The Sellout
If only because it's more a collection of riveting, astonishing beats than a narrative about specific characters, Paul Beatty's The Sellout may not be the best novel I've ever read about maybe the defining American subject (race). It may only be the best writing, I've ever read on this topic, in any genre, period. It's sure as hell the funniest, and there is a fiercely beating heart in there amid the righteous fury and frustration. It's a great, great book, and I can not recommend it highly enough. The Clarence Thomas bit alone, my god...
But be forewarned: this one really pulls no punches, leaves no sacred cows untipped, won't leave any sentient American of any color comfortable in their skin. I mean, check this riff, delivered at the Supreme Court, where our African American narrator is ostensibly on trial for attempting to re-segregate the schools in his disincorporated South Central L.A. neighborhood:
"I'm no longer party to that collective guilt that keeps the third-chair cellist, the administrative secretary, the stock clerk, the not-really-all-that-attractive-but-she's-black beauty pageant winner from showing up for work Monday morning and shooting every white motherfucker in the place. It's a guilt that has obligated me to mutter 'My bad' for every misplaced bounce pass, politician under Federal investigation, every bug-eyed and Rastus-voiced comedian, and every black film since 1968...I understand now that the only time black people don't feel guilty is when we've actually done something wrong, because that relieves us of the cognitive dissonance of being black and innocent, and in a way the prospect of going to jail becomes a relief. In the way that cooning is a relief, voting Republican is a relief, marrying white is a relief--albeit a temporary one."
But be forewarned: this one really pulls no punches, leaves no sacred cows untipped, won't leave any sentient American of any color comfortable in their skin. I mean, check this riff, delivered at the Supreme Court, where our African American narrator is ostensibly on trial for attempting to re-segregate the schools in his disincorporated South Central L.A. neighborhood:
"I'm no longer party to that collective guilt that keeps the third-chair cellist, the administrative secretary, the stock clerk, the not-really-all-that-attractive-but-she's-black beauty pageant winner from showing up for work Monday morning and shooting every white motherfucker in the place. It's a guilt that has obligated me to mutter 'My bad' for every misplaced bounce pass, politician under Federal investigation, every bug-eyed and Rastus-voiced comedian, and every black film since 1968...I understand now that the only time black people don't feel guilty is when we've actually done something wrong, because that relieves us of the cognitive dissonance of being black and innocent, and in a way the prospect of going to jail becomes a relief. In the way that cooning is a relief, voting Republican is a relief, marrying white is a relief--albeit a temporary one."
No comments have been added yet.
