This piece, written by Toni Morrison, appeared in The New York Times not long after James Baldwin’s death in early December 1987.
You will find a link to a book of critical essays, James Baldwin and Toni Morrison: Comparative Critical and Theoretical Essays at the bottom of this page.
JAMES BALDWIN : HIS VOICE REMEMBERED; Life in His Language
Sunday, December 20, 1987
Byline: By Toni Morrison
Jimmy, there is too much to think about you, and too much to feel. The difficulty is your life refuses summation – it always did – and invites contemplation instead. Like many of us left here I thought I knew you. Now I discover that in your company it is myself I know. That is the astonishing gift of your art and your friendship: You gave us ourselves to think about, to cherish. We are like Hall Montana* watching ”with new wonder” his brother saints, knowing the song he sang is us, ”He is us.”
I never heard a single command from you, yet the demands you made on me, the challenges you issued to me, were nevertheless unmistakable, even if unenforced: that I work and think at the top of my form, that I stand on moral ground but know that ground must be shored up by mercy, that ”the world is before [ me ] and [ I ] need not take it or leave it as it was when [ I ] came in.”
Well, the season was always Christmas with you there and, like one aspect of that scenario, you did not neglect to bring at least three gifts. You gave me a language to dwell in, a gift so perfect it seems my own invention. I have been thinking your spoken and written thoughts for so long I believed they were mine. I have been seeing the world through your eyes for so long, I believed that clear clear view was my own. Even now, even here, I need you to tell me what I am feeling and how to articulate it. So I have pored again through the 6,895 pages of your published work to acknowledge the debt and thank you for the credit. No one possessed or inhabited language for me the way you did. You made American English honest – genuinely international. You exposed its secrets and reshaped it until it was truly modern dialogic, representative, humane. You stripped it of ease and false comfort and fake innocence and evasion and hypocrisy. And in place of deviousness was clarity. In place of soft plump lies was a lean, targeted power. In place of intellectual disingenuousness and what you called ”exasperating egocentricity,” you gave us undecorated truth. You replaced lumbering platitudes with an upright elegance. You went into that forbidden territory and decolonized it, ”robbed it of the jewel of its naivete,” and un-gated it for black people so that in your wake we could enter it, occupy it, restructure it in order to accommodate our complicated passion – not our vanities but our intricate, difficult, demanding beauty, our tragic, insistent knowledge, our lived reality, our sleek classical imagination – all the while refusing ”to be defined by a language that has never been able to recognize [ us ] .” In your hands language was handsome again. In your hands we saw how it was meant to be: neither bloodless nor bloody, and yet alive.
It infuriated some people. Those who saw the paucity of their own imagination in the two-way mirror you held up to them attacked the mirror, tried to reduce it to fragments which they could then rank and grade, tried to dismiss the shards where your image and theirs remained – locked but ready to soar. You are an artist after all and an artist is forbidden a career in this place; an artist is permitted only a commercial hit. But for thousands and thousands of those who embraced your text and who gave themselves permission to hear your language, by that very gesture they ennobled themselves, became unshrouded, civilized.
The second gift was your courage, which you let us share: the courage of one who could go as a stranger in the village and transform the distances between people into intimacy with the whole world; courage to understand that experience in ways that made it a personal revelation for each of us. It was you who gave us the courage to appropriate an alien, hostile, all-white geography because you had discovered that ”this world [ meaning history ] is white no longer and it will never be white again.” Yours was the courage to live life in and from its belly as well as beyond its edges, to see and say what it was, to recognize and identify evil but never fear or stand in awe of it. It is a courage that came from a ruthless intelligence married to a pity so profound it could convince anyone who cared to know that those who despised us ”need the moral authority of their former slaves, who are the only people in the world who know anything about them and who may be, indeed, the only people in the world who really care anything about them.” When that unassailable combination of mind and heart, of intellect and passion was on display it guided us through treacherous landscape as it did when you wrote these words – words every rebel, every dissident, revolutionary, every practicing artist from Capetown to Poland from Waycross to Dublin memorized: ”A person does not lightly elect to oppose his society. One would much rather be at home among one’s compatriots than be mocked and detested by them. And there is a level on which the mockery of the people, even their hatred, is moving, because it is so blind: It is terrible to watch people cling to their captivity and insist on their own destruction.”
