James Baldwin

James Baldwin - Pin Drop Speech 部分

https://youtu.be/NUBh9GqFU3A

上の動画の最終部分が以下のドキュメンタリーで使われている。
私はあなたのニグロではない(字幕版) 2018

監督ラウル・ペック
https://watch.amazon.co.jp/detail?asin=B07JZHTTQQ&territory=JP&ref_=share_ios_movie&r=web

James Baldwin vs William F Buckley: A legendary debate from 1965

https://youtu.be/5Tek9h3a5wQ

The Cambridge Companion to James Baldwin - 5 ページ

https://books.google.co.jp › books

When he does appear in literary histories, Baldwin is often cast in a scripted role as contender for the throne. ... and his many televised public speeches and talks – including his 1965 CambridgeUniversity debate with William F. Buckley,19 his appearance on the Dick Cavett Show in 1968, his 5 Introduction: Baldwin's Art.

Michele Elam - 2015 - ‎プレビュー - ‎他の版

James Baldwin: Challenging Authors - 165 ページ

https://books.google.co.jp › books

The 1965 Cambridge Union Debate In the fall of 2009, a short clip of James Baldwin debating William F. Buckley, Jr. in England went viral on YouTube. There, nestled in what seems to be a crowd of one thousand students, a small man with large piercing eyes read a sermon that momentarily rippled through the cacophony ...

A. Scott Henderson, ‎Paul Lee Thomas - 2014 - ‎プレビュー - ‎他の版

Baldwin vs. Buckley: A Debate We Shouldn't Need, As Important As Ever | Literary Hub

https://lithub.com/baldwin-vs-buckley-a-debate-we-shouldnt-need-as-important-as-ever/

Baldwin vs. Buckley: A Debate We Shouldn’t Need, As Important As Ever

“It comes as a great shock,” James Baldwin said in his epochal debate against William F. Buckley at Cambridge in 1965, “around the age of five, or six, or seven, to discover that the flag to which you have pledged allegiance, along with everybody else, has not pledged allegiance to you.” It was early in the debate. The already-prominent African-American writer was speaking first; his opponent, then the editor of the National Review and soon to become lionized particularly in conservative circles as a father of the American right, stared at Baldwin with the lazy eyes and fingers on chin of a patrician boredom. Baldwin—visibly somewhat awkward at having to defend a proposition he thought obvious, that “the American Dream is at the expense of the American Negro,” which was the debate’s motion—had begun by making a simple, yet necessary point, one that rings as true today, if not truer, than it did in 1965: that the answer to this question ultimately came down to one’s “system of reality.” That a flag may look the same on the surface to you or me, yet where we store it away inside us—what it means to us—differs so drastically as to make two flags out of one. That all flags, in a sense, are perhaps two, or three.

“The other, deeper, element of a certain awkwardness I feel has to do with one’s point of view,” Baldwin said in his opening, after declaring himself yet again “in the position of a kind of Jeremiah.” “I have to put it that way—one’s sense, one’s system of reality. It would seem to me the proposition before the House… is the American Dream at the expense of the American Negro… one’s response to that question—one’s reaction to that question—has to depend on effect and, in effect, where you find yourself in the world, what your sense of reality is, what your system of reality is. That is, it depends on assumptions which we hold so deeply so as to be scarcely aware of them.” Although Baldwin’s debate happened over five decades ago, I find myself turning to it time and again in 2017. The fault-lines of this debate lie where contemporary assumptions that America is “post-racial” often do: in questions, both experiential and philosophical, about the makeup of the world. The answers to such questions exist sharply on two sides of a line that divides America today, a line that divided America the day it saw its first smoky automobile, the sublime night meteors fell like star-rain in 1833, a line that divided America even before its official birth as a nation, for it has always divided—and, as a result, defined—America.

“I picked the cotton, I carried it to the market, and I built the railroads under someone else’s whip for nothing,” Baldwin declared, voice rising as he braided himself to the “cheap labor” that had built a country. “For nothing.” “The American soil is full of the corpses of my ancestors,” he said later. “Why is my freedom or my citizenship, or my right to live there, how is it conceivably a question now?” Yet Baldwin, his empathy richer than that of certain clamorous voices today, still humanized even the vilest racists of the South, not to exonerate their evils, but to avoid a world in which we do what they have done to us: Othering as subhuman. “[N]o one can be dismissed as a total monster,” he said. This is important, yet utterly difficult, nuance, if we do not wish to become the monsters we believe we fight against.

