The Life and Loves of Mr. Jiveass Nigger

by Cecil Brown, Henry Louis Gates Jr. (Introduction)

“If you're black you don't need to get at anything. You're already there. You can live right out of your insides.” So says the antihero of this legendary novel that reimagines the Bible’s prodigal son as a young black man in post-Civil Rights-era America. George Washington—one of his many aliases—is a classic trickster figure, a blend of con artist, deep thinker, and willing object of white women’s sexual fantasies. Fed up with life in racist America, he leaves his rural South for Denmark on a curious quest, determined to discover if there is “any mother fucker in this despiteful world who ever told himself the truth.” In Denmark he spends his days bantering with fellow black expatriates and his nights bedding a series of white women who project their desires on him. Inevitably, these worlds collide, with Washington, aka Anthony Miller, aka Paul Winthrop, aka Mr. Jiveass Nigger, increasingly alienated in a world of opportunists. A return to America after his self-imposed exile promises transformation, but is Washington too far gone? Cecil Brown brings blistering prose, unabashed eroticism, and biting satire to this controversial masterpiece that’s as timely today as when it was first published.

Genres: Fiction, Literature

224 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1969

Reviews

[Cody · Rating 5 out of 5]

As a general rule I don’t trip much on the idea of Black and white authors, books, literature, music, etc. I figure you start putting something, anything, in a bag with that exclusive a definition you may as well just tie the bag off and toss it into a lake—it’s already dead and all you can do is stuff more in the sack. So, I have no ‘Black author’ shelf the same as I have no white author shelf. Or women or LGBTQ or any component of an author’s self that is a natural extension of their humanity; I shelf things largely for an organization system that makes sense to me. I’m not in the trade of ‘moving units’ by appealing to hollow genre tags, I just read. There are really only two kinds of books: good ones and shit. Beyond that, I am not in the sack stuffing business.

I had to frame the lead-up to this review to situate it within this framework: Mr Jiveass did, in the same calendar year of 1969, for Black American voices what Roth’s Portnoy did for its Jewish/NYC intellectual (not the same thing) counterpart(s)—it liberated the FUCK out of the oftentimes too precious trap of ‘literature’ with a big ‘l’ and an even bigger opinion of self. Both novels used carnality and the insatiable lusts of their near title characters as a jumping off point; cloaking freedom-through-fucking was, to anyone paying attention, all a feint couched within the larger socio-cultural mores of the late-Sixties. Both Portnoy and, ahem, Mr Jiveass try to fuck their pains away in the headlong tumble of sheets and casual sex. Both fail spectacularly, but not without a thorough disillusioning or a thousand first. While it’s been decades since I last read Portnoy, my recall doesn’t contain Roth having Portnoy approach anything/anywhere NEAR the gravitational descent of Brown’s protagonist. It is a fucking sobering series informed my incremental loss, inheritance of responsibility, and the pained relationship any individual feels of a burden they did nothing to hail down on themselves outside being born. Ignore the shockingly retrofitted reviews here that would have you believe this to be some countercultural, Panther-in-a-velvet-bikini-brief, astrological Kama Sutra blacklight poster at novel length; time is neither so neatly linear nor capable of simultaneity. Art, REAL shit, cannot escape the context of its time and place, and is smart, self-aware enough to not even bother trying. This isn’t kitsch, it’s pain. The pain that sets in when the rogue realizes that no one and nothing—even his own dick/sword of Damocles—can fuck eternally. You cannot stop the comedown without fucking yourself (bad way not good way). No one, not even Monsieur Jiveass, can keep it up forever.*





*Well of COURSE it’s an erection pun—

[Cee James · Rating 1 out of 5]

I have to say that reading this book was hard for me. This book was originally released in 1969 and I grew up during the 70's. Today, I would have renamed it as "The Lives and Loves of Trifling-Ass Men (and Women)." Obviously, I was not a fan; I kept reading it to give it a chance to make me one. For some books, all you can say is "I read it."

