Forging an Identity Through Literature and Art: Early Deane

 Early Deane: Essays on Irish Literature, Culture, and Politics by Seamus Deane; edited by Maurice Fitzpatrick

Early Deane book cover

Author, poet, and director Seamus Deane

Go raibh maith agat (an Irish Thank You) to Cambridge University Press and NetGalley for sharing an advanced copy of Early Deane: Essays on Irish Literature, Culture and Politics by Seamus Deane, edited by Maurice Fitzpatrick. This was an exciting collection to find and read. I was lucky enough to take a few Irish Literature classes in college and actually read Deane’s book Reading in the Dark. For whatever reason, I don’t remember reading any of his criticism. Nevertheless, this collection of his writings from the 1960s through the early 1980s is well organized thematically, focusing on topics and issues like Irish intellectuals and politics, Irish imagination, Irish drama, and important, but sometimes overlooked Irish writers who helped to forge the idea of an Irish nationality and identity. Although I was not familiar with all of the writers that Deane discusses throughout the book, I was familiar with a number of the authors, poets, plays, and novels, and many of the themes and ideas about Irish identity, politics, art, creativity, and the struggle against colonialism were themes and issues explored in the courses I took. This book is definitely an academic text, and not one for casual readers. Deane was not only a poet and writer, but a serious student of Irish history and literature, using his knowledge and learning, as well as his spirit and desire for a true Irish identity, to synthesize the great history of Irish art and literature, often to refute notions and stereotypes that sought to justify the colonization of Ireland.

Deane’s writing is informative and imaginative, as he looks backward to imagine a future Ireland that is not necessarily nostalgic, but rather awakening to understand the true legacy of its language and history that was nearly erased through colonization. Furthermore, Deane was from Northern Ireland, so his experience under British rule and the kind of discrimination and inequality he experienced only heightened his calls for a true Irish identity and nation. In fact, the idea of tension and conflict, not just violence, but a kind of dichotomy and opposition, are found throughout his essays, offering insight into what he sometimes refers to as the psychology of the Irish under British rule, where their history, language, and culture were systematically erased only to have English and British history imposed on them. As Deane notes throughout analyses of Irish writers like Yeats, Synge, Beckett, and O’Casey, that kind of experience creates a divided psyche and identity that is never completely assured of who it is, and may be best represented in the character of Owen in Translations, who needs a job, but ultimately ends up aiding in the destruction of his own culture, history, language, and community through his work with the British. Deane became close with Friel, becoming a director in his Field Day Theater Company in Derry, along with the actor Stephen Rea, who also wrote a wonderful introduction for this collection. The last few essays are actually introductions by Deane about Friel’s work, which plays an important part in helping to provide examples of both the conflicts and the artistry that Deane emphasizes are so integral to understanding the Irish. I also appreciated Deane’s writing about Yeats and other contemporaries like Lady Gregory who sought to excavate Irish mythology and folklore, not necessarily to romanticize the past, but rather to reinvigorate an Irish identity and imagine a new future for Ireland as it forged a new nation after the revolution. Deane’s analysis and evaluation of these important Irish artists and writers also acknowledged his call to the necessity of art, myth, and literature in shaping a unique national identity free from the cultural imperialism that colonialism imposes on its subjects. Also important throughout the early part of this collection is Deane’s call for an Irish intelligentsia, which he deems as what I would imagine Du Bois imagined as like the talented tenth, a group of highly educated and skilled writers, artists, and theorists who guide the culture towards a brighter future. As Deane notes, Irish offered little for its artists, writers, and thinkers to remain while England and continental Europe provided more opportunities and praise. Nevertheless, Deane may not have realized how he and his peers were able to contribute to this kind of Irish intelligentsia that helped to re-imagine Ireland through art, poetry, drama, and literature.    