The debate was polar: on one side, a man who grew up poor in Harlem, the other raised with the privileges of wealth. But the fundamental disconnect went deeper. The disagreement between Baldwin and Buckley about whether or not the American Dream applied equally to all Americans pivoted on one’s assumption about truth, about systems of reality: whether racism really is as bad as we say it is, whether racism really is as common as we allege, whether it isn’t really possible for everyone to succeed equally and strut across the stage of a conservative drama by just pulling up their bootstraps and working harder rather than complaining, critiquing, complaining, full of a pinched sound and fury, signifying nothing. It pivoted, in other words, on empathy, on rational compassion. It is a debate we keep having between an empathetic understanding of the needs of those different from oneself versus a lack of such grounded understanding; it was, is, a debate of a world changing versus a world staying the same.

It was, in an archetypal sense (as opposed to the current political reality in which “liberal” sadly often means “centrist” or even “moderate conservative”) a debate of liberalism versus conservatism, a debate that could as easily apply to how American politicians have recently argued about same-sex marriage, transgender rights to restroom access according to our gender, racialized police brutality. That Baldwin was willing to have the debate at all is admirable to me, even as it is cringe-worthy at best and destructively painful at worst—a pain those lacking empathy simply laugh at and call, a la Tomi Lahren, that increasingly meaningless term, “snowflakeism”—to consider debating the very reality of who or what you are. This is the pain I feel when someone reduces my womanhood, as a trans woman, to “I just want to have a debate.” That person often appears appalled I feel dehumanized to have someone question what I am. A lack, again, of empathy. Yet I then wonder how to convince the person who wanted that debate; I want, after all, a better, more accepting world. I wonder if this is weakness on my part, naïveté. Then I wonder why I wonder.

Sometimes it feels so difficult to consider debating such things that I find my mind drifting to and wishing for a quieter place, the calm of scuba-diving where all you may hear is the drone of your own breath, or the graveyards between the stars that crackle intermittently with an old radio’s silence. The sea, at night, feels so much like outer space. We need that marine, interstellar silence sometimes to keep ourselves going. We need calm, quiet, stability, or we may drift too close to the toxic orbits of the loudest stars, get stuck in their pull, or simply burn up. We need to learn when to confront—and when to fall back, lest we fall ourselves. We need to learn, too, how to learn from our opponents, need to learn whether someone we think an opponent is always, indeed, just that. And we need to learn how to convince others. In the debate, Baldwin tells stories and uses imagery amidst his arguments. This is one way to convince the unconvinced: to use narrative along with argument. An empathy-building story alongside an argument is one of the most powerful rhetorical tools, alongside understanding when to be quiet or when to be loud. Stories can be tools, weapons, the things with which we break or build bridges.

Sometimes, far as our species has come, we need to relearn how to use tools.

“Patriotism, like any fanaticism, can be poison in the well of the self.”

But I worry, too, that some cannot be convinced. That an increasing number of Americans live not merely in bubbles but legitimately in separate, segregated systems of reality, where the source—CNN, Buzzfeed, Breitbart—matters more than whether or not what an individual story actually says, that “fake news” is simply fake if we believe it is, for we live in our own reality. Bubbles can be popped; realities, I do not know. I worry we live on a kind of blue glacier, which has slowly split apart at its edge, a deep, irreparable, dirty-white scar, and that edge, dense with huts and homes and high-topped igloos, has begun to drift away. Soon, it will be too far to come back; even if it does, it can never fit back, not fully, into the world it broke from. The people on that drifting ice want to drift away; they believe they are the true glacier, the true adherents of The Way. Distance creates new dreams, new mythologies, new gods and devils, and that is what they do, creating a new system of reality, resembling the glacier’s they excommunicated themselves from yet utterly distinct, all the same. What new lighthouse, what new stars, direct a drifting glacier rather than a ship? Do we forget what has left, or do we never forget how we have been cut, cleft? What is a country that breaks apart?

What country has never broken apart?

But if the American Dream—which some commentators already argue has moved to Canada—is to be dreamt by all of us, we have to figure out a way to make an America worth dreaming in. To heal a scar, restore, even if imperfectly, a cleft country, a split glacier. Baldwin’s debate with Buckley reminds us that some things, like flags, may always represent different realities to different groups: pride to one, oppression to another. And maybe that’s okay, for that simply is reality, not one system or another. Perhaps we can still live and dream together, somehow, even if our realities differ. Because if we truly cannot, there is no America—and Baldwin, at least, would not have wished to concede such a failure.

*

“I am not an object of missionary charity,” Baldwin finished. “I am one of the people who built the country—until this moment there is scarcely any hope for the American dream, because the people who are denied participation in it, by their very presence, will wreck it. And if that happens it is a very grave moment for the West.” Uncharacteristically, the audience burst into applause. Baldwin, despite his nerves, had expressed something raw, touching; he had dismantled that stereotypical equalizing image of a country, the American Dream, yet still dreamt of such dreams in the future. His opponent stood. Buckley—who, along with The National Review, some critics have heralded as the true progenitors of modern American conservatism as the dusky reflection of the Civil Rights movement—began, as if simultaneously bored and affronted, to speak.

