James Percival Everett Quotes

If you're not making mistakes, you're not learning.

Belief has nothing to do with truth.

At that moment the power of reading made itself clear and real to me. If I could see the words, then no one could control them or what I got from them. They couldn’t even know if I was merely seeing them or reading them, sounding them out or comprehending them. It was a completely private affair and completely free and, therefore, completely subversive.

I hated the world that wouldn’t let me apply justice without the certain retaliation of injustice.

With my pencil, I wrote myself into being.

Which would frighten you more? A slave who is crazy or a slave who is sane and sees you clearly?

I had never seen a white man filled with such fear. The remarkable truth, however, was that it was not the pistol, but my language, the fact that I didn’t conform to his expectations, that I could read, that had so disturbed and frightened him.

Dey takes the lies dey want and throws away the truths dat scares ’em.

I did not look away. I wanted to feel the anger. I was befriending my anger, learning not only how to feel it, but perhaps how to use it.

- You know, dull tools are much more dangerous than sharp ones. - I paused to admire his metaphor, but he continued.

Religion is just a controlling tool they employ and adhere to when convenient.

But my interest is in how these marks that I am scratching on this page can mean anything at all. If they can have meaning, then life can have meaning, then I can have meaning.

There is no God, child. There’s religion but there’s no God of theirs. Their religion tells that we will get our reward in the end. However, it apparently doesn’t say anything about their punishment. But when we’re around them, we believe in God. Oh, Lawdy Lawd, we’s be believin’. Religion is just a controlling tool they employ and adhere to when convenient.

It’s a horrible world. White people try to tell us that everything will be just fine when we go to heaven. My question is, Will they be there? If so, I might make other arrangements.

To fight in a war,' he said. 'Can you imagine?' 'Would that mean facing death every day and doing what other people tell you to do?' I asked. 'I reckon.' 'Yes, Huck. I can imagine.

We're slaves. We're not anywhere. Free person, he can be where he wants to be. The only place we can ever be is in slavery.

I chose the word enemy, and still do, as oppressor necessarily supposes a victim.

How strange a world, how strange an existence, that one’s equal must argue for one’s equality, that one’s equal must hold a station that allows airing of that argument, that one cannot make that argument for oneself, that premises of said argument must be vetted by those equals who do not agree.

I can tell you that I am a man who is cognizant of his world, a man who has a family, who loves a family, who has been torn from his family, a man who can read and write, a man who will not let his story be self-related, but self-written.

I saw the surface of her, merely the outer shell, and realized that she was mere surface all the way to her core.

White people often spent time admiring their survival of one thing or another. I imagined it was because so often they had no need to survive, but only to live.

The children said together, “And the better they feel, the safer we are.” “February, translate that.” “Da mo’ betta dey feels, da mo’ safer we be.” “Nice.

Way I sees it is dis. If’n ya gots to hab a rule to tells ya wha’s good, if’n ya gots to hab good ’splained to ya, den ya cain’t be good. If’n ya need sum kinda God to tells ya right from wrong, den you won’t never know.

I am a sign. I am your future. I am James.

I considered the northern white stance against slavery. How much of the desire to end the institution was fueled by a need to quell and subdue white guilt and pain? Was it just too much to watch? Did it offend Christian sensibilities to live in a society that allowed that practice? I knew that whatever the cause of their war, freeing slaves was an incidental premise and would be an incidental result.

I felt tired of the failures of men. They were always failing in the most basic ways, like looking down or away at the moment when they should be gutsy enough to meet your eye.

What you’re saying is that if someone pays you enough, it’s okay to abandon what you have claimed to understand as moral and right.

He could have gone through life without the knowledge I had given him and he would have been no worse off for it. But I understood at that moment that I had shared the truth with him for myself. I needed for him to have a choice.

I am the angel of death, come to offer sweet justice in the night. I am a sign I am your future. I am James.

As a matter of fact, just recently I passed for white so I could pass for black.

I suspected at that moment that I would not die, but it was unclear whether I would be pleased about that fact.

I had never read a novel, though I understood the concept of fiction. It wasn't so unlike religion, or history, for that matter.

Folks be funny lak dat. Dey takes the lies dey want and throws away the truths dat scares ’em.

Tell them I’m called February, but that I was born in June. They like thinking that we’re stupid like that.

I ain't never seen two fellas talk so much and say so little," Huck said. "You be almos' thinkin' dey be preachers," I said. "You know what I could go fer, Bilgewater?" "What's that, Dolphin?

Was it evil to kill evil? The truth was that I didn't care. It was this apathy that left me wondering about myself - not wondering why I didn't feel anything or whether I was incapable of feeling, but wondering what else I was capable of doing. It was not an altogether bad feeling.

But in this notebook I would reconstruct the story I had begun, the story I kept beginning, until I had a story.

What did I do? I'm a slave, Norman. I inhaled when I should have exhaled. What did I do?

Huck nodded. “You know where we goin’?” the boy asked. “Ain’t got no idee. But we’s on our way.” —

With my pencil, I wrote myself into being. I wrote myself to here.

Tell the story with your ears. Listen.

hear him shouting, “But I paid two hundred dollars for you.” A man who refused to own slaves but was not opposed to others owning slaves was still a slaver, to my thinking.