Although this is a book about much more than Irish literature, it was a little surprising to not see a whole lot about James Joyce in this book. Many of the conflicts, oppositions and themes that Joyce addressed in his works, especially the paralysis and spiritual death that Ireland offered, appear throughout Deane’s criticism, noting how prevalent these ideas were in other writers’ works. Furthermore, Deane’s focus on the imposed history and the loss of authentic Irish history seems to echo Stephen Deadalus’s famous lines “History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.” However, with Deane’s writing, we see glimmers of hope and a sliver of morning sunlight slipping through the shades, offering readers and thinkers ideas about how Ireland was seeking its own identity throughout the periods of colonialism (and in some ways, it still is). Deane’s commitment to art and literature as a means of upliftment and cultural identity are important reminders as well. As I was reading this collection, I was struck by its relevance to current issues in the US but also reassured by the power of great art to challenge injustice, inequality, and violence. This is a great collection for those who are interested in Irish literature or for those who are teaching courses on Irish literature. I wish that I had a collection like this when I was in college because it would have provided me with some different insights into the Irish imagination and its role in forging an Irish identity. Highly recommended! 

The Cure's Disintegration- 33 1/3 by Andi Harriman

 The Cure's Disintegration 33 1/3 

by Andi Harriman

The Cure's Disintegration cover

Author Andi Harriman

Big thanks to Bloomsbury Academic and NetGalley for sharing one of the latest in their 33 1/3 series of great albums. This one is on one of my favorite albums, which was also one of the albums that was instrumental in shaping my later musical tastes, The Cure’s Disintegration by Andi Harriman. I’m so glad that there is a 33 1/3 book about The Cure, and especially about what many believe to be their best album, 1989’s Disintegration. Herriman’s approach to documenting the album is excellent as she explores the band’s prior discography and how their sounds was influenced both by the changing nature of punk and post-punk in late 70s and early 80s Britain, as well as pressure to record pop singles while also maintaining a sense of artistic integrity and individual voice in their music. Herriman frames Disintegration as the pinnacle of The Cure’s oppositional battle between these forces that ended up confounding reviewers and record execs at first, but has, over time, resulted in what many consider to be the band’s most lauded album. However, what also sets this book apart from other 33 1/3 entries is Harriman’s analysis of The Cure’s work with 19^th century French poet Charles Baudelaire. Harriman cites examples of Baudelaire’s poetry and life to explore similarities to The Cure’s music and lyrical content, as well as how the author of Fleur du Mal’s dark and decadent life mirrored some of the gothic intonations of Disintegration.

I really appreciated the way this book is structured, as Harriman provides a useful analysis of The Cure’s work up to Disintegration, which helped me to understand how the same band that wrote poppy punk songs like “Boys Don’t Cry” and “Jumping Someone Else’s Train” followed them up with albums like Faith, Seventeen Seconds, and Pornography. She also takes a close look at some of the poppier albums that followed, including The Head on the Door and Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me. It was interesting to see how such an iconic band were constantly evolving their sound and the various sources (and substances) that influenced their changing sounds. The Cure is not only known for their unique sound but also their unique look which many attribute to the Goth style. Harriman also explores some of the genesis of Robert Smith and band members’ style, which at times seems to result from comfort as well as a kind of insecurity of being on stage and singing. Harriman also explores the origins and influences of some of The Cure’s songs, which again was interesting to learn more about. However, I loved reading Harriman’s connections between Baudelaire’s work and aspects of The Cure’s songs and style. Baudelaire is such an interesting writer, influenced by Poe, but also uniquely French, he wrote poems and short vignettes that straddled the era of Romanticism and Modernism, yet managed to also create a kind of decadent style that celebrated the fleeting feelings of passion and emotion while also acknowledging the impending decay and rot that frequently follows these pleasures. It’s been a while since I last read Fleur du Mal, so I appreciated Harriman’s inclusion of some of the texts, particularly the poems titled “Spleen”. Harriman not only examines the earlier beliefs in humors, and how the spleen was thought to hold some of the darker humors that influenced feelings like melancholy, but also how Baudelaire’s work shifted the notion of the grotesque and ugliness from evil to something beautiful and sublime. She includes the opening lines, translated by Edna St. Vincent Millay, as “if I lived a thousand years I could not be more crammed with dubious souvenirs. There’s no old chest of drawers bulging with deeds and bills, Love-letters, locks of hair, novels, bad verses, wills, That hides so many secrets as my wretched head;- It’s like a mausoleum, like a pyramid, Holding more heaped unpleasant bones than a Potter’s Field;”. These lines resonate so much with me, as well as the title that is sometimes applied to this “Spleen” poem, “The Sphinx.” Even before delving into the analysis of Disintegration, I could see the relevance of Baudelaire’s lines to songs like “Lullaby” and “Pictures of You”, which are both haunting and romantic in their own dark way. Additionally, noting “The Sphinx” title adds to the mysterious and ominous nature of the music and lyrics of The Cure, where the ambiguity points to both love and loss, remembrance and fading, pleasure and pain.

