Cane

R EADING this book, I had the vision of a

Land, heretofore sunk in the mists of mute-

Ness, suddenly rising up into the eminence of song.

Innumerable books have been written about the

South ; some good books have been written in the

South. This book is the South. I do not mean

That Cane covers the South or is the South's full

Voice. Merely this : a poet has arisen among our

American youth who has known how to turn the

Essences and materials of his Southland into the

Essences and materials of literature. A poet has

Arisen in that land who writes, not as a South-

Erner, not as a rebel against Southerners, not as

A Negro, not as apologist or priest or critic: who

Writes as a poet. The fashioning of beauty is

Ever foremost in his inspiration : not forcedly but

Simply, and because these ultimate aspects of his

World are to him* more real than all its specific

Problems. He has made songs and lovely sto-

Ries of his land. . . not of its yesterday, but of

Its immediate life. And that has been enough.

How rare this is will be clear to those who

[vii]

FOREWORD

Have followed with concern the struggle of the

South toward literary expression, and the par-

Ticular trial of that portion of its folk whose skin

Is dark/* The gifted Negro has been too often

Thwarted from becoming a poet because his

World was forever forcing him to recollect that

He was a Negro. > The artist must lose such

Lesser identities in the great well of life. The

English poet is not forever protesting and recall-

Ing that he is English. It is so natural and easy

For him to be English that he can sing as a man.

The French novelist is not forever noting: "This

Is French." It is so atmospheric for him to be

French, that he can devote himself to saying:

"This is human." This is an imperative con-

Dition for the creating of deep art. The whole

Will and mind of the creator must go below the

Surfaces of race. And this has been an almost

Impossible condition for the American Negro to

Achieve, forced every moment of his life into a

Specific and superficial plane of consciousness.

The first negative significance of Cane is that

This so natural and restrictive state of mind is

Completely lacking. For Toomer, the Southland

Is not a problem to be solved ; it is a field of love-

[viii]

FOREWORD

Liness to be sung: the Georgia Negro is not a

Downtrodden soul to be uplifted; he is material

For gorgeous painting: the segregated self-

Conscious brown belt of Washington is not a

Topic to be discussed and exposed; it is a subject

Of beauty and of drama, worthy of creation in

Literary form.

It seems to me, therefore, that this is a first

Book in more ways than one. It is a harbinger

Of the South's literary maturity : of its emergence

From the obsession put upon its minds by the

Unending racial crisis — an obsession from which

Writers have made their indirect escape through

Sentimentalism, exoticism, polemic, "problem"

Fiction, and moral melodrama. It marks the

Dawn of direct and unafraid creation. And, as

The initial work of a man of twenty-seven, it is

The harbinger of a literary force of whose incal-

Culable future I believe no reader of this book

Will be in doubt.

How typical is Cane of the South's still virgin

Soil and of its pressing seeds! and the book's

Chaos of verse, tale, drama, its rhythmic rolling

Shift from lyrism to narrative, from mystery to

Intimate pathos! But read the book through

[ix]

FOREWORD

And you will see a complex and significant form

Take substance from its chaos. Part One is the

Primitive and evanescent black world of Georgia.

Part Two is the threshing and suffering brown

World of Washington, lifted by opportunity and

Contact into the anguish of self-conscious strug-

Gle. Part Three is Georgia again. . . the in-

Vasion into this black womb of the ferment

Seed: the neurotic, educated, spiritually stirring

Negro. As a broad form this is superb, and the

Very looseness and unexpected waves of the

Book's parts make Cane still more South, still

More of an aesthetic equivalent of the land.

What a land it is! What an ^Eschylean

Beauty to its fateful problem! Those of you

Who love our South will find here some of your

Love. Those of you who know it not will per-

Haps begin to understand what a warm splendor

Is at last at dawn.

A feast of moon and men and barking hounds, An orgy for some genius of the South

With bloodshot eyes and cane-lipped scented mouth

Surprised in making folk-songs ....

So, in his still sometimes clumsy stride (for

[x]

FOREWORD

Toomer is finally a poet in prose) the author

Gives you an inkling of his revelation. An indi-

Vidual force, wise enough to drink humbly at

This great spring of his land. . . such is the

First impression of Jean Toomer. But beyond

This wisdom and this power (which shows itself

Perhaps most splendidly in his complete free-

Dom from the sense of persecution), there rises

A figure more significant: the artist, hard, self-

Immolating, the artist w ho_ is not interest ed in

Jaces, _whose domain is Life. The book's final

Part is no longer "promise"; it is achievement.

It is no mere dawn: it is a bit of the full morn-

Ing. These materials ... the ancient black

Man, mute, inaccessible, and yet so mystically

Close to the new tumultuous members of his race, The simple slave Past, the shredding Negro

Present, the iridescent passionate dream of the

To-morrow. . . are made and measured by a

Craftsman into an unforgettable music. The

Notes of his counterpoint are particular, the

Themes are of intimate connection with us Amer-

Icans. But the result is that abstract and abso-

Lute thing called Art.

[xi]

Waldo Frank.

Certain of these pieces have appeared in

Broom, Crisis, Double Dealer, Liberator, Little Review, Modem Review, Nomad, Prairie, and S 4 N.

To these magazines : thanks.

KARINTHA

Her skin is like dusk on the eastern horizon, O cant you see it, O cant you see it, Her skin is like dusk on the eastern horizon. . . When the sun goes down.

M EN had always wanted her, this Karintha, Even as a child, Karintha carrying beauty, Perfect as dusk when the sun goes down. Old

Men rode her hobby-horse upon their knees.

Young men danced with her at frolics when

They should have been dancing with their grown-

Up girls. God grant us youth, secretly prayed

The old men. The young fellows counted the

Time to pass before she would be old enough to

Mate with them. This interest of the male, who

Wishes to ripen a growing thing too soon, could

Mean no good to her.

Karintha, at twelve, was a wild flash that

Told the other folks just what it was to live. At

Sunset, when there was no wind, and the pine-