[Phil Overeem · Rating 4 out of 5]

I have wanted to read this since Richard Pryor gave Brown a shout-out on BICENTENNIAL NIGGER. That was 33 years ago, and it was worth the wait. I've never read anything like it. Ever.

[Kat · Rating 4 out of 5]

A novel by Cecil Brown is quite a showstopper where ever I happened to be reading it. This version is a re-print of the original 1969 classic pulp fiction book and is updated to include a new forward by Henry Louis Gates, Jr. The new introduction lends some added credibility for those not deeply entrenched in identity politics or collegecurriculumreading to know the other works of the author. And I have to admit, Gates' addition to this edition was a sociallifesaver for me when I read the text in public (especially in the community where I live). Ironically, my own identity is a blurry fa��ade that continues to need unravelling, so there is a timeliness in reading this book for the larger, political and smaller, personal perspectives. In order to peel away the layers of intrigue within the text I think it an interesting exercise to beigin with the cover art of each printing. Though you can't always judge a book by its cover, I think you can begin to discern some of the meaning an author or publisher is trying to convey; as the case is with Mr. Jiveass Nigger, my interest is piqued.[return][return]The cover on the 1st edition does not leave much to the imagination; and then, another edition was published in 1973. Each one markets a different audience and with it, interpretations that are sprung from the variant layers of meaning. I tried to read the middle edition shortly after I had graduated from high school at the behest of a friend. I was stunningly insulted by the flamboyant and unadulterated sexuality - particularly directed between black men and white women. I could not get past my own identity to read into the text so sloghed it off as pulp fiction. At that time I was a 'surface' reader and what jumped out at me most is that it seemed to me too racy and racially sexually charged.[return][return]I had forgotten all about the novel as my youth faded away and still was not re-introduced to the text even into my late-blooming collegiate career. The latter is not too surprising, given that I attended university in a largely 'white' community where '-isms' are easily marginalized and 'colored' students came to play bad football or final four basketball. Yet, I mastered in a program fraught with -isms that sought to expose the underbelly of oppression from intensely theoretical angles, so it is disappointing that my program which claimed an interest in recruiting 'students of color' did not seek out such texts to analyze for the rich perspectives on gender, race, class, color, nationality and -isms of all flavors. But still, I am grateful because from such an academic space, I am fortunate that said education has afforded me the practiced patience of a studious learner in accessing those layers that I am still groping with three days after I've completed reading Brown's work and laid the popfiction text aside. [return][return]And I am pleased to have read it now - under these circumstances (y'know with all that agedness and now certified smartiness), I still managed to learn a lot about myself in the telling of George Washington's (Mr. Jiveass Nigger, himself) tale. It made me curious, more now than before I read the book, about why it was released at this moment. Because yet another layer in the work is the racial identifying that Brown expresses through the eyes of his protagonist. In our current and seemingly remarkable era, when our first African-American president is nearing his swearing in, the timing of a long-ago text broaching identity politics seems ill-conceived. Of course, it is not badly-timed at all, because it is the mixmash of identity and race and class and politics that are all fleshed out in Brown's narrative. Matching the narrative themes with current political debate swirling in the media, in periodical prints, and floating about my head along with the heady text of Cecil Brown's imagination seems so damn clever that I can scarce call it accidental that Brown was approached for it's re-release at this juncture in our collective history. So there you have it - I suppose I have come to my own answers and conclusions on the timing of the book's resurgence into popular, political and social interest.[return][return]And that brings me back to those darn layers! The cover art chosen for this edition is certainly telling. The letter-size and clearly legible fonting, coupled with the blaring image of the "white" woman had the most interesting effect in my community. Because I am a regular reader, I thought nothing of taking the text along with me wherever I went, to read in the snippets of the godot time that I invariably endure as part of my routine. While waiting for my younger son to be dismissed from kindergarten, my older son to be dismissed from high school, while out and about, I generally carry a book. This text was no different, but the response from people I do not know was remarkable as opposed the bored or'looking I usually receive. People were openly hostile to the word "nigger" that was largely visible from several feet away. And that I have embodied the "white" woman figure on the cover made my carrying the text seem all that much more alarming in my circle. And I cannot deny that the text continues to feel racially violent in a sexuallized context. So to muddy the waters and add to the irony, I have recently discovered my own African-American roots. How it came to be that I should be the "whitest" black girl that anyone could imagine is a whole other story in itself (and maybe a good novel one day in its own right). Yet, I am also reeling from my own sense of identity. [return][return]So the country, neh-- the world, is also uncovering dusty old identity politics to learn more about themselves. And here is Cecil Brown... re-releasing his charged tome on the subject(s) for us to analyze again, under our newfound circumstances. Gates is correct in pointing out the importance of this work - not just from his own perspective and history - but also for the African Americans left in the trenches of american life and who are still jiving - and for the rest of us, the "white" folks who need to learn more about ourselves and our identity in the larger world. Read, be patient with yourself and read it all -- the whole tale of the Life and Loves of Mr. Jiveass Nigger himself!

