Richard Wright
Paura

I knew what to write even before finishing the book. I had already grasped the core of the issue, the message that R. Wright—not the lamented Pink Floyd—had sent. Not because I possess some extraordinary insight, but because the author, by putting us in the shoes of the protagonist Bigger Thomas, helps us understand well in advance what the message is, beyond the conclusion of the novel. And—incredibly—not for this reason does the storytelling become predictable or heavy. Richard Wright manages to create more even when it seems like everything has already been said: not real twists, but new variations of what has already been intuited.

After reading "Invisible Man," a masterpiece, I let a few months pass before diving back into African American literature; I thought nothing could measure up. And in a way, it is so if you consider the exceptional nature of Ralph Ellison's novel. But comparing "Invisible Man" and "Native Son" is silly. The former is modernist, symbolist, strongly yet subtly influenced by T.S. Eliot, Nietzsche, and Joyce. The latter, while focusing on the protagonist's psychology, is realist, of a more unabashed ruthlessness, almost verist in how it describes without judging and commenting.  Verist, modernist, realist symbolist... the fact remains that the dangerous ghost of "Invisible Man" did not hover over "Native Son" while I read it, and that speaks volumes about its value.

It doesn't seem necessary to talk about Bigger Thomas's story; it would be pointless and would reveal too much of the novel, which I would love for you to discover on your own, should you decide to seek out "Native Son" even to the ends of the earth (recommended choice).  Bigger hasn't faced an injustice. "An injustice that continues for three long centuries and takes place among millions of people over thousands of miles of territory, is no longer an injustice; it is a fait accompli."; "The very concept of injustice rests on the premise of equal rights."

There's no need to be scared of these two sentences: it won't be an essay, or a brick-sized novel that you'll have on your hands if you choose to chase "Native Son" to the farthest corners of the globe (recommended choice). These quotes are helpful because they precisely describe the ground on which the story grows and unfolds. Fear governs the lives of segregationist America.  "We're already dead, just not yet in the ground," sings John Cale in "Fear's Man Best Friend"; fear is not Bigger's best friend, Bigger hates fear, hates that physical sensation that is more than fear. Yet it is his best friend because it is inseparable from him, indivisible, and if it's removed, Bigger is a fish out of water, a dog in the water, and he can bite.

I was only able to read "Native Son" (the real title of the novel) intermittently, but each time just a few lines sufficed to be absorbed by the story, by its implications, the reflections it inevitably provokes.  "Native Son" (1940) deeply portrays racist America, racism as it can be in each of the countless corners of the globe—"our home" included—and what it can make a man feel.