I had already come to understand the tidiness of lies, the lesson learned from the stories told by white people seeking to justify my circumstance. I appreciated Voltaire’s notion of tolerance regarding religious difference and I understood, as absorbed as I was, that I was not interested in the content of the work, but its structure, the movement of it, the calling out of logical fallacies. And so, after these books, the Bible itself was the least interesting of all. I could not enter it, did not want to enter it, and then understood that I recognized it as a tool of my enemy. I chose the word enemy, and still do, as oppressor necessarily supposes a victim.

Yes, but them people liked it, Jim. Did you see their faces? They had to know them was lies, but they wanted to believe. What do you make of that?” “Folks be funny lak dat. Dey takes the lies dey want and throws away the truths dat scares ’em.

Why did God set it up like this?” Rachel asked. “With them as masters and us as slaves?” “There is no God, child. There’s religion but there’s no God of theirs. Their religion tells that we will get our reward in the end. However, it apparently doesn’t say anything about their punishment. But when we’re around them, we believe in God. Oh, Lawdy Lawd, we’s be believin’. Religion is just a controlling tool they employ and adhere to when convenient.” “There must be something,” Virgil said. “I’m sorry, Virgil. You might be right. There might be some higher power, children, but it’s not their white God. However, the more you talk about God and Jesus and heaven and hell, the better they feel.” The children said together, “And the better they feel, the safer we are.

I was as much scared as angry, but where does a slave put anger? We could be angry with one another; we were human. But the real source of our rage had to go without address, swallowed, repressed.

It could have been my turn to experience a bit of guilt, having toyed with the boy's feelings, and he being too young to actually understand the problem with his behavior, but I chose not to. When you are a slave, you claim choice where you can.

Let’s try some situational translations. Something extreme first. You’re walking down the street and you see that Mrs. Holiday’s kitchen is on fire. She’s standing in her yard, her back to her house, unaware. How do you tell her?” “Fire, fire,” January said. “Lawdy, missum! Looky dere.” “Perfect,” I said. “Why is that correct?” Lizzie raised her hand. “Because we must let the whites be the ones who name the trouble.

Papa, why do we have to learn this?” “White folks expect us to sound a certain way and it can only help if we don’t disappoint them,” I said. “The only ones who suffer when they are made to feel inferior is us. Perhaps I should say ‘when they don’t feel superior.

could believe it, I thought, pretending, in slave fashion, not to be there. After being cruel, the most notable white attribute was gullibility.

had already come to understand the tidiness of lies, the lesson learned from the stories told by white people seeking to justify my circumstance.

To fight in a war,” he said. “Can you imagine?” “Would that mean facing death every day and doing what other people tell you to do?” I asked. “I reckon.” “Yes, Huck, I can imagine.

I wrote to extend my thought, I wrote to catch up with my own story, wondering all the while if that was even possible.

That is what equality is, Jim. It's the capacity for becoming equal.

A man who refused to own slaves but was not opposed to others owning slaves was still a slaver, to my thinking.

The worst part was that the judge told the grand jury that it was an act of a multitude and so they couldn’t recommend any indictments. So, if enough people do it, it’s not a crime.

I read and read, but what I needed was to write. I needed that pencil. I could not keep track of my thoughts. I could not follow my own reasoning after a while. This was perhaps because I couldn't stop reading long enough to make space in my head. I was like a man who had not eaten for a season and had then gorged himself until sick. And my books, once read, were not what I wanted, not what I needed. (...) With my pencil, I wrote myself into being. I wrote myself to here.

It’s a horrible world. White people try to tell us that everything will be just fine when we go to heaven. My question is, Will they be there? If so, I might make other arrangements.” Easter laughed.

Hannibal. I’m looking for the Graham farm.” “The breeder?” he asked. “What do you mean?” “Graham’s a breeder. He breeds slaves and sells them.” “My wife and daughter were taken there.” The man was silent.

At that moment the power of reading made itself clear and real to me. If I could see the words, then no one could control them or what I got from them. They couldn’t even know if I was merely seeing them or reading them,

She looked at Norman. “Are you really a slave?” she asked. “I am.” “And you’re colored,” she said. Norman nodded. “Who can tell?” “Nobody,” Norman said. “Then why do you stay colored?” “Because of my mother. Because of my wife. Because I don’t want to be white. I don’t want to be one of them.” Sammy looked at me. “That’s a pretty good answer.” “I thought so,” I said.

There was a mama raccoon that lived in the tree. She had taken to walking past me nonchalantly in the darkness. Tonight she stayed in the tree, high above me, listening to the dogs. We were both animals and we didn’t know which of us was the prey. We accepted that we both were.

Is she dead?” Norman asked. I rolled her onto her stomach to try to force the water out of her. I pushed on her chest and her shirt came up to reveal a hole. “Is that…” Norman stopped. I touched the blackened indentation. “She’s been shot,” I said. “Good Lord,” Norman said. “She’s dead.” “We should have left her where she was,” Norman said. “At least she’d be a live slave. Not just another dead runaway.” I studied the lifeless body on the ground before me. “She was dead when I found her,” I said. “She’s just now died again, but this time she died free.