Harriman includes other references to Baudelaire’s work throughout her book, but it’s the last two chapters (before the outro) that detail the creation of Disintegration, which is fascinating to learn more about as well. As the band gradually shifted from original member Lol Tollhurst due to his waning influence, alcoholism, and inability to learn new synthesizer technology, Smith brought in other musicians, who added to and helped shape the evolving sound of the band, bringing it back to darker more melancholic sounds found on earlier albums. Yet, there is something different to the sound of Disintegration, possibly shaped by Smith’s turning 30 and his marriage that filled the album with a sense of fleeting pleasure and the darker side of romanticism. As Harriman notes with Baudelaire, his poetry “rejected the empty gestures of romanticism without losing the heroic energy.” The Cure’s sound feels similar to this notion in that there’s such emotion and feeling in their music, but it doesn’t traffic in the traditional romantic tropes. The pain is not just loss, but the kind of ennui that longs for a time passed that will never return. Even analyzing the cover, which features a faded, almost underwater looking image of Robert Smith surrounded by flowers and other obscured images, suggests something uncanny, familiar, yet distant and fantom-like, observable, but out of reach. Harriman examines how songs like “Pictures of You”, “Love Song”, and Lullaby”- some of the singles from the album, represent this kind of fleeting feeling. Furthermore, she notes how videos helped the band add to the goth imagery of love and loss. I loved reading about the “Lullaby” song and video, since that was always one of my favorites, despite being haunted and frightened by the video when I was younger. It was interesting to learn that Smith’s own childhood and his fascination with mouths added to the creation of this song. I also found it interesting that the band thought that “Fascination Street” was the one song that didn’t quite fit on the album and presented as the US single. I think “Fascination Street” might have been my first exposure to The Cure, and I loved the bass line and guitar feedback and reverb in that song. Beyond the analysis of the album’s contents, Harriman also details how the album was created, with the band moving into a rented old home in the British countryside, and how a fire nearly destroyed the lyrics for the album. I really enjoyed learning more about the creative process, and how the band all ended up bringing demos and ideas for each other to listen to and vote on for inclusion on the album. It was fascinating to learn more about the creative process that was involved in developing and producing this amazing album.

I absolutely loved this book, not just because Disintegration is one of the formative albums of my youth that I still listen to today, but also because of Harriman’s fresh approach to analyzing music and literature, noting the similarities between Baudelaire’s own trailblazing style that pushed past the “hollow frills of Romanticism in order to inject its emptiness with the bulbous, uncomfortable tragedies of his damned existence” noting hos “His words are struggles between the virtuous and the immoral, a bouquet of calamitous cavorts with the devil himself.” She goes on to note the oppositions at play in Disintegration, and how “anxiety and pleasure converge in heaps within an immense fortress of sound. A love, an obsession, for the grotesque and the horrible.” It’s a beautiful synthesis that helps to unlock some of the bulging drawers filled with haunting “Memories, nightmares. Messy, shattered dreams.” Both this book and Disintegration the album are a trip down a melancholy lane, reveling in the oddities and sadness we feel along the way. Highly recommended! 

Light and Thread- Reflections from Han Kang

 Light and Thread by Han Kang

Light and Thread book cover

Author and Nobel Laureate Han Kang

Many thanks to Random House and NetGalley for sharing an advanced copy of Nobel Prize winning Han Kang’s latest book, Light and Thread. I was so excited to find this title, and even more excited to learn that this was Kang’s first book of reflections, a kind of nonfiction journal and brief exploration of some of her writing. I don’t know if there are other nonfiction publications in Korean from Kang, but this was the first time I’ve seen her nonfiction in English. After reading and being haunted by books like The Vegetarian, Greek Lessons, and last year’s incredible We Do Not Part, I was excited to see what this book has to offer.

