation to the modernity of the times. The African American adjusts not only to the historical reality of the plantation period but also to the newly industrialized civilization. Many of the critics categorize African American fiction as being a sub-stream of the mainstream American literature or of the minority discourse per se. Nevertheless, it comprises the universal humanist element in the form of an ‘exalted’ narrative about the human suffering and salvation. At certain junctures, it follows the modes of proletarian literature. Its unique moral

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tone strives to establish separate ethnic values. In the hands of these three African American stalwarts, the fictional text does not remain merely a means of intellectual escapism or of drawing room eclectics. Instead, it becomes a combative political tool and a compelling aesthetic experience. They use their fiction to investigate the ideological possibilities amidst the all-prevailing hostility of a conditioned society. Their novels expose the psychosomatic links between the individual’s emotions and social forces. Fictional characters no more remain just an imaginative creation of the artist but turn out to be real people made of flesh and blood who – in retreating into a surrealistic world – aim to find out the cause of their inhumane conditions. Their spiritual journey becomes an unrelenting and unflinching diagnosis of the existent socio-political maladies which forbid healthy development of an individual as well as a group. Notwithstanding the emotional setbacks and surrounding gloominess, the African American fiction finally pronounces hope and deliverance for the oppressed of humanity. The spiritual strength of a human being enables one to retaliate and reform what needs re-formation. No matter how intense the pressure exerted within and without may become, the artist never backs out of his commitment to life. Literature as a metaphor of ‘space’ offers an unlimited scope for exploring the human potential. The artistic realm of literature is boundless; and an artistic text endeavors to fulfill its various crosspurposes—such as both ‘to entertain’ and ‘to educate’ at the same time. Wright, Ellison, and Baldwin construct a series of vignettes to witness the progress of the African American emotional and ideological journey—a journey from the nascent stage of an imposed primitivism to the ripened state of an exalted mind. Their fiction itself turns into a metaphor for the African American ‘self’ that asserts, evolves, adapts, and affirms itself over the historical course of time. It has progressed incessantly over the years. Undoubtedly, the African American odyssey has proved to be a matchless metamorphic experience. Corresponding to the socio-economic and political advancement, their emotional and intellectual sensibilities have passed through various significant phases of transition. These experiences constitute the collective black consciousness, which has observed tremendous psycho-cerebral upheavals throughout their historical crusade. The African American expedition begins with an un-narrated story of the first faceless black immigrant from Africa—who was rendered unidentifiable in the crowd of indentured labor subjected to the victimization of institutionalized slavery. He features in the historical annals as a nameless figure who is present but whose presence does not

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matter except as an occasional reference to the necessary toil required for building America. Still, he marches ahead to be first identified as the plantation slave in the renowned fictional figure of ‘Uncle Tom,’ and subsequently turns into the rebellious ‘Uncle Tom's Children.’ Later, he continues his march—indicating the growth from the enlightened ‘Invisible Man’ to the liberated soul of the adolescent ‘John Grimes.’ Furthermore, many such fictional portrayals are rendered by African American writers. The list of fictional incarnations to represent their unnamed real-life black counterparts is exhaustive, not to mention the extensive range of black novelists who relentlessly undertake this herculean task. The literary representation, indeed, gives a mirror image of what one meets in the corresponding living world. The African American journey finally culminates in the victorious step of Barak Obama being ushered into the White House to solemnize the interminable bond of the black with America. The real-life black hero takes an oath as the first African American president—representing a proud moment of the African American celebration. The Black odyssey has been an awfully adventurous and progressive experience. The literary articulation of Wright, Ellison, and Baldwin immaculately reflects the magnitude and intensity of the African American struggle. They collectively provide an interlaced narrative of the black predicament – a narrative that signifies the ultimate triumph of the human soul. These authors tell us an incredible tale of resistance, retaliation, and reform—portraying how the injudiciously labeled ‘brute,’ subjugated to the non-human status of a slave, transcends all the internal and external limitations to regain his human status—and reverently enters into the American power dome.