I really wanted to read. Though Huck was asleep, I could not chance his waking and discovering me with my face in an open book. Then I thought, How could he know that I was actually reading? I could simply claim to be staring dumbly at the letters and words, wondering what in the world they meant. How could he know? At that moment the power of reading made itself clear and real to me. If I could see the words, then no one could control them or what I got from them. They couldn’t even know if I was merely seeing them or reading them, sounding them out or comprehending them. It was a completely private affair and completely free and, therefore, completely subversive.

At that moment the power of reading made itself clear and real to me. If I could see the words, then no one could control them or what I got from them. They couldn't even know if I was merely seeing them or reading them, sounding them out or comprehending them. It was a completely private affair and completely free, and therefore, completely subversive.

Safe movement through the world depended on mastery of language, fluency.

I thought about tearing out his songs and burning them, but they would still exist. Those crackers would still sing them. Better to know they exist. Don't you think?

There was nothing scarier than human sounds.

It was clear that the people we had escaped on the beach were not following us; they were too concerned with being survivors.

Never address any subject directly when talking to another slave,” she said. “What do we call that?” I asked. Together they said, “Signifying.” “Excellent.

When does the war end?” I asked. “Does it end? That’s the question. Who gets to say that it’s over? A war continues until the victor says it’s over.

dull tools are much more dangerous than sharp ones.

I had to ask myself and answer honestly, How much do I want to be free? And I couldn’t lose sight of my goal of freeing my family. What would freedom be without them?

He’s going to get drunk now, not so much because he can, but because we can’t,” I said.

It seem sumtimes you jest gotta put up wif your friends. Dey gonna do what dey gonna do.

But I will not let this condition define me. I will not let myself, my mind, drown in fear and outrage. I will be outraged as a matter of course.

If enough of them kill you, they’re innocent.

if enough people do it, it’s not a crime.

There were those slaves who claimed a distinction between good masters and cruel masters. Most of us considered such to be distinction without difference.

To tell the truth, I hadn’t seen much killing myself, except that I lived with it daily, the threat, the promise of it. Seeing one lynching was to see ten.

There might be some higher power, children, but it’s not their white God.

She was dead when I found her,” I said. “She’s just now died again, but this time she died free.

Safe movement through the world depended on mastery of language

They wanted a constitution that would justify their behavior. If I hadn't written it for them, someone else would have. What in the world would be different if that had happened?

Ain’t people a part of nature?” “If’n dey is, den dey ain’t no good part. Da rest o’ nature don’ hardly talk to no human peoples anymo. Maybe it try from time to time, but peoples don’ listen.

ten white men in blackface, one black man passing for white and painted black, and me, a light-brown black man painted black in such a way as to appear like a white man trying to pass for black.

We were both animals and we didn’t know which of us was the prey. We accepted that we both were. I considered running, leaving my raccoon friend, but in which direction does one run from lightning?

If'n ya gots to hab a rule to tells ya wha's good, if'n ya gots to hab good 'splained to ya, den ya cain't be good. If'n ya need sum kinda God to tells ya right from wrong, den you won't never know.

gun at me. I pointed my pistol at him. “I am the angel of death, come to offer sweet justice in the night,” I said. “I am a sign. I am your future. I am James.” I pulled back the hammer on my pistol.

It’s a horrible world. White people try to tell us that everything will be just fine when we go to heaven. My question is, Will they be there? If so, I might make other arrangements.” Easter laughed. I laughed with him. “And

Belief has nothing to do with truth. Believe what you like. Believe I'm lying and move through the world as a white boy. Believe I'm telling the truth and move through the world as a white boy anyway. Either way, no difference.

There might be some higher power, children, but it’s not their white God. However, the more you talk about God and Jesus and heaven and hell, the better they feel.” The children said together, “And the better they feel, the safer we are.

If one knows hell as home, then is returning to hell a homecoming? Even in hell, were there such a place, one would know where the fires were just a little cooler, where the rocks were just a little less jagged. And so it was in my hell.

You have a notion, like Raynal, of natural liberties, and we all have them by virtue of our being human. But when those liberties are put under societal and cultural pressure, they become civil liberties, and those are contingent on hierarchy and situation.

We started to laugh and then we spotted a white man up the road. There was nothing that irritated white men more than a couple of slaves laughing. I suspected they were afraid we were laughing at them or else they simply hated the idea of us having a good time.

But what are you going to say when she asks you about it?" I asked. Lizzie cleared her throat. "Miss Watson, dat sum conebread lak I neva before et." "Try 'dat be,' " I said. "That would be the correct incorrect grammar." "Dat be sum of conebread lak neva I et," she said. "Very good," I said.

I am called Jim. I have yet to choose a name. In the religious preachings of my white captors I am a victim of the Curse of Ham. The white so-called masters cannot embrace their cruelty and greed, but must look to that lying Dominican friar for religious justification. But I will not let this condition define me. I will not let myself, my mind, drown in fear and outrage. I will be outraged as a matter of course. But my interest is in how these marks that I am scratching on this page can mean anything at all. If they can have meaning, then life can have meaning, then I can have meaning.

Was she pretty?” he asked. “I dunno. I reckon. It’s a scary thing for a slave to think such things.” “Why is that?” “Jest the way the world is.” “You think this here river is pretty?” Huck asked. “I reckon I do,” I said. “Then why you cain’t say if my mama was pretty?” “River ain’t a white woman.