Although the book is slim, there’s much in it, and Kang provides some insight into her writing, especially around the questions she attempts to explore with each novel. I loved reading about these influences and especially how her novels revolve around these questions of the relationship of the past to the present and the living to the dead. It’s something that emerges in her writing, and especially in the relationships between characters that are at the center of her books. In addition, there’s a section where she discusses some of the writing of We Do Not Part, which I did not realize took her 7 years to write. We Do Not Part is not only a powerful story about friendship, connection, and the restorative power of art, but it’s also an incredibly affecting and viscerally moving work of art that readers can feel. There is something tangible about the book, and in Light and Thread, we learn that Kang experimented with walking around her home in Jeju Island in the darkness before dawn to learn exactly how dark it was or how shadows from candles displayed on walls. More surprising was the fact that Kang went out into the snowy Jeju forests to see how long she could hold snow in her hands before succumbing to the numbness of the cold. It makes sense that Kang would delve into these sensory experiences to create such a vivid and tactile experience for readers.

There’s also some lovely poetry throughout the book that feels threaded to We Do Not Part, in which Kang discusses the kinds of connections she experienced. She notes that some of her earliest writing from elementary school featured poems that dealt with these kinds of threads and connections which she sought to bind writers to readers, and possibly members of society. I’m amazed at the kinds of questions she raises through her examination of some of the most brutal events in history- although she seems struck by the violence and brutality, she still wonders how the same humanity that can punish and brutalize others is capable of such love and forgiveness, or care. It’s something that is hard to reckon, especially when we tend to not see these threads that bind us, but often look for the separation and tears.

The last section of the book is titled “Garden Diary,” and it details Kang’s first how she owned on her own, and how she worked with a landscaper to plant some trees and greens and deliver light to them, despite the north-facing garden. The landscaper tells her to bring mirrors to her yard in order to catch the sunlight and deliver it to the garden, and Kang writes this lovely poem

“We’re catching the sunlight shining south. By reflecting it with mirrors.

…

Thus, in my garden there is light.

There are trees that grow, nourished by that light.

Leaves sparkle, translucent, and flowers slowly open.”

The rest of the garden diary details a year and a half of the growth and life she documents as she continues to bring light and life to her plants. She observes the bugs, including wonderous fairy bugs, whose luminescence makes them seem ethereal, and the aphids she worries about eating the leaves of her plants. These are mostly short observations throughout the year, but it’s marvelous to read the subtle differences in the changing of seasons, and the position of the sun gradually evades the garden, rendering the plants lifeless until the next spring. In one November entry, she mentions that “In winter, a south-facing house becomes a jar of light,” which was a phrase I just loved. Throughout the year, we see how the plants and growth connect Kang to her home, which she says “feels like a friend” when she “heard myself say, ‘Be right back.” It’s not just the home, but the life and growth that connects her to the space, and also demonstrates that kind of care and concern that counters the brutality and violence of humanity and history. Towards the end of these entries, Kang notes that “I had been wanting to fill the north wall full of green, and now time is doing the job for me.” Even though these entries are mostly a sentence or two, it’s a lovely document of how time unfolds in these older, seasonal ways, similar to Jenny Odell’s wonderous book Saving Time, that looks at different measures of time, and Donald Quill’s Living the Irish Wheel of the Year, which also takes a more seasonal approach to the passing of time, reminding us of the renewal and return that occurs in life. The last few entries from Kang detail how her viburnum “has grown taller than I am,” and how “When I step through the front gate, the scent of lilac is everywhere.” Kang’s entries not only made me long for spring as we made it through a rough winter, but it also affirmed how important it is to be surrounded by life, and especially how good it can be to take care of other living things, even if they are plants. I loved this brief book, and as I look back on rereading certain sections, my appreciation and joy for it grows more and more like Kang’s viburnum or lilacs. This is definitely a book to revisit and reread, but also one to share with others. Highly recommended! 

