Why poetry is greater than criticism …

This is a really original piece of work. So much of Baldwin is concentrated here — and much else besides. (Post bumped.)

James Baldwin Reads Every Book in the 136^th Street Library

Later he’d say he came every day and read every one,
Just another kid with his nose in a book, working
Down the stacks. Floor cleaner, old paper, daily dustiness
Of libraries: here began uprising. Already he knew he was
Different. Argentina and love stories, manganese and peanuts and
Emily Dickinson lived, sang to him; he trembled as he read
And if you’re like that, can you help it? He made excuses,
Snuck out, couldn’t wait. Washington froze
At Valley Forge; Huck cried, “All right then, I’ll go to hell,” and
Angels found work in his head. Librarians
Got to know him, brought him new books to add to the pile.
On fire. Wasn’t refuge from the world. Here he ran
Into the world’s arms. Already he knew outside the library
Was phoney. Fiction. A lie was being told,
Told again in the eyes of his sisters, his mother, every
Face he saw on the streets of Harlem. Here, truth and fiction
Bore different decimals, waited on their proper shelves. He was
Building himself in a world against it,
Only place in Harlem black genius could
Be free. Later he would call
God a means of liberation. Elephants and Othello, Spanish
And bacteria, Carthage and sex organs and math
And Michelangelo, here was where all God’s works had festival,
All the things God did, including James Baldwin. 

— John Timpane