It pained me to think that without a white person with me, without a white-looking face, I could not travel safely through the light of the world, but was relegated to the dense woods. Without someone white to claim me as property, there was no justification for my presence, perhaps for my existence.

Let’s imagine now that it’s a grease fire. She’s left bacon unattended on the stove. Mrs. Holiday is about to throw water on it. What do you say? Rachel?” "Missums, that water gone make it wurs!” “Of course, that’s true, but what’s the problem with that?” Virgil said, “You’re telling her she’s doing the wrong thing.

My name is James. I’m going to get my family. You can come with me or you can stay here. You can come and try freedom or you can stay here. You can die with me trying to find freedom or you can stay here and be dead anyway. My name is James.” “Morris.” “Harvey.” “Llewelyn.” “Buck.” This from the smallest of them. “Let’s go.

You have a notion, like Raynal, of natural liberties, and we all have them by virtue of our being human. But when those liberties are put under societal and cultural pressure, they become civil liberties, and those are contingent on hierarchy and situation. Am I close?" Voltaire was scribbling on paper. "That was good, that was good. Say all of that again.

White folks expect us to sound a certain way and it can only help if we don’t disappoint them,” I said. “The only ones who suffer when they are made to feel inferior is us. Perhaps I should say ‘when they don’t feel superior.’ So, let’s pause to review some of the basics.” “Don’t make eye contact,” a boy said. “Right, Virgil.” “Never speak first,” a girl said. “That’s correct, February,” I said.

If'n I took a mule from the side of the road and I knowed who it belonged to, wouldn't that be stealin'?" "I ain't a mule, Huck." "Ain't I doin' wrong, though?" Huck said. He was troubled. "How am I s'posed to know what good is?" "Way I sees it is dis. If'n ya gots to hab a rule to tells ya wha's good, if'n ya need sum kinda God to tells ya right from wrong, den you won't never know." "But the law says..." "Good ain't got nuttin' to do wif da law. Law says I'm a slave.

They want you because you’re money.” “What?” “You’re mortgaged, Jim. Like a farm, like a house. Really, the bank owns you. Miss Watson gets a bond, a piece of paper that say what you’re worth, and you just keep living in this condition. Living. You’re a part of the bank’s assets and so people all over the world are making money off your scarred black hide. Make sense? Nobody wants you free.” “Somebody does. There’s a war.” She nodded. “Maybe you won’t be a slave, but you won’t be free.

Should we save them, Jim?" The boy was so innocent. "Huck, I reckon if'n we save 'em, dey gonna turn me in. What you think?" The boy studied on that for a spell. "I reckon you're right. But what will them folks do to them?" "I don't know, Huck. Maybe dey jest pay a fine. Maybe dey get tarred and feathered. I don't know." "That seems right awful." "I s'pose it do. But dey was stealin' from dem folk. Tellin' lies lak dey was. He weren't neber no pirate." "Yes, but them people liked it, Jim. Did you see their faces? They had to know them was lies, but they wanted to believe. What do you make of that?" "Folks be funny lak dat. Dey takes the lies dey want and throws away the truths dat scares 'em." The river put its full pull on us and we watched the men grow smaller. "I reckon I do that, too," the boy said. "What say?" "I kin see how much you miss yer family and yet I don't think about it. I forget that you feel things jest like I feel. I know you love them." "Thank you, Huck.

He don't belong to you," Huck said. "He's my slave. He don't belong to neither one of you." "See, boy, you're a minor and there's a state law that says a minor cain't own no slave," the Duke said. "And our story was that he be belongin' to me," the King said. "That's the story we come up with and you didn't stick to it. Nothing worse than fellas won't stick to a story. The nigger was supposed to be mine if'n anyone asked. So, he belong to me. Possession is nine-tenths of the law." "What's that mean?" Huck said. "Story goes that I own Ceasar, so, in real life, I own Ceasar.

Yes?” “That is what equality is, Jim. It’s the capacity for becoming equal. The same way a black man in Martinique can learn French and so become French, he can also acquire the skills of equality and so become equal. But I repeat myself.” “I hate you,” I said through my fever and chills. “You realize, of course, that I have been bitten by a snake. Only to have you come to me in this delirium.” “Well, yes, but all men are equal. That’s my point. But even you have to admit the presence of, shall we call him—it—the devil, in your African humans.” Voltaire adjusted his position and held his hands to the fire. “You’re saying we’re equal, but also inferior,” I said. “I’m detecting a disapproving tone,” he said. “Listen, my friend, I’m on your side. I’m against the institution of slavery. Slavery of any kind. You know that I am an abolitionist of the first order.” “Thank you?” “You’re welcome.” “You do not believe that humans are inherently bad?” I asked. “I do not. If they were, they would kill as soon as they could walk.” “How do you explain slavery? Why are my people subjected to it, treated with such cruelty?” Voltaire shrugged. “Let me try this,” I said. “You have a notion, like Raynal, of natural liberties, and we all have them by virtue of our being human. But when those liberties are put under