Powerful, Poetic Memoir of Growing Up in Jamaica: How to Say Babylon by Safiya Sinclair

How to Say Babylon: A Memoir by Safiya Sinclair 

How to Say Babylon book cover

Author Safiya Sinclair

I read Sinclair’s How to Say Babylon almost right after visiting Montego Bay in Jamaica, and reading this powerful memoir afterwards helped me understand a part of Jamaican culture that is sometimes misunderstood—the life of a Rastafarian. While Rastafarianism is often presented as a patriarchal religion, Sinclair’s memoir presents her perspective as a young woman growing up under her father’s ever-changing rules for his family. Although difficult to read at times, Sinclair’s story is powerful and poignant, not only from her experiences growing up Rasta and the kind of discrimination she faced in school but also as a daughter at home, but her story also explores the search for and development of her own voice as a poet. I found this section, especially when she works with a mentor and the almost equally oppressive approach he had on her attempts to find an authentic voice, compelling. Sinclair’s evocative descriptions of the natural beauty of Jamaica are contrasted with the emotional reflections of the oppression and discrimination she faced as a young, Rasta woman in Jamaica. It was surprising to see how tightly controlled her father kept her family, and how he viewed women. Sinclair’s narration of some events from her childhood capture the kind of innocence and naivety that is a part of childhood. Simple pleasures like playing on a beach reserved primarily for tourists also help to show the racial and class discrimination present in Jamaica, which is further exacerbated by access to necessities like school and education. These moments in school, where Sinclair has to navigate new friends and social groups, are also compelling to read and help to highlight the kinds of challenges that Sinclair would face due to her hair and the assumptions that others, including teachers and peers, would make about her. I really enjoyed this memoir and was really inspired by the strength that Sinclair drew from her family, particularly her sisters and mother. Despite the flaws of her father, he is also presented in a humane manner, where I can appreciate his desire to be an artist and yet his concern about the wickedness of Babylon. Yet, I was also disturbed by his distrust of his daughters and the increasing control over them that he exercised. Nevertheless, Sinclair’s mother is the one to whom she turns to when she experiences hardship and trouble, and who encourages her pursuit of writing. Full of both joy and sadness, Sinclair’s How to Say Babylon is a beautifully written and poetic memoir about growing up, trying to navigate different worlds, and eventually finding one’s own voice through these struggles.

Personal Poems that Transform the Everyday to Extraordinary: Jane Wong's How to Not Be Afraid of Everything

 How to Not Be Afraid of Everything 

by Jane Wong

How to Not Be Afraid of Everything book cover

Poet Jane Wong

I was so excited to find Jane Wong’s collection of poems How to Not Be Afraid of Everything in my local library. A few years ago, I read Wong’s excellent memoir Meet Me Tonightin Atlantic City. Her memoir details her early years growing up as a daughter of Chinese immigrants who owned a restaurant in Atlantic City, and continues focusing on her education and scholarship, which have all influenced her art and writing. I was also excited to read this collection since I don’t get to read poetry as much as I used to. I’ve read a few collections over the past few years, but sadly, I don’t encounter poetry as much as I once did as an English major. I was intermittently feasting on Wong’s words over the course of a few weeks and was satisfied by this collection. I noticed many recurring themes in these poems and in Wong’s memoir. I think that my favorite element of Wong’s poems in this collection is her ability to recognize the beauty in ordinary items and daily activities. Maybe it was growing up in a restaurant and playing around the food, the appliances, and the leftovers, but some of the poems detail life in the restaurant kitchen and outback, finding joy and adventure in what many adults would overlook. It’s this ability to take a childlike eye and transform the everyday that makes these poems transcendent and enjoyable. It’s also a reminder for me that poetry has the ability to closely examine an object or event and transform it to something exquisite or extraordinary. I really enjoyed this aspect of her writing. Other poems reflect and honor her family, especially her relatives from China, focusing on both the foods that nourished them as well as the tragedies and hardships that eventually brought them to America. At the center of Wong’s collection is the longer poem “When You Died,” which examines both the Great Leap Forward, when China tried to revolutionize agriculture, which resulted in over 35 million dead, and Wong’s own relatives that she never met. Like the art installation she created, her poem seeks to nourish her family’s hungry ghosts, and she uses food imagery throughout to both honor and forge her own connection with her ancestors. It’s a striking, powerful poem that I will need to revisit to further understand. Another theme is the autobiographical nature of her poems where Wong explores both her vulnerability and her desire to “Put on My Fur Coat”, which was one of my favorite poems. It was kind of like the opposite of the poems that deal with the sadness and loss; or at least, it was more like a more determined response to the setbacks and sadness that life sometimes offers. I could see this poem being almost anthemic, like Maya Angelou’s “Still I Rise”, offering readers reassurance and support in facing life’s challenges. Other poems around this one, like "The Cactus” and “What I Tell Myself After Waking Up With Fists” also deal with sadness, regret, fear, loneliness, and were poems that I could also relate to. In addition, Wong’s parents feature in both her memoir and her poetry, and the poems that deal with her father’s gambling and transient ways, and her mother’s persistence and determination to make a new life. After reading her memoir, I appreciated these poems as well, and they deal with the complicated emotions of having a parent with addictions. Although I need to return Wong’s collection of poems soon, I’m excited to find more of her work, both in print and online. 

