Read Online Hunting in Harlem by Mat Johnson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mat Johnson
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often be found being used as a bookshelf prop in their faux living room sets. The books weren't for sale, but that was
OK because those he stole on principle.
Snowden, having been unimpressed with the three pages he'd managed to plow through of The Great Work, didn't care if it remained Robert M. Finley's only published novel. What annoyed Snowden, particularly since they'd decided
to become drinking partners, was that once he got his blood alcohol level up, Bobby Finley never stopped talking about the
world he'd abandoned, particularly his theory on the way it worked. Since his mall-front "awakening," Bobby had determined
that there were only two roads to success for a male writer of African descent, such as he was. The first was to write a romance
novel with an illustration of three or fewer attractive black people on the cover, preferably done in a comic book style so
as not to scare off the illiterate. One written in flat descriptions of every action so that the prose was completely subservient
to the plot, even though that plot was invariably predictable, as close to the readers' expectations as possible so as not
to scare them. This type of book was basically for a readership looking for melaninized, low-tech versions of their afternoon
soaps.
"If I wanted to, if I just gave up on humanity completely and wanted to sell out, I could make a million, no problem. I'd
just excrete some story about a guy dating four women, but then they find out and get even with him, maybe he ends up married
to one, some dumb shit like that. I'd give it a clichéd tide spelled with a bunch of useless Ebonic abbreviations. I could
write it in a weekend."
Even more insidious, Bobby liked to declare, was the path toward black male literature. At some point it had been decided
that the role of a black male writer was to create a work in the vein of Richard Wright or the great Ralph Ellison, not in
the sense that the works be original and energetic, but that they focus on inner-city strife and racism. Whites, who made
up the majority of sales in the literary category, felt their own writers could handle the other issues in the universe just
fine, they just wanted the black guys to clarify the Negro stuff. The author would do best to deal with those issues in a
predictable, derivative manner, as these readers were looking for confirmations of their viewpoints, not new ones. Bobby insisted
that works were reviewed, awarded, and hailed based on this principle.
"Snowden, believe me when I say this, if I wanted to, I could produce a critical hit, full-page rave in the Times, TV interviews, no problem. I would just pump out another thing about this poor black person struggling to overcome white racism,
inner-city violence, or poverty or, even better, all three. Are you kidding? That's a whole cottage industry. Dung beetles
love that stuff. I'll even throw some hip-hop references on top, 'cause you know dey want it all authentic V topical 'n'shit. Nobody ever went broke giving people what they think they want."
This obsession infected every part of Bobby, even his bowels. The man insisted on calling his toilet Irving Howe, after a
critic he particularly loathed, just so he could take pleasure in shitting on it daily.
"Look, the problem is you're writing the wrong things." Snowden enjoyed baiting him. Rarely was something so easy, so rewarding.
"People don't want books, man. They want movies. Even the bad ones get hundreds of thousands in the seats."
"Bullshit! They only want movies because the film industry spends a couple million dollars on each one to tell them to! If
I had a couple million dollars, I could get a hundred thousand people to read anything, but books don't get that. The only
way I could get people to read The Great Work would be to do something huge and crazy, create some spectacle for free publicity."
All this was not to say that Robert M. Finley had stopped writing. Bobby's newest
OK because those he stole on principle.
Snowden, having been unimpressed with the three pages he'd managed to plow through of The Great Work, didn't care if it remained Robert M. Finley's only published novel. What annoyed Snowden, particularly since they'd decided
to become drinking partners, was that once he got his blood alcohol level up, Bobby Finley never stopped talking about the
world he'd abandoned, particularly his theory on the way it worked. Since his mall-front "awakening," Bobby had determined
that there were only two roads to success for a male writer of African descent, such as he was. The first was to write a romance
novel with an illustration of three or fewer attractive black people on the cover, preferably done in a comic book style so
as not to scare off the illiterate. One written in flat descriptions of every action so that the prose was completely subservient
to the plot, even though that plot was invariably predictable, as close to the readers' expectations as possible so as not
to scare them. This type of book was basically for a readership looking for melaninized, low-tech versions of their afternoon
soaps.
"If I wanted to, if I just gave up on humanity completely and wanted to sell out, I could make a million, no problem. I'd
just excrete some story about a guy dating four women, but then they find out and get even with him, maybe he ends up married
to one, some dumb shit like that. I'd give it a clichéd tide spelled with a bunch of useless Ebonic abbreviations. I could
write it in a weekend."
Even more insidious, Bobby liked to declare, was the path toward black male literature. At some point it had been decided
that the role of a black male writer was to create a work in the vein of Richard Wright or the great Ralph Ellison, not in
the sense that the works be original and energetic, but that they focus on inner-city strife and racism. Whites, who made
up the majority of sales in the literary category, felt their own writers could handle the other issues in the universe just
fine, they just wanted the black guys to clarify the Negro stuff. The author would do best to deal with those issues in a
predictable, derivative manner, as these readers were looking for confirmations of their viewpoints, not new ones. Bobby insisted
that works were reviewed, awarded, and hailed based on this principle.
"Snowden, believe me when I say this, if I wanted to, I could produce a critical hit, full-page rave in the Times, TV interviews, no problem. I would just pump out another thing about this poor black person struggling to overcome white racism,
inner-city violence, or poverty or, even better, all three. Are you kidding? That's a whole cottage industry. Dung beetles
love that stuff. I'll even throw some hip-hop references on top, 'cause you know dey want it all authentic V topical 'n'shit. Nobody ever went broke giving people what they think they want."
This obsession infected every part of Bobby, even his bowels. The man insisted on calling his toilet Irving Howe, after a
critic he particularly loathed, just so he could take pleasure in shitting on it daily.
"Look, the problem is you're writing the wrong things." Snowden enjoyed baiting him. Rarely was something so easy, so rewarding.
"People don't want books, man. They want movies. Even the bad ones get hundreds of thousands in the seats."
"Bullshit! They only want movies because the film industry spends a couple million dollars on each one to tell them to! If
I had a couple million dollars, I could get a hundred thousand people to read anything, but books don't get that. The only
way I could get people to read The Great Work would be to do something huge and crazy, create some spectacle for free publicity."
All this was not to say that Robert M. Finley had stopped writing. Bobby's newest
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