Sailboat Table (table by Quint Hankle) The Voyage of the Narwhal, by Andrea Barrett Complete Stories, by Clarice Lispector Boy Kings of Texas, by Domingo Martinez The Marrow Thieves, by Cherie Dimaline A Brief History of Seven Killings, by Marlon James There There, by Tommy Orange Citizen: An American Lyric, by Claudia Rankine Underland, by Robert Macfarlane The Undocumented Americans, by Karla Cornejo Villavicencio Deacon King Kong, by James McBride The Dutch House, by Ann Patchett Will and Testament, by Vigdis Hjorth Every Man Dies Alone, by Hans Fallada The Door, by Magda Svabo The Plot Against America, by Philip Roth Fates and Furies, by Lauren Groff The Overstory, by Richard Power Night Train, by Lise Erdrich Her Body and Other Parties, by Carmen Maria Machado The Penguin Book of the Modern American Short Story, edited by John Freeman Between the World and Me, by Ta-Nehisi Coates Birds of America, by Lorrie Moore Mongrels, by Stephen Graham Jones The Office of Historical Corrections, by Danielle Evans Tenth of December, by George Saunders Murder on the Red River, by Marcie R. Rendon Leave the World Behind, by Rumaan Alam Ceremony, by Leslie Marmon Silko On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous, by Ocean Vuong The Unwomanly Face of War, by Svetlana Alexievich Standard Deviation, by Katherine Heiny All My Puny Sorrows, by Miriam Toews The Death of the Heart, by Elizabeth Bowen Mean Spirit, by Linda Hogan NW, by Zadie Smith Being Mortal, by Atul Gawande Americanah, by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie Firekeeper’s Daughter, by Angeline Boulley Erasure, by Percival Everett Sharks in the Time of Saviors, by Kawai Strong Washburn Heaven, by Mieko Kawakami Books for Banned Love Sea of Poppies, by Amitav Ghosh The English Patient, by Michael Ondaatje Euphoria, by Lily King The Red and the Black, by Stendahl Luster, by Raven Leilani Asymmetry, by Lisa Halliday All the Pretty Horses, by Cormac McCarthy Middlesex, by Jeffrey Eugenides The Vixen, by Francine Prose Legends of the Fall, by Jim Harrison The Winter Soldier, by Daniel Mason

So, when we see him staggering around later acting the fool, will that be an example of proleptic irony or dramatic irony?” “Could be both.” “Now that would be ironic.

I looked at one woman who might have been intrigued by me or taken with me, the entertainer. I saw the surface of her, merely the outer shell, and realized that she was mere surface all the way to her core.

I admit that I entertained briefly the thought that I was going to drown to death. Drowning to death always made a person more interesting, but I wanted, at that moment, to be, to remain, as boring as possible.

saw the surface of her, merely the outer shell, and realized that she was mere surface all the way to her core.

I don’t see no profit in askin’ for stuff just so I don’t get it and learn a lesson ’bout not gettin’ what I asked fer. What kinda sense does that make? Might as well pray to that board there.

At that moment the power of reading made itself clear and real to me. If I could see the words then no one could control them or what I got from them. They couldn't even know if I was merely seeing them or reading them, sounding the out of comprehending them. It was a completely private affair and completely free and, therefore, completely subversive.

There might be some higher power, children, but it’s not their white God. However, the more you talk about God and Jesus and heaven and hell, the better they feel.” The children said together, “And the better they feel, the safer we are.” “February, translate that.” “Da mo’ betta dey feels, da mo’ safer we be.” “Nice.” —

How strange a world, how strange an existence, that one's equal must argue for one's equality, that one's equal must hold a station that allows airing of that argument, that one cannot make that argument for oneself, that premises of said argument must be vetted by those equals who do not agree.

At that moment the power of reading made itself clear and real to me. If I could see the words, then no one could control them or what I got from them. They couldn't even know if I was merely seeing them or reading them, sounding them out or comprehending them. It was a completely private affair and completely free and, therefore, completely subversive.

And yet, with all that running, no place appeared like a new place. Perhaps that was the nature of escape.

Just keep living,” I said. “Just remember, once they see you, or see me in you, you’ve been seen. I know you don’t understand. But you will one day.

I kin see how much you miss yer family and yet I don’t think about it. I forget that you feel things jest like I feel. I know you love them.

It could have been my turn to experience a bit of guilt, having toyed with the boy’s feelings, and he being too young to actually understand the problem with his behavior, but I chose not to. When you are a slave, you claim choice where you can.

And so, after these books, the Bible itself was the least interesting of all. I could not enter it, did not want to enter it, and then understood that I recognized it as a tool of my enemy. I chose the word enemy, and still do, as oppressor necessarily supposes a victim.

I will be outraged as a matter of course. But my interest is in how these marks that I am scratching on this page can mean anything at all. If they can have meaning, then life can have meaning, then I can have meaning.

Because we must let the whites be the ones who name the trouble.” “And why is that?” I asked. February said, “Because they need to know everything before us. Because they need to name everything.

I reckon I do that, too,” the boy said. “What say?” “I kin see how much you miss yer family and yet I don’t think about it. I forget that you feel things jest like I feel. I know you love them.” “Thank you, Huck.

Those little bastards were hiding out there in the tall grass. Just James

saw the whiskers first and the animal, momentarily, looked nothing like a fish. Then I saw it clearly and it truly scared me, the way it stared at me with black and deep eyes, the way it insisted on living.

Hope? Hope is funny. Hope is not a plan. Actually, it’s just a trick. A ruse.