[Alisa · Rating 2 out of 5]

Reads really dated -- like an old MAD magazine where you are trying to figure out what is so funny about the cartoon but can't without imagining the late 1960s. Saying "I can see how it was irreverent/important at the time" is an excuse for a work that doesn't touch on the human. Humor or comedy is a form that often can cut across years. Richard Pryor bits, "Blazing Saddles," or a Cheers episode still get a laugh outta me in 2020.

[Kenyatta · Rating 4 out of 5]

A very easy and thought provoking book. I definitely can find a little of me in each of the characters (well, before I got married...) i could dissect each part of this book and still miss quite a bit. There's much more to it than what appears on the surface- especially if you're a young, "somewhat successful" (whatever that is) black man.

[Max · Rating 4 out of 5]

I liked the part when Marshall McLuhan says "kiss his black ass."

[Grump · Rating 2 out of 5]

Shit went over my head. Some sort of meditation on black identity and masculinity. It's the sorta story of a guy in Copenhagen who has sex with a handful of white women. He also has sex with a black woman but she's pregnant from having sex with a white guy and thus needs an abortion. In the end every body goes to a party in Sweden but back in Copenhagen one of the white women kills herself. There's a lot of fucking and coming in this book. Not a lot else. But it was a quick read. Also racism.

[Scott Evans · Rating 2 out of 5]

It had a lot of cursing, graphic sex, violence, and many beautiful women throwing themselves and money at the protagonist.

[Nelson · Rating 5 out of 5]

This is the first fiction book I finished since AP English!

As mentioned in the description, this is a story about an African-American man living in the 60s, who, frustrated with racism at home, goes to Denmark, where he sleeps with white women during the night and chats with black expat men during the day. What the description leaves out, is that the women were all crazy.

I shelved this book in 2017, bought it in 2019, and started reading after coming home from Finland this past summer as a monument to my memorable time there. The character's compulsive lying, vulgarity, overall cold-bloodedness disables me from identifying completely with him.

Nonetheless, the shockingly good reception those progressive Finn goddesses gave me I wouldn't receive at home means this book in some sense captures part of my experience. And the pattern this book outlines: hangouts with men of your own race during the day, encounters with local women at night, serves as a good model for me and the Asian crew as we hit up Colombia and Brazil this coming winter.

[Jane · Rating 3 out of 5]

Insightful and interesting, sometimes very funny, sometimes puzzling, sometimes sad, sometimes really infuriating. Please notice that none of the five star reviews come from women; this does not reveal a fail on on the part of women, but on the part of some other gender, I won't say which one!! FU Cecil Brown. And, at the same time, I'm glad I got to know you. Which is pretty much the emotional structure of the whole book.

[Kevin Karpiak · Rating 2 out of 5]

I read it once, then discussed it with the person who had recommended it to me. I had no idea it was suppossed to be funny. Ironic, yes. Sarcastic, yes. But laugh? I did not.

[I · Rating 3 out of 5]

whoa.