The third gift was hard to fathom and even harder to accept. It was your tenderness – a tenderness so delicate I thought it could not last, but last it did and envelop me it did. In the midst of anger it tapped me lightly like the child in Tish’s** womb: ”Something almost as hard to catch as a whisper in a crowded place, as light and as definite as a spider’s web, strikes below my ribs, stunning and astonishing my heart . . . the baby, turning for the first time in its incredible veil of water, announces its presence and claims me; tells me, in that instant, that what can get worse can get better . . . in the meantime – forever – it is entirely up to me.” Yours was a tenderness, of vulnerability, that asked everything, expected everything and, like the world’s own Merlin, provided us with the ways and means to deliver. I suppose that is why I was always a bit better behaved around you, smarter, more capable, wanting to be worth the love you lavished, and wanting to be steady enough to witness the pain you had witnessed and were tough enough to bear while it broke your heart, wanting to be generous enough to join your smile with one of my own, and reckless enough to jump on in that laugh you laughed. Because our joy and our laughter were not only all right, they were necessary.
You knew, didn’t you, how I needed your language and the mind that formed it? How I relied on your fierce courage to tame wildernesses for me? How strengthened I was by the certainty that came from knowing you would never hurt me? You knew, didn’t you, how I loved your love? You knew. This then is no calamity. No. This is jubilee. ”Our crown,” you said, ”has already been bought and paid for. All we have to do,” you said, ”is wear it.”
And we do, Jimmy. You crowned us.
* A character in ”Just Above My Head”;
** a character in ”If Beale Street Could Talk”; two novels by James Baldwin.
James Baldwin and Toni Morrison: Comparative Critical and Theoretical Essays
Lovalerie King, L. Scott 300 pages
“In James Baldwin and Toni Morrison: Comparing Critical and Theoretical Essays, the first book-length study of this literary dialogue, Lovalerie King and Lynn Orilla Scott offer an unprecedented range of approaches and lines of inquiry, making it essential reading for scholars.” – MELUS”The relations among/between artists and writers are extremely important for any full understanding of the process of culture. King and Scott set out to explore in considerable depth one of the most fascinating and understudied connections in African American literature, that between James Baldwin and Toni Morrison. This collection is useful and necessary.” – Joseph T. Skerrett, Jr., Director of American Studies, University of Massachusetts, Amherst
“James Baldwin and Toni Morrisonis a most welcome examination of the connections between two of the most significant authors of the 20th century. The original and often provocative essays contained here shed new light not only on these two great writers but on the cultural and aesthetic fellowship that underlies African-American literature.” – David Leeming, author of James Baldwin: A Biography (1994) and secretary/assistant to Baldwin (l964-67)
“This new collection maps out and explores the literary relationship between Baldwin and Morrison and sheds new light on each. It also opens up new avenues of discussion on the themes of race, religion, gender and sexuality more generally in African-American culture. This is a useful contribution to Baldwin and Morrison studies and African-American literature more broadly.” – Dr. Douglas Field, Lecturer in Contemporary Literature and Culture, Staffordshire University
“This collection of diverse essays offers a long over-due exploration of rich thematic connections, narrative consonances, theoretical crosscurrents, and ideological contentions in the two writers who have redefined twentieth-century American letters. It reaffirms the brilliance of Morrison s works while illuminating her indebtedness to Baldwin, and teases out the lessons that she taught him as a black woman writer. Its insights into Baldwin s neglected later works help us to see anew the complex artistic trajectory that has led him to become our black queer ancestor and witness.” – Magdalena J. Zaborowska, University of Michigan