The waiting for some tear in the invisible curtain that bound us felt like centuries. In fact, was centuries. But this waiting for some news of my family’s whereabouts was endless, dead spaces separated by dead spaces.

nothing as Luke, with a hint of a grin on his now-ugly face, tied my hands with a hemp rope to a post. I said nothing as my shirt was ripped, by someone unidentified, from my body. I said nothing as the leather stung me, ripped me, burned me. Before I passed out, I was surprised by the realization that my flowing

I had to hide my excitement about the discovery of books.

At that moment the power of reading made itself clear and real to me.

Just remember, once they see you, or see me in you, you've been seen. I know you don't understand. But you will one day.

Without someone white to claim me as property, there was no justification for my presence, perhaps for my existence.

You want me to lie?' Huck asked. 'Yes, I want you to lie. You can't very well tell her I'm dead and have it be true. Yes, I want you to lie. Lie hard. Now go.

I thought you were going to say I was dead,' I said. 'I just couldn't kill you off,' the boy said. 'Thank you, Huck.

I knew that whatever the cause of their war, freeing slaves was an incidental premise and would be an incident result.

My voice, even in my head, had found its root in my diaphragm, had become sonorous and round. My pencil had more firmly grasped the pages of my newly dried notebook. I saw more clearly, farther, further. My name became my own.

I'm wanted for being a runaway, kidnapping, theft and murder.' 'Are you guilty?' Holly asked. 'Does it matter?' I asked.

I am James.

Cunégonde.

Sailboat Table (table by Quint Hankle) The Voyage of the Narwhal, by Andrea Barrett Complete Stories, by Clarice Lispector Boy Kings of Texas, by Domingo Martinez The Marrow Thieves, by Cherie Dimaline A Brief History of Seven Killings, by Marlon James There There, by Tommy Orange Citizen: An American Lyric, by Claudia Rankine Underland, by Robert Macfarlane The Undocumented Americans, by Karla Cornejo Villavicencio Deacon King Kong, by James McBride The Dutch House, by Ann Patchett Will and Testament, by Vigdis Hjorth Every Man Dies Alone, by Hans Fallada The Door, by Magda Svabo The Plot Against America, by Philip Roth Fates and Furies, by Lauren Groff The Overstory, by Richard Power Night Train, by Lise Erdrich Her Body and Other Parties, by Carmen Maria Machado The Penguin Book of the Modern American Short Story, edited by John Freeman Between the World and Me, by Ta-Nehisi Coates Birds of America, by Lorrie Moore Mongrels, by Stephen Graham Jones The Office of Historical Corrections, by Danielle Evans Tenth of December, by George Saunders Murder on the Red River, by Marcie R. Rendon Leave the World Behind, by Rumaan Alam Ceremony, by Leslie Marmon Silko On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous, by Ocean Vuong The Unwomanly Face of War, by Svetlana Alexievich Standard Deviation, by Katherine Heiny All My Puny Sorrows, by Miriam Toews The Death of the Heart, by Elizabeth Bowen Mean Spirit, by Linda Hogan NW, by Zadie Smith Being Mortal, by Atul Gawande Americanah, by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie Firekeeper’s Daughter, by Angeline Boulley Erasure, by Percival Everett Sharks in the Time of Saviors, by Kawai Strong Washburn Heaven, by Mieko Kawakami

Fiona McCrae at Graywolf Press. The artistic freedom and support offered by her and all the folks at Graywolf have been a gift. My agent, Melanie Jackson, is my guide, keeper and first reader. She and Fiona are family to me.

If you’re not making mistakes, you’re not learning.

them out or comprehending them. It was a completely private affair and completely free and, therefore, completely subversive.

These white men scared me. They scared me because they weren’t invested in my being afraid of them.

my interest is in how these marks that I am scratching on this page can mean anything at all. If they can have meaning, then life can have meaning, then I can have meaning.

Because they need to know everything before us. Because they need to name everything.

The remarkable truth, however, was that it was not the pistol, but my language, the fact that I didn’t conform to his expectations, that I could read, that had so disturbed and frightened him.

Dey’s a part of nature and weather be a part of nature and dem parts talk to each other.

What?” I asked. “Being a slave, you got to do whatever your owner say to do?” “Whateber dey say,” I said. “Wheneber dey say. Dey say, ‘Jump,’ I say, ‘How high?’ Dey say, ‘Spit,’ I say, ‘How far?’” “How kin one person own another person?” “Dat be a good question, Huck.

Why you think it's gonna rain?" "Seen lots of hawks flyin' round. Dey likes to hunt fo' it rain. And seen ants buildin' piles round dey holes." "How do they know it's gonna rain?" the boy asked. "Dey's a part of nature and weather be a part of nature and dem parts talk to each other." "Ain't people a part of nature?" "If'n dey is, den dey ain't no good part. Da rest o' nature don' hardly talk to no human peoples anymo. Maybe it try from time to time, but peoples don' listen. Anyway, gone be a big rain.” (...) I was serious about the rain. I could feel it in my bones.

We're in Illinois, true enough, and Illinois is supposedly a free state, true enough, but white folks around here tell us we're in Tennessee." "Maybe they believe it," I said. "What are we going to do?" the big man asked. "Take a map to the courts and say, 'Look here - we're actually free'?

Runaway. That's such an ugly word. Ain't it, Dolphin." "That's Dauphin, Dough-fan, Bilgewater." "That's Bridgewater." The Duke looked at me. "Anyway, the King and I have come up with a new business.

