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A review by adam613
The Man Who Lived Underground by Richard Wright
5.0
"And then a strange and new knowledge overwhelmed him: He was all people. In some unutterable fashion, he was all people and they were he; by the identity of their emotions they were one, and he was one of them. And this was the oneness that linked man to man, in life or death. Yet even with this knowledge, this identification with others, this obliteration of self, another knowledge swept through him too, banishing all fear and doubt and loss; He now knew too the inexpressible value and importance of himself. He must assert himself; he was propelled to do something, to devise means of action by and through which he could convince those who lived above ground of the death-like quality of their lives."
Unpublished during the author's lifetime, Richard Wright's The Man who Lived Underground is a devastatingly tragic, visceral tale about Fred Daniels, America, and humans. Wrongfully accused of murder, Fred manages to escape custody and flees down a manhole under New York City and through the sewer system, he sees a view of humanity that he was unable to see living above ground. What do we value? Are these really universal values or are they constructs forced upon us? This book obviously takes a look at race relations and more so than that, it is a philosophical tale, that is almost a reverse telling of Plato's The Cave. Rather than leaving the cave for the vast openness of the world, Fred Daniels delves deep into the inner workings and comes back to then explain to others what life-changing ideas he has to share with all. As in the classic allegory, he is seen to be missing a sound mind.
The Man Who Lived Underground is a master at the height of prowess with poetic prose. With vivid imagery and a depth in its philosophical themes, this book left me utterly amazed by the talent of Richard Wright. There are scenes that are not for the faint of heart and others we all need to read. Published for the first time just last year, and based on merit alone, The Man Who Lived Underground should qualify as an American Classic first written in 1942, that more than holds up nearly 80 years later.
"The words had screamed inside of him, hot words trying to burst through a tight wall. And again he was overwhelmed with that inescapable emotion that always cut down to the foundation of life here in the underground, that emotion that told him that, though he were innocent, he was guilty; though blameless, he was accused; though living, he must die; though possessing faculties of dignity, he must live a life of shame; though existing in a seemingly reasonable world, he must die a certain reasonless death."
"He lifted the sack, descended the steps and lugged it across the basement, gasping for breath. Finally, he stood in the cave brooding about the items he had stolen, and he remembered the singing in the church, the people yelling in the theatre, the dead baby, and the nude man stretched out cold upon the white table.... He saw these things hovering before his eyes and he felt that some dim meaning tied them together, that some magical relationship made them kin. He stared with vacant eyes, convinced that all of these images, with their tongueless reality, were striving to tell him something."
"When the spell left him he found that he was standing on his feet, staring in horror. His hovering in midair and looking down upon the reasonlessness of human life made him under- stand that no compassion of which the human heart was capa- ble could ever respond adequately to that awful sight. Outside of time and space, he looked down upon the earth and saw that each fleeting day was a day of dying, that men died slowly with each passing moment as much as they did in war, that human grief and sorrow were utterly insufficient to this vast, dreary spectacle.
"His failure to summon up feelings that could do justice to what he saw and felt, his sense of emptiness in the face of this stark tragedy, culminated in an all-powerful passion of guilt; his own weakness when confronted with this supreme challenge condemned and consumed him with a boundless sense of contrition. Yes, the only being who could possibly gaze down upon such a hopeless spectacle and encompass its meaninglessness would have to be a god. That was it! Maybe men had invented gods to feel what they could not feel, and they found comfort in the pity of their gods for them...! For men were overwhelmed with shame and guilt when they looked down upon the irremediable frailty of their lives."
"He felt that soon he would be catapulted from the underground, or he would rush headlong and crash his head in frenzied despair against the green-papered walls. He buried his face in his grimy hands."
Unpublished during the author's lifetime, Richard Wright's The Man who Lived Underground is a devastatingly tragic, visceral tale about Fred Daniels, America, and humans. Wrongfully accused of murder, Fred manages to escape custody and flees down a manhole under New York City and through the sewer system, he sees a view of humanity that he was unable to see living above ground. What do we value? Are these really universal values or are they constructs forced upon us? This book obviously takes a look at race relations and more so than that, it is a philosophical tale, that is almost a reverse telling of Plato's The Cave. Rather than leaving the cave for the vast openness of the world, Fred Daniels delves deep into the inner workings and comes back to then explain to others what life-changing ideas he has to share with all. As in the classic allegory, he is seen to be missing a sound mind.
The Man Who Lived Underground is a master at the height of prowess with poetic prose. With vivid imagery and a depth in its philosophical themes, this book left me utterly amazed by the talent of Richard Wright. There are scenes that are not for the faint of heart and others we all need to read. Published for the first time just last year, and based on merit alone, The Man Who Lived Underground should qualify as an American Classic first written in 1942, that more than holds up nearly 80 years later.
"The words had screamed inside of him, hot words trying to burst through a tight wall. And again he was overwhelmed with that inescapable emotion that always cut down to the foundation of life here in the underground, that emotion that told him that, though he were innocent, he was guilty; though blameless, he was accused; though living, he must die; though possessing faculties of dignity, he must live a life of shame; though existing in a seemingly reasonable world, he must die a certain reasonless death."
"He lifted the sack, descended the steps and lugged it across the basement, gasping for breath. Finally, he stood in the cave brooding about the items he had stolen, and he remembered the singing in the church, the people yelling in the theatre, the dead baby, and the nude man stretched out cold upon the white table.... He saw these things hovering before his eyes and he felt that some dim meaning tied them together, that some magical relationship made them kin. He stared with vacant eyes, convinced that all of these images, with their tongueless reality, were striving to tell him something."
"When the spell left him he found that he was standing on his feet, staring in horror. His hovering in midair and looking down upon the reasonlessness of human life made him under- stand that no compassion of which the human heart was capa- ble could ever respond adequately to that awful sight. Outside of time and space, he looked down upon the earth and saw that each fleeting day was a day of dying, that men died slowly with each passing moment as much as they did in war, that human grief and sorrow were utterly insufficient to this vast, dreary spectacle.
"His failure to summon up feelings that could do justice to what he saw and felt, his sense of emptiness in the face of this stark tragedy, culminated in an all-powerful passion of guilt; his own weakness when confronted with this supreme challenge condemned and consumed him with a boundless sense of contrition. Yes, the only being who could possibly gaze down upon such a hopeless spectacle and encompass its meaninglessness would have to be a god. That was it! Maybe men had invented gods to feel what they could not feel, and they found comfort in the pity of their gods for them...! For men were overwhelmed with shame and guilt when they looked down upon the irremediable frailty of their lives."
"He felt that soon he would be catapulted from the underground, or he would rush headlong and crash his head in frenzied despair against the green-papered walls. He buried his face in his grimy hands."