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James Arthur Baldwin, New York author, poet, playwright, novelist and activist, was an eloquent voice of the American Civil Rights Movement. His first novel, Go Tell It on the Mountain, published in 1953, was included on Time magazine's list of the 100 best English-language novels released from 1923 to 2005.[1]
He was born on 2 August 1924 in the Harlem neighborhood of Manhattan, New York, USA,[2][3] and baptized in the Episcopal Church three days later.[4] His mother was Emma Berdis Jones, and his biological father was unknown to him;[1] although a Roy Jones is listed on his baptism record,[4] he had no part in their lives afterward. In New York, his mother later married a part-time Baptist preacher, David Baldwin, (in 1930 he was listed on the census as a laborer in a soda factory[5]) the son of a slave, with whom she had eight children, born between 1927 and 1943, when he died; her husband also had children from a previous marriage, his youngest being a son nine years older than James. James had two half-brothers and six half-sisters. James took his stepfather's surname, and called him father; James, too, was gifted at preaching while he was still in high school. But as he told his father, he preferred writing.[6]
He attended DeWitt Clinton High School in the Bronx, New York,[8] and left school at 16 in 1941 to help support his family.[1]
By the late 1940s he had moved to France to escape what he felt was the stifling racial bigotry of America. Nonetheless, although France remained his permanent residence, Mr. Baldwin in later years described himself as a "commuter" rather than an expatriate.[9] He published his three most important collections of essays, Notes of a Native Son (1955), Nobody Knows My Name (1961), and The Fire Next Time (1963), during the years when the civil-rights movement was exploding across the American South.[9] In France in the 1970s he wrote his famous essay, "Open Letter to My Sister, Angela Y. Davis." In the 1980s he was a voice for the emerging gay rights movement.[10][1]
His further novels were Giovanni's Room (1956), Another Country (1962), Tell Me How Long the Train's Been Gone (1968), If Beale Street Could Talk (1974), and Just Above My Head (1979).[1]
He died on December 1, 1987, in Saint-Paul-de-Vence, Alpes-Maritimes, France, at the age of 63,[11] and was buried at Ferncliff Cemetery and Mausoleum in Hartsdale, New York.[10]
Almost thirty years later, an article in the New York Times paid tribute on his birthday:
James Baldwin, Who Wrote for Equality at All CostsIn 2011 he was posthumously entered in the American Poet's Corner of St. John the Divine Cathedral, the mother church of the Episcopal Diocese of New York.[12]Aug 2, 2016. James Baldwin, whose cutting, unequivocal writing about race relations helped make America more equal than it was before, was born on this day in 1924, according to many accounts. The Times wrote in his obituary on Dec. 1, 1987:
Here are some of his most prescient lines:
- Mr. Baldwin’s prose, with its apocalyptic tone — a legacy of his early exposure to religious fundamentalism — and its passionate yet distanced sense of advocacy, seemed perfect for a period in which blacks in the South lived under continual threat of racial violence and in which civil-rights workers faced brutal beatings and even death.
- I imagine one of the reasons people cling to their hates so stubbornly is because they sense, once hate is gone, they will be forced to deal with pain.
- What is ghastly and really almost hopeless in our racial situation now is that the crimes we have committed are so great and so unspeakable that the acceptance of this knowledge would lead, literally, to madness. The human being, then, in order to protect himself, closes his eyes, compulsively repeats his crimes, and enters a spiritual darkness which no one can describe.
- Only white Americans can consider themselves to be expatriates. Once I found myself on the other side of the ocean, I could see where I came from very clearly, and I could see that I carried myself, which is my home, with me. You can never escape that. I am the grandson of a slave, and I am a writer. I must deal with both.
- I was a maverick, a maverick in the sense that I depended on neither the white world nor the black world. That was the only way I could’ve played it. I would’ve been broken otherwise. I had to say, ‘A curse on both your houses.’ The fact that I went to Europe so early is probably what saved me. It gave me another touchstone — myself.[9]
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