I been to many a place and seen lots of kinds of folks, heathens and pagans, harlots and whores, card sharks and even some out-and-out devils. At that meeting, under that white cloud of a tent, the Lord Jesus breathed

Huck looked at the sky. He pondered on that a bit. “Sho is pretty when you jest look at the sky with nothin’ in it, jest blue. I heard tell there are names for different blues. And reds and the like. I wonder what you call that blue.” “ ‘Robin’s egg,’ ” I said. “You ever seen a robin’s egg?” “You right, Jim. It is like a robin’s egg, ’ceptin’ it ain’t got the speckles.” I nodded. “Dat be why you gots to look past the speckles.

When you are a slave, you claim choice where you can.

Ain’t I doin’ wrong, though?” Huck said. He was troubled. “How am I s’posed to know what good is?” “Way I sees it is dis. If’n ya gots to hab a rule to tells ya wha’s good, if’n ya gots to hab good ’splained to ya, den ya cain’t be good. If’n ya need sum kinda God to tells ya right from wrong, den you won’t never know.” “But the law says…” “Good ain’t got nuttin’ to do wif da law. Law says I’m a slave.

The problem with being lost on the river was that things appeared different facing south from the way they did looking north. It was as if there were two different bodies of water. The Mississippi, in fact, seemed like many different rivers. The level was always rising or falling. Sediment got pushed around, changing the locations of bars and shelves. Islands changed shape, sometimes becoming completely submerged, and old outcroppings disappeared while new ones materialized overnight.

s’pose it do. But dey was stealin’ from dem folk. Tellin’ lies lak dey was. He weren’t neber no pirate.” “Yes, but them people liked it, Jim. Did you see their faces? They had to know them was lies, but they wanted to believe. What do you make of that?” “Folks be funny lak dat. Dey takes the lies dey want and throws away the truths dat scares ’em.

don’t know. Hope? Hope is funny. Hope is not a plan. Actually, it’s just a trick. A ruse.

had never seen a white man filled with such fear. The remarkable truth, however, was that it was not the pistol, but my language, the fact that I didn’t conform to his expectations, that I could read, that had so disturbed and frightened him.

Fire on the Mountain, by Anita Desai Sailboat Table (table by Quint Hankle) The Voyage of the Narwhal, by Andrea Barrett Complete Stories, by Clarice Lispector Boy Kings of Texas, by Domingo Martinez The Marrow Thieves, by Cherie Dimaline A Brief History of Seven Killings, by Marlon James There There, by Tommy Orange Citizen: An American Lyric, by Claudia Rankine Underland, by Robert Macfarlane The Undocumented Americans, by Karla Cornejo Villavicencio Deacon King Kong, by James McBride The Dutch House, by Ann Patchett Will and Testament, by Vigdis Hjorth Every Man Dies Alone, by Hans Fallada The Door, by Magda Szabó The Plot Against America, by Philip Roth Fates and Furies, by Lauren Groff The Overstory, by Richard Power Night Train, by Lise Erdrich Her Body and Other Parties, by Carmen Maria Machado The Penguin Book of the Modern American Short Story, edited by John Freeman Between the World and Me, by Ta-Nehisi Coates Birds of America, by Lorrie Moore Mongrels, by Stephen Graham Jones The Office of Historical Corrections, by Danielle Evans Tenth of December, by George Saunders Murder on the Red River, by Marcie R. Rendon Leave the World Behind, by Rumaan Alam Ceremony, by Leslie Marmon Silko On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous, by Ocean Vuong The Unwomanly Face of War, by Svetlana Alexievich Standard Deviation, by Katherine Heiny All My Puny Sorrows, by Miriam Toews The Death of the Heart, by Elizabeth Bowen Mean Spirit, by Linda Hogan NW, by Zadie Smith Being Mortal, by Atul Gawande Americanah, by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie Firekeeper’s Daughter, by Angeline Boulley Erasure, by Percival Everett Sharks in the Time of Saviors, by Kawai Strong Washburn Heaven, by Mieko Kawakami

Huck showed the excitement of a boy at the sight of our catch. I was reminded that he was just that, a boy. He could have gone through life without the knowledge I had given him and he would have been no worse off for it. But I understood at that moment that I had shared the truth with him for myself. I needed for him to have a choice.

You know where we goin’?” the boy asked. “Ain’t got no idee. But we’s on our way.

I read and read, but I found what I needed was to write. I needed that pencil. I could not keep track of my thoughts. I could not follow my own reasoning after a while. This was perhaps because I couldn’t stop reading long enough to make space in my head. I was like a man who had not eaten for a season and had then gorged himself until sick.

And so, after these books, the Bible itself was the least interesting of all.

Tell your story,” he said. “What do you mean, Young George? Tell my story? How do you suggest I tell my story?” He looked at his feet. I did, too. They were bare, his toes grabbing the wet grass. He looked at my face. “Use your ears,” he said.

One side is the same as the other to me. One side is against slavers, is what you’ve told me. I don’t know what precisely that means. People who sell slaves or people who own slaves.” “What difference does that make?” Huck asked. “I don’t know that it does.” “To fight in a war,” he said. “Can you imagine?” “Would that mean facing death every day and doing what other people tell you to do?” I asked. “I reckon.” “Yes, Huck, I can imagine.