Note 1

The use of the term ‘Afro-American’ is distinguished from another term ‘African American,’ since – in the journey of Black Americans – it indicates a subtle cultural movement indicating the shifting inclinations— inclinations to ‘adopt’, to ‘adapt’, and being ‘adept’. While tracing the African American journey to the power dome, one may discover the gradual shift from initial awareness – a shift reflected in half of the compound term being ‘Afro’ and there being a hyphenated space in between ‘Afro’ and ‘American.’ The term is depictive of the achievement of a more accomplished sense of being ‘African American.’ The latter term denotes a wholehearted embracing of their African heritage combined with an endorsement of their American identity. It is reflected in the conscious drop of the hyphen. At the same time, it also signifies a strong integration of the blacks within the larger American culture.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Primary Sources James Baldwin Baldwin, James. Go Tell It On the Mountain. London: Corgi Books (Transworld Publishers), 1968. —. Another Country. London: Corgi Books (Transworld Publishers), 1970. —. Tell Me How Long the Train’s Been Gone. London: Corgi Books (Transworld Publishers), 1971. —. If Beale Street Could Talk. New York: Dell Publishing, 1974. —. Just Above My Head. New York: Penguin Books, 1994. —. Going to Meet the Man. London: Corgi Books (Transworld Publishers), 1967. —. Notes of a Native Son. Boston: Beacon Press, 1955. —. Nobody Knows My Name. London: Corgi Books (Transworld Publishers), 1965. —. The Fire Next Time. New York: Dial Press, 1963. —. The Devil Finds Work: An Essay. New York: Dial Press, 1976. —. No Name in the Street. New York: Dial Press, 1972. —. Evidence of Things Not Seen. New York: St. Martin/Marek, 1985. —. Price of the Ticket. New York: St. Martin/Marek, 1985. —. Little Man, Little Man: A Story of Childhood. New York: Dial Press, 1976. —. A Dialogue: James Baldwin and Nikki Giovanni. Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott, 1973. —. A Rap on Race: Margaret Mead and James Baldwin. Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott, 1971. —. One Day, When I Was Lost: A Scenario Based on Alex Haley’s “The Autobiography of Malcolm X.” London: Michael Joseph, 1972. —. The Amen Corner. New York: Dial Press, 1968. —. Blues for Mr. Charlie. New York: Dial Press, 1964. —. Jimmy’s Blues. New York: St. Martin’s/Marek, 1985. Baldwin, James, and Richard Avedon. Nothing Personal. New York: Atheneum Publishers, 1964.

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Ralph Ellison Ellison, Ralph. Invisible Man. New York: New American Library, 1952. —. Juneteenth. New York: Vintage International, 2000. —. Shadow and Act. New York: New American Library (Signet Books), 1966. —. Going to the Territory. New York: Vintage Books, Random House, 1987. Ellison, Ralph. Three Days before the Shooting…. Edited by John F. Callahan and Adam Bradley. New York: Modern Library, 2010.

Richard Wright Wright, Richard. Native Son. New York: Perennial, 2003. —. The Outsider. New York: The Library of America, 1991. —. The Long Dream. Boston: Northeastern University Press, 2000. —. Lawd Today. London: Panther Books, 1969. —. A Father’s Law. New York: Harper Perennial, 2008. —. Black Boy. New York: Harper and Row, 1945. —. The Horror and Glory. New York: The Library of America, 1991. —. Uncle Tom’s Children. New York: Harper and Row, 1965. —. White Man, Listen! New York: Doubleday, 1957. —. The Color Curtain. Cleveland: The World Publishing Co., 1956. —. Eight Men. Cleveland: The World Publishing Co., 1961.

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Websites https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/2548767.A_Father_s_Law https://www.questia.com/searchglobal#!/?keywords=wright%20ellison%2 0baldwin!AllWords&PeerReviewedType=2&pageNumber=1&mediaT ype=journals