It’s interesting to me because no matter how incisive, and even painful, and even stark and sharp James Baldwin’s nonfiction is, nonfiction in which I find myself partly the subject as a white man in the US, I tend to find it so clear and so precise that it’s almost light to read. (Stylistically and execution, not subject and tone). But his fiction feels almost miasmic a lot of the time and he grapples to represent the phenomenon of existence in prose. This is not […]