At that moment the power of reading made itself clear and real to me. If I could see the words, then no one could control them or what I got from them. They

You know dey gone think I da one dat kilt you." "I never thought of that," Huck said. "I never dreamed I could git you into trouble. Why would you want to kill me?" "Dat don't matter none to white folks." "I don't like white folks," he said. "And I is one.

...all men are equal. That’s my point. But even you have to admit the presence of, shall we call him—it—the devil, in your African humans.” Voltaire adjusted his position and held his hands to the fire. “You’re saying we’re equal, but also inferior,” I said. “I’m detecting a disapproving tone,” he said. “Listen, my friend, I’m on your side. I’m against the institution of slavery. Slavery of any kind. You know that I am an abolitionist of the first order.” “Thank you?” “You’re welcome.

He was enjoying himself and that was all right with me. It always made life easier when white folks could laugh at a poor slave now and again. "I had you goin'," Huck said. I acted like he'd hurt my feelings. White people love feeling guilty.

THOSE LITTLE BASTARDS

Where am I?" I asked. "You're in Illinois," the old man said. "So, I'm in a free state?" The men laughed. "Boy, you're in America," a muscular man said.

White folks watch us work and forget how long we're left alone in our heads. Working and waiting." I smiled. "If only they knew the danger in that.

Slaves didn't have the luxury of anger toward a white man, but I had felt anger.

Across the water was a town and I guessed, from all I'd heard, that it might be Cairo. I wished that had mattered. A fugitive slave was a slave in a free state just the same.

Maybe you should write some songs. You know, poetry." "Like Emmett's?" "Yeah, just like that. About darkies trying to get back to da plantation 'cause dey miss Massa." "I thought about tearing out his songs and burning them, but they would still exist. Those crackers would still sing them. Better to know they exist. Don't you think?

You've been lying to me my whole life. About everything. Why should I believe anything you tell me?" "Belief has nothing to do with truth.

It was clear that the people we had escaped on the beach were not following us; they were too concerned with being survivors. White people often spent time admiring their survival of one thing or another. I imagined it was because so often they had no need to survive, but only to live.

I hope they never find you," Huck said. "You'll be wishin' you was drowned in the Mississippi." "Yes?" "They want to hang you twice." I nodded. I realized I couldn't be made more afraid than I was, than I had been my entire life.

White folks expect us to sound a certain way and it can only help if we don’t disappoint them,” I said. “The only ones who suffer when they are made to feel inferior is us. Perhaps I should say ‘when they don’t feel superior.’ So, let’s pause to review some of the basics.

Because we must let the whites be the ones who name the trouble.

If enough of them kill you, they’re innocent. Guess what the judge’s name was.” I waited. “ ‘Lawless.’ 

You sayin’ you is makin’ a ’stinction ’tween chattel slavery ’n’ bonded slavery?” I didn’t think I’d meant to actually ask that question out loud, but I must have, because I said it in proper and appropriate slave diction.

The truth was that I didn’t care. It was this apathy that left me wondering about myself—not wondering why I didn’t feel anything or whether I was incapable of feeling, but wondering what else I was capable of doing. It was not an altogether bad feeling.

offend Christian sensibilities to live in a society that allowed that practice? I knew that whatever the cause of their war, freeing slaves was an incidental premise and would be an incidental result.

After being cruel, the most notable white attribute was gullibility.

I was as much scared as angry, but where does a slave put anger? We could be angry with one another; we were human.

But I will not let this condition define me. I will not let myself, my mind, drown in fear and outrage. I will be outraged as a matter of course. But my interest is in how these marks that I am scratching on this page can mean anything at all. If they can have meaning, then life can have meaning, then I can have meaning.

Folks be funny lak dat. Dey takes the lies dey want and throws away the truths dat scares 'em.' ... 'I reckon I do that, too,' the boy said. 'Whay say?' 'I kin see how much you miss yer family and yet I don't think about it. I forget that you feel things jest like I feel. I know you love them.' 'Thank you, Huck.

Folks be funny lak dat. Dey takes the lies dey want and throws away the truths dat scares 'em.'... 'I reckon I do that, too,' the boy said. 'Whay say?' 'I kin see how much you miss yer family and yet I don't think about it. I forget that you feel things jest like I feel. I know you love them.' 'Thank you, Huck.

Folks be funny lak dat. Dey takes the lies dey want and throws away the truths dat scares ‚em

Judge, I have no interest in killing you, though it wouldn't make my lot any worse, would it? I can't feed your fantasy that you're a good kind master no matter how gentle you were when you applied the whip, no matter how much compassion you showed when you raped. So, you dispersed fewer lashes when you punished. You often let us rest when temperatures soared--' 'I'm going to see you dead, nigger.' 'No doubt.

There is no God, child. There’s religion but there’s no God of theirs. Their religion tells that we will get our reward in the end. However, it apparently doesn’t say anything about their punishment. But when we’re around them, we believe in God.

At that moment the power of reading made itself clear and real to me. If I could see the words, then no one could control

chose the word enemy, and still do, as oppressor necessarily supposes a victim.

I felt again how sick I was. I suspected at that moment that I would not die, but it was unclear whether I would be pleased about that fact.