Reflections on Blue: Imani Perry's Black in Blues: How a Color Tells the Story of My People

 Black in Blues: How Color Tells the Story of My People by Imani Perry

Black in Blues book cover

Author Imani Perry at The Anthology of Rap CC BY NC-2.0 by 92YTribeca

Thelonious Monk, at the piano. He is briefly featured in one chapter

“Wonder is a near universal response to deep rivers and vast oceans. But for some, the water also evokes terror. In it, I see God and slave ships both.”

A big thank you to Ecco Publishers, Harper Collins, and NetGalley for providing me with an advanced copy of Imani Perry’s new book Black in Blues: How a Color Tells the Story of My People. Perry’s book explores the color and significance of blue from multiple perspectives, examining its tranquility, as well as its violence, its beauty as well as its decadence. Although to say that this book simply examines different shades of blue is a severe underrepresentation, the book considers how blue is interwoven into the lives of Africans and African Americans throughout different cultures and historical eras. To do this, Perry examines different shades of blue in many different contexts and themes. Several books I’ve recently read have been touching on some of these same recurring themes, and Perry’s book was one of the more inventive that aligned with these. For one, Toni Morrison features prominently in these books, and I really loved how Perry framed part of her inquiry into the color blue by discussing Baby Suggs from Beloved. She refers to Baby Suggs’s desire to take some time and think about colors, noting how Blue “never hurt no body,” yet Perry notes “but it surely did. The word even denotes ‘hurt.’ ‘Blue’ has been a word for melancholy in English for centuries.” Perry’s book looks at all of the different ways that blue has played a role in African American life, examining different areas including art, clothing, jewelry, music, and literature. One of the other themes was books written by interdisciplinary artists—those whose work encompasses different areas, yet finds commonalities and intersections among different fields. Perry’s work was so interesting because the focus on blue would seem so limited, but she expands the topic by exploring history, literature, art, and culture. And while the focus is primarily on African American history, Perry traces preferences to blue and its various shades all over the diaspora, traveling to Liberia, the Kongo, Haiti, and other regions where people were enslaved.

