There is something about him. What is it, what is it? Oh, I don’t know. I can’t put it into words. But I’m telling you, there’s something about this man they call James Baldwin, who died before I was born and whose legacy was posted on the walls before I could read. I’m telling you again, and again, I can feel it, I can see it—there’s something about this man. I just know it. Oh, I know it alright, and you will, too. Just look into those deep-set annular eyes, eyes like a chameleon, eyes that look up and around and through you, eyes that carry sorrow and great tenderness, eyes restless to see something we all see but cannot know. Listen to his voice. A voice that turns words into little drums; a voice comfortable with speed, graceful like a swooping hawk. Look into his boyish face and toothy smile. What is it, what is it? Read his words. Read his words again, and again, and see what he sees and what we see but cannot know. What is humiliation?
What is degradation? Are they parasites, do they feed on certain people, creep and lurk and eat and grow stronger and before you know it they’ve taken over and you, innocent, depleted, are left for dead?
In 1948, James Baldwin left New York and travelled to Paris. He didn’t speak French and arrived with forty dollars to his name. He was twenty-four years old - More
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