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If Beale Street Could Talk de James Baldwin

If Beale Street Could Talk

Autor James Baldwin
en Limba Engleză Paperback – noi 2006

Traducerea acestei opere din limba engleză ne pune în fața unei provocări delicate: aceea de a păstra cadența specifică a lui James Baldwin, o proză care împrumută ritmul muzicii blues și intensitatea unui imn religios. Considerăm că forța acestui roman nu rezidă doar în denunțarea nedreptății, ci în modul în care Baldwin reușește să ancoreze o tragedie socială într-o poveste de dragoste profund umană. Apreciem vocea narativă a lui Tish, o tânără de nouăsprezece ani care, în Harlemul anilor '70, trebuie să navigheze între speranța unui copil nenăscut și realitatea brutală a logodnicului său, Fonny, închis pentru o crimă pe care nu a comis-o. Ritmul narativ amintește de Jazz de Toni Morrison, prin modul în care atmosfera urbană devine un personaj activ, dar structura lui Baldwin este mai liniară și mai concentrată pe nucleul dur al loialității familiale. Spre deosebire de eseistica sa tăioasă din The Fire Next Time sau de explorarea identității din Tell Me How Long the Train's Been Gone, acest roman, inclus în Penguin Modern Classics, este probabil cea mai tandră și mai vulnerabilă lucrare a sa. Nu este doar un rechizitoriu împotriva unui sistem judiciar viciat, ci o celebrare a rezilienței negre, unde dragostea dintre membrii familiei devine singura formă de rezistență în fața unei lumi ostile. Baldwin scrie cu o intensitate care transformă experiența particulară a celor doi tineri într-o rezonanță universală despre demnitate.

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Specificații

ISBN-13: 9780307275936
ISBN-10: 0307275930
Pagini: 208
Dimensiuni: 131 x 203 x 17 mm
Greutate: 0.18 kg
Editura: Random House LLC US
Colecția Vintage

De ce să citești această carte

Recomandăm această carte cititorilor care caută o proză de o frumusețe dureroasă, capabilă să exploreze cele mai întunecate aspecte ale injustiției fără a pierde din vedere tandrețea umană. Este o lectură esențială pentru a înțelege rădăcinile tensiunilor sociale americane, oferind în același timp o perspectivă unică asupra puterii de vindecare a dragostei familiale. Cei care au apreciat An American Marriage de Tayari Jones vor găsi aici sursa de inspirație originală.

Despre autor

James Baldwin (1924–1987) a fost o figură centrală a literaturii americane și un activist neobosit pentru drepturile civile. Operă sa, care include romane fundamentale precum Go Tell It On The Mountain și eseuri provocatoare ca Notes of a Native Son, analizează complexitatea identității de rasă, clasă și sexualitate. Baldwin a reușit să transforme dilemele personale în narațiuni universale, devenind vocea unei generații care lupta pentru acceptare socială și de sine. Recunoscut pentru stilul său poetic și onestitatea sa brutală, Baldwin rămâne un reper cultural, lucrările sale continuând să fie adaptate cu succes pentru marele ecran.

Notă biografică

James Baldwin was born in 1924 and educated in New York. He is the author of more than twenty works of fiction and nonfiction, including Go Tell It on the Mountain; Notes of a Native Son; Giovanni’s Room; Nobody Knows My Name; Another Country; The Fire Next Time; Nothing Personal; Blues for Mister Charlie; Going to Meet the Man; The Amen Corner; Tell Me How Long the Train’s Been Gone; One Day When I Was Lost; If Beale Street Could Talk; The Devil Finds Work; Little Man, Little Man; Just Above My Head; The Evidence of Things Not Seen; Jimmy’s Blues; and The Price of the Ticket. Among the awards he has received are a Eugene F. Saxon Memorial Trust Award, a Rosenwald Fellowship, a Guggenheim Fellowship, a Partisan Review Fellowship, and a Ford Foundation grant. He was made a Commander of the Legion of Honor in 1986. He died in 1987.

Extras

Troubled About My Soul

I look at myself in the mirror. I know that I was christened Clementine, and so it would make sense if people called me Clem, or even, come to think of it, Clementine, since that's my name: but they don't. People call me Tish. I guess that makes sense, too. I'm tired, and I'm beginning to think that maybe everything that happens makes sense. Like, if it didn't make sense, how could it happen? But that's really a terrible thought. It can only come out of trouble--trouble that doesn't make sense.

Today, I went to see Fonny. That's not his name, either, he was christened Alonzo: and it might make sense if people called him Lonnie. But, no, we've always called him Fonny. Alonzo Hunt, that's his name. I've known him all my life, and I hope I'll always know him. But I only call him Alonzo when I have to break down some real heavy shit to him.

Today, I said, "--Alonzo--?"

And he looked at me, that quickening look he has when I call him by his name.

He's in jail. So where we were, I was sitting on a bench in front of a board, and he was sitting on a bench in front of a board. And we were facing each other through a wall of glass between us. You can't hear anything through this glass, and so you both have a little telephone. You have to talk through that. I don't know why people always look down when they talk through a telephone, but they always do. You have to remember to look up at the person you're talking to.

I always remember now, because he's in jail and I love his eyes and every time I see him I'm afraid I'll never see him again. So I pick up the phone as soon as I get there and I just hold it and I keep looking up at him.

So, when I said, "--Alonzo--?" he looked down and then he looked up and he smiled and he held the phone and he waited.

I hope that nobody has ever had to look at anybody they love through glass.

And I didn't say it the way I meant to say it. I meant to say it in a very offhand way, so he wouldn't be too upset, so he'd understand that I was saying it without any kind of accusation in my heart.