Perry spends time discussing the different shades of blue, and I didn’t realize how indigo was made, nor how precious it was in earlier times. Finding the stories about how these shades were developed and used for clothing was fascinating, yet also sad to see how labor and processes were often exploited to generate wealth that was never shared. She also discusses the idea of Blue Black, and revisiting Curtis Mayfield’s famous proclamation of “We the People Who Are Darker Than Blue,” and its significance in culture and history. I think that my favorite parts of the book were those that dealt with literature and music. One chapter focuses on Zora Neale Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God, one of my all-time favorite books, and how the use of Blue features in Hurston’s work. She also discusses the dancer Katherine Dunham, who studied traditional dancing in Haiti around the same time Hurston was there for ethnography for Tell My Horse. It was interesting to see the parallels and differences between these two artists, who were navigating different social and class circles due to the nature of their work and possibly their skin tones as well. Hurston appears in other chapters that focused on Hoodoo and root work, which are often related to the Blues. I was amazed at Perry’s ability to draw all of these topics and artists together under the rubric of blue. It was fascinating to see her analysis and understanding of how blue impacted lives and cultures in different ways. Another section focused on Richard Wright and Ralph Ellison, looking at their works and how blue features in them. For the chapter about Richard Wright, it focused on Mississippi Blues, and Perry brought up a great quote that I wasn’t really familiar with “The most astonishing aspect of the blues is that, though replete with a sense of defeat and down-heartedness, they are not intrinsically pessimistic: their burden of woe and melancholy is dialectically redeemed through the sheer force of sensuality….” It was interesting because I didn’t remember Wright as being kind of musical in his writing, but I can see this kind of resiliency in Black Boy. The following chapter focuses on Ellison’s Invisible Man, another book that I used to teach and was always a favorite. There are so many interesting characters, many of whom are musical, and Perry focuses on the character with the blueprints, who asks the narrator if he’s “got the dog”. I always thought this was such an interesting part, where the chiasmus elicits a kind of reflective questioning—about whether the dog has us, or if we have the dog. Perry then goes on to link this section focusing on the idea of blueprints to Thelonious Monk and his composition of the song “In Walked Bud.” It was so cool how Perry brought these ideas together—blueprints as a map of intention, and as Ellison notes, the need to always improvise and adapt to the situation, which is what Monk experienced in his composition, based on a Berlin tune, that he adapted to a situation with police brutality. You have to read these connections. Other chapters focused on both DuBois and Booker T Washington’s Tuskegee Institute. One of my favorite chapters was focused on George Washington Carver, who studied and did research at Tuskegee. I didn’t realize that he was a painter who used peanuts to create colors, especially blues. Again, just fascinating scholarship and analysis to bring all of these different aspects of African American history, culture, and art into the various shades of blue. I’m looking forward to re-reading different sections, and I think that this would be a great book to either supplement some of the main texts discussed in it (Morrison, Ellison, Wright), or to use as a springboard for further discussion on topics related to race, identity, culture, and art. This is a remarkable book, filled with accessible complexities and considerations, yet solely focused on blue. Truly an amazing book, and I can’t wait to read more of Imani Perry’s work. 

Excellent Collection of Essays by a Contemporary Poet and Social Excavator

They Can't Kill Us Until They Kill Us by Hanif Abdurraqib

Hanif Abduraqib by

Mwa410, CC BY-SA 4.0  via Wikimedia Commons

I’ve only read one other book by Hanif Abdurraqib, Go Ahead in the Rain, which explores his personal connection with A Tribe Called Quest. While Hanif is a few years younger than me and had different experiences growing up, I felt such a connection to him the way he connected with Tribe. I absolutely loved that book because he was able to translate the feelings that great music conveys to listeners. In addition, Hanif explores the historical context of the songs, albums and lives of Tribe’s members, mostly focusing on Q-Tip and Phife, while also including his own personal life events and how the music relates to his life, especially his adolescence, which was when I first encountered ATCQ as well. I was really glad that I finally read this collection of essays because Hanif uses similar methods to explore a broad range of musicians, musical styles, songs, and albums. However, he also analyzes social issues, literature, films, and basketball. While I don’t know a lot about emo music, Hanif describes going to shows that reminded me of going to see basement shows of friends’ bands in college. His ability to vividly describe the scene, as well as the journey there and what happens afterward, made his experiences familiar to my own. Although I felt that his essays on music were some of my favorites, his writings about his family and educational experiences were some of the most moving and powerful in this book. His ability to interweave his own personal experiences with the topics of his essays truly shows his deft skills as a writer. It also makes me want to just sit down and hang out with him. It’s been a while since I’ve read a book where I’ve felt such a connection with the writer. I’m looking forward to reading his latest. 

 Purchase Adburraqib's other books here