Cross of Redemption: Uncollected Writings by James Baldwin
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by James Baldwin edited by Randall Kenan
Hardcover: 336 pages
Publisher: Pantheon; 1 edition (August 24, 2010)
Product Dimensions: 9.3 x 6.5 x 1.3 inches
An Essay from The Cross of Redemption: Uncollected Writings by James Baldwin
Every writer in the English language, I should imagine, has at some point
hated Shakespeare, has turned away from that monstrous achievement with a kind
of sick envy. In my most anti-English days I condemned him as a chauvinist
(“this England” indeed!) and because I felt it so bitterly anomalous that a
black man should be forced to deal with the English language at all—should be
forced to assault the English language in order to be able to speak—I condemned
him as one of the authors and architects of my oppression.
Stoop then, and wash.—How many ages hence
Shall this our lofty scene be acted over,
In states unborn and accents yet unknown!
What I suddenly heard, for the ﬁrst time, was manifold. It was the voice
of lonely, dedicated, deluded Cassius, whose life had never been real for me
before—I suddenly seemed to know what this moment meant to him. But beneath
and beyond that voice I also heard a note yet more rigorous and
impersonal—and contemporary: that “lofty scene,” in all its blood and
necessary folly, its blind and necessary pain, was thrown into a
perspective which has never left my mind. Just so, indeed, is the heedless
State overthrown by men, who, in order to overthrow it, have had to achieve
a desperate single-mindedness. And this single-mindedness, which we think of
(why?) as ennobling, also operates, and much more surely, to distort and
diminish a man—to distort and diminish us all, even, or perhaps especially,
those whose needs and whose energy made the overthrow of the State
inevitable, necessary, and just.
And the terrible thing about this play, for me—it is not necessarily my favorite play, whatever that means, but it is the play which I ﬁrst, so to speak, discovered—is the tension it relentlessly sustains between individual ambition, self- conscious, deluded, idealistic, or corrupt, and the blind, mindless passion which drives the individual no less than it drives the mob. “I am Cinna the poet, I am Cinna the poet...I am not Cinna the conspirator”—that cry rings in my ears. And the mob’s response: “Tear him for his bad verses!” And yet—though one howled with Cinna and felt his terrible rise, at the hands of his countrymen, to death, it was impossible to hate the mob. Or, worse than impossible, useless; for here we were, at once howling and being torn to pieces, the only receptacles of evil and the only receptacles of nobility to be found in all the universe. But the play does not even suggest that we have the perception to know evil from good or that such a distinction can ever be clear: “The evil that men do lives after them; The good is oft interred with their bones . . .”
Once one has begun to suspect this much about the world—once one has begun to suspect, that is, that one is not, and never will be, innocent, for the reason that no one is—some of the self- protective veils between oneself and reality begin to fall away. It is probably of some signiﬁcance, though we cannot pursue it here, that my ﬁrst real apprehension of Shakespeare came when I was living in France, and thinking and speaking in French. The necessity of mastering a foreign language forced me into a new relationship to my own. (It was also in France, therefore, that I began to read the Bible again.)
My quarrel with the English language has been that the language reﬂected none of my experience. But now I began to see the matter in quite another way. If the language was not my own, it might be the fault of the language; but it might also be my fault. Perhaps the language was not my own because I had never attempted to use it, had only learned to imitate it. If this were so, then it might be made to bear the burden of my experience if I could ﬁnd the stamina to challenge it, and me, to such a test.
In support of this possibility, I had two mighty witnesses: my black ancestors, who evolved the sorrow songs, the blues, and jazz, and created an entirely new idiom in an overwhelmingly hostile place; and Shakespeare, who was the last bawdy writer in the English language. What I began to see—especially since, as I say, I was living and speaking in French—is that it is experience which shapes a language; and it is language which controls an experience. The structure of the French language told me something of the French experience, and also something of the French expectations—which were certainly not the American expectations, since the French daily and hourly said things which the Americans could not say at all. (Not even in French.) Similarly, the language with which I had grown up had certainly not been the King’s English. An immense experience had forged this language; it had been (and remains) one of the tools of a people’s survival, and it revealed expectations which no white American could easily entertain. The authority of this language was in its candor, its irony, its density, and its beat: this was the authority of the language which produced me, and it was also the authority of Shakespeare.
Again, I was listening very hard to jazz and hoping, one day, to translate it into language, and Shakespeare’s bawdiness became very important to me, since bawdiness was one of the elements of jazz and revealed a tremendous, loving, and realistic respect for the body, and that ineffable force which the body contains, which Americans have mostly lost, which I had experienced only among Negroes, and of which I had then been taught to be ashamed.
My relationship, then, to the language of Shakespeare revealed itself as nothing less than my relationship to myself and my past. Under this light, this revelation, both myself and my past began slowly to open, perhaps the way a ﬂower opens at morning, but more probably the way an atrophied muscle begins to function, or frozen ﬁngers to thaw.
The greatest poet in the English language found his poetry where poetry is found: in the lives of the people. He could have done this only through love—by knowing, which is not the same thing as understanding, that whatever was happening to anyone was happening to him. It is said that his time was easier than ours, but I doubt it—no time can be easy if one is living through it. I think it is simply that he walked his streets and saw them, and tried not to lie about what he saw: his public streets and his private streets, which are always so mysteriously and inexorably connected; but he trusted that connection. And, though I, and many of us, have bitterly bewailed (and will again) the lot of an American writer—to be part of a people who have ears to hear and hear not, who have eyes to see and see not—I am sure that Shakespeare did the same. Only, he saw, as I think we must, that the people who produce the poet are not responsible to him: he is responsible to them.
That is why he is called a poet. And his responsibility, which is also his joy and his strength and his life, is to defeat all labels and complicate all battles by insisting on the human riddle, to bear witness, as long as breath is in him, to that mighty, unnameable, transﬁguring force which lives in the soul of man, and to aspire to do his work so well that when the breath has left him, the people—all people!—who search in the rubble for a sign or a witness will be able to ﬁnd him there.
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