You see: I know him. He's very proud, and he worries a lot, and, when I think about it, I know--he doesn't--that that's the biggest reason he's in jail. He worries too much already, I don't want him to worry about me. In fact, I didn't want to say what I had to say. But I knew I had to say it. He had to know.

And I thought, too, that when he got over being worried, when he was lying by himself at night, when he was all by himself, in the very deepest part of himself, maybe, when he thought about it, he'd be glad. And that might help him.

I said, "Alonzo, we're going to have a baby."

I looked at him. I know I smiled. His face looked as though it were plunging into water. I couldn't touch him. I wanted so to touch him. I smiled again and my hands got wet on the phone and then for a moment I couldn't see him at all and I shook my head and my face was wet and I said, "I'm glad. I'm glad. Don't you worry. I'm glad."

But he was far away from me now, all by himself. I waited for him to come back. I could see it flash across his face: my  baby? I knew that he would think that. I don't mean that he doubted me: but a man thinks that. And for those few seconds while he was out there by himself, away from me, the baby was the only real thing in the world, more real than the prison, more real than me.

I should have said already: we're not married. That means more to him than it does to me, but I understand how he feels. We were going to get married, but then he went to jail.

Fonny is twenty-two. I am nineteen.

He asked the ridiculous question: "Are you sure?"

"No. I ain't sure. I'm just trying to mess with your mind."

Then he grinned. He grinned because, then, he knew.

"What we going to do?" he asked me--just like a little boy.

"Well, we ain't going to drown it. So, I guess we'll have to raise it."

Fonny threw back his head, and laughed, he laughed till tears come down his face. So, then, I felt that the first part, that I'd been so frightened of, would be all right.

"Did you tell Frank?" he asked me.

Frank is his father.

I said, "Not yet."

"You tell your folks?"

"Not yet. But don't worry about them. I just wanted to tell you first."

"Well," he said, "I guess that makes sense. A baby."

He looked at me, then he looked down. "What you going to do, for real?"

"I'm going to do just like I been doing. I'll work up to just about the last month. And then, Mama and Sis will take care for me, you ain't got to worry. And anyway we have you out of here before then."

"You sure about that?" With his little smile.

"Of course I'm sure about that. I'm always sure about that."

I knew what he was thinking, but I can't let myself think about it--not now, watching him. I must be sure.

The man came up behind Fonny, and it was time to go. Fonny smiled and raised his fist, like always, and I raised mine and he stood up. I'm always kind of surprised when I see him in here, at how tall he is. Of course, he's lost weight and that may make him seem taller.

He turned around and went through the door and the door closed behind him.

I felt dizzy. I hadn't eaten much all day, and now it was getting late.

I walked out, to cross these big, wide corridors I've come to hate, corridors wider than all the Sahara desert. The Sahara is never empty; these corridors are never empty. If you cross the Sahara, and you fall, by and by vultures circle around you, smelling, sensing, your death. They circle lower and lower: they wait. They know. They know exactly when the flesh is ready, when the spirit cannot fight back. The poor are always crossing the Sahara. And the lawyers and bondsmen and all that crowd circle around the poor, exactly like vultures. Of course, they're not any richer than the poor, really, that's why they've turned into vultures, scavengers, indecent garbage men, and I'm talking about the black cats, too, who, in so many ways, are worse. I think that, personally, I would be ashamed. But I've had to think about it and now I think that maybe not. I don't know what I wouldn't do to get Fonny out of jail. I've never come across any shame down here, except shame like mine, except the shame of the hardworking black ladies, who call me Daughter, and the shame of proud Puerto Ricans, who don't understand what's happened--no one who speaks to them speaks Spanish, for example--and who are ashamed that they have loved ones in jail. But they are wrong to be ashamed. The people responsible for these jails should be ashamed.

And I'm not ashamed of Fonny. If anything, I'm proud. He's a man. You can tell by the way he's taken all this shit that he's a man. Sometimes, I admit, I'm scared--because nobody can take the shit they throw on us forever. But, then, you just have to somehow fix your mind to get from one day to the next. If you think too far ahead, if you even try to think too far ahead, you'll never make it.

Sometimes I take the subway home, sometimes I take the bus. Today, I took the bus because it takes a little longer and I had a lot on my mind.

Descriere scurtă

In this honest and stunning novel, James Baldwin has given America a moving story of love in the face of injustice. Told through the eyes of Tish, a nineteen-year-old girl, in love with Fonny, a young sculptor who is the father of her child, Baldwin’s story mixes the sweet and the sad. Tish and Fonny have pledged to get married, but Fonny is falsely accused of a terrible crime and imprisoned. Their families set out to clear his name, and as they face an uncertain future, the young lovers experience a kaleidoscope of emotions–affection, despair, and hope. In a love story that evokes the blues, where passion and sadness are inevitably intertwined, Baldwin has created two characters so alive and profoundly realized that they are unforgettably ingrained in the American psyche.

Recenzii

"One of the best books Baldwin has ever written–perhaps the best of all." –The Philadelphia Inquirer“A moving, painful story, so vividly human and so obviously based on reality that it strikes us as timeless.”–Joyce Carol Oates"If Van Gogh was our nineteenth-century artist-saint, James Baldwin is our twentiethth-century one." –Michael Ondaatje"Striking and particularly haunting. . . . A beauty, especially in its rendering of youthful passion." –Cosmopolitan"A major work of black American fiction...  His best novel yet, even Baldwin's most devoted readers are due to be stunned by it."–The New Republic"Emotional dynamite...  a powerful assault upon the cynicism that seems today to drain our determination to confront deep social problems."–Library Journal"A moving, painful story, so vividly human and so obviously based on reality that it strikes us as timeless." –The New York Times Book Review