Edward P. Jones
Apr 24, 2009 19:10:22 GMT
Post by bixaorellana on Apr 24, 2009 19:10:22 GMT
I imagine many of you have read "The Known World", which won the Pulitzer Prize for fiction in 2004. Beyond its historically interesting premise, the book is a marvel of excellent writing, which economically and powerfully conveys the mysteries of the human intellect and heart.
I am presently re-reading Jones' first book, the brilliant collection of short stories called "Lost in the City". The book is always described as stories about black working class people in Washington, DC. Yes, those are the protagonists and setting, but the stories are universal in the sense that they resonate on a profoundly humanly level in ways that seem inevitable, yet full of inner tension and surprise.
One of the most deeply affecting things about the writing is the almost Buddhistic compassion Jones has for all his subjects, even the "bad" ones. And his ability to make the reader be there in any of his settings is so adept that a character's memories and musings can seem like ones own.
Here is a sample. It's a woman thinking about seeing a friend being greeted by that friend's lover.
"... it came to her ... that she had not seen a man take off his hat in that old-fashioned way in a long, long time. It was a respectful gesture out of a country time when a little girl would watch dark young men tall as trees stand respectfully close to young women and say things that made the women put their hands to their mouths to stifle a giggle. The young women's cotton print dresses billowed slightly with the summer breezes, and even the billowing itself seemed to a little girl a part of all the secrets and romance that she could not yet take part in. And the young women always leaned back aainst the shadiest of trees with such utter self-assurance, holding a glass of lemonade the the men had brought out from the kitchen. And when the young women's parents thought that there was too much in the giggles, they would tell the women to come up to the porch and bring so-and-so and get some more lemonade.
It was a time of perfect lemonade chilled with hunks of ice cut from larger blocks that were covered with straw and kept in root cellars. It was a time of pound cake baked to such a wondrous golden that it must have been a small sin to even cut into it. But perhaps God forgave, as he went on forgiving a little girl who watched the young men courting the young women, who watched them for so long that the flies set up house on her cake and all the ice in her glass melted and made her drink unpalatable."
I am presently re-reading Jones' first book, the brilliant collection of short stories called "Lost in the City". The book is always described as stories about black working class people in Washington, DC. Yes, those are the protagonists and setting, but the stories are universal in the sense that they resonate on a profoundly humanly level in ways that seem inevitable, yet full of inner tension and surprise.
One of the most deeply affecting things about the writing is the almost Buddhistic compassion Jones has for all his subjects, even the "bad" ones. And his ability to make the reader be there in any of his settings is so adept that a character's memories and musings can seem like ones own.
Here is a sample. It's a woman thinking about seeing a friend being greeted by that friend's lover.
"... it came to her ... that she had not seen a man take off his hat in that old-fashioned way in a long, long time. It was a respectful gesture out of a country time when a little girl would watch dark young men tall as trees stand respectfully close to young women and say things that made the women put their hands to their mouths to stifle a giggle. The young women's cotton print dresses billowed slightly with the summer breezes, and even the billowing itself seemed to a little girl a part of all the secrets and romance that she could not yet take part in. And the young women always leaned back aainst the shadiest of trees with such utter self-assurance, holding a glass of lemonade the the men had brought out from the kitchen. And when the young women's parents thought that there was too much in the giggles, they would tell the women to come up to the porch and bring so-and-so and get some more lemonade.
It was a time of perfect lemonade chilled with hunks of ice cut from larger blocks that were covered with straw and kept in root cellars. It was a time of pound cake baked to such a wondrous golden that it must have been a small sin to even cut into it. But perhaps God forgave, as he went on forgiving a little girl who watched the young men courting the young women, who watched them for so long that the flies set up house on her cake and all the ice in her glass melted and made her drink unpalatable."