Buckley called New York home, yet was a figure from another world—literally and otherwise, having grown up on both sides of the Atlantic. Just under four years before the debate, Buckley had come out against desegregation in The Saturday Review. “Will desegregation work?” the issue asked. “NO,” proclaimed the headline of Buckley’s piece. “What… is the conservatives’ solution to the race problem in the South?” his essay began. “I answer: there is no present solution to it.” Why, he asked, invoking typical right-wing imagery of tradition over progress, “do violence to the traditions of our system in order to remove the forms of segregation in the South?” “A conservative is seldom disposed to use the Federal Government as the sword of social justice,” he wrote towards the end of the piece, after arguing that desegregation was a bad idea because its results would be “ambiguous” and that blacks in the North were actually doing worse, in his view, than in the South. He finished by hoping that “when the Negroes have finally realized their long dream of attaining to the status of the white man, the white man will still be free,” rhetoric I still see, albeit more inarticulately, today. The year following his debate with Baldwin, Buckley’s famous television show, Firing Line, began, and would become the longest-running show with a single host on TV. Three years after his debate with Baldwin, Buckley would go on stage on August 28^th, 1968 with another silver-tongued provocateur, Gore Vidal, a broadcast in which Buckley would memorably threaten to punch the “queer” Vidal; Vidal called Buckley a “pro- or crypto-Nazi,” and Buckley, his charnel-gray voice undergoing a remarkably minor yet major tonal shift and his face shaking with fury before ABC’s viewers, responds, “Now listen, you queer, stop calling me a crypto-Nazi… or I’ll sock you in the goddamn face, and you’ll stay plastered.”

Buckley opened his portion not with threats of punches but with an attack nonetheless: a curious ad hominem, averring that Baldwin had affected a “British accent.” This British accent, Buckley charged in a tone at once dry and venomous, was not the one Baldwin used when he excoriated America in the pages of his books. The criticism was at once ironic and revealing. Buckley, like Vidal, had a notable transatlantic accent (though Buckley’s was more literally transatlantic, having grown up in both England and America), a learned accent—highly popular in cinema and public discourse from the early-to-mid 20th century—meant to evoke southern British English, specifically Received Pronunciation, across the Atlantic, but with a vaguely American drawl. When Buckley does it, it is respectable, a marker of class; when a black man like Baldwin does it, it’s an “affectation.” (Baldwin, of course, also spent considerable time in Europe.)

Accents can be political. Baldwin was often described as having a “cosmopolitan” accent, one with echoes of English in multiple centers of the language. Baldwin could code-switch between vernacular and an aristocratic English, but he seemed to favor the latter; because of this, Baldwin was simultaneously praised for sounding “sophisticated” and criticized for coming off “posh.” His accent was not unusual for the time, even as the transatlantic accent had begun to markedly decline in the postwar years, but Baldwin, like the fey Eartha Kitt and the oleaginous Buckley, developed an idiolect: a unique, personal way of speaking.

Buckley’s remark reminded me of my own world-hopping idiolect and the contradictions I had felt myself growing up in a formerly colony of Britain: the way I switched between our vernacular amongst friends and something closer to the “proper” Queen’s English you might hear from certain television anchors echoing BBC Received Pronunciaton; you hate your colonizer for leaving you in a crumbling mausoleum of blood, bone, and chain, yet you speak like them, keep their institutions, even consider living in the Mother Country because, somehow, you understand it better than America. Our accents reflect us, though not always as directly as we might like to think, and perhaps it only makes sense that some of us with a deep footprint in multiple countries will sound neither fully like one or the other, but simply, strangely, sometimes cruelly and sometimes beautifully, like our mixed, multifarious selves.

Buckley seemed arrogant, affected as an operatic vampire. Baldwin had little but “flagellations of our civilization,” and Baldwin should be grateful for the “showers of praise” he apparently received everywhere he went. The Irish had suffered far more “bloodshed,” Buckley argued in a strikingly disingenuous move still used in 2017, in their attempts at emancipation “than has been shed by ten times the number of people who have been lynched as a result of the delirium of race consciousness, race supremacy, in the United States.” He feared “the regression of white people”—endlessly popular right-wing rhetoric today, often masked under the term “white genocide”—and went so far as to argue that those of us who speak in terms of race “suffer from a kind of racial narcissism, which tends always to convert every contingency in such a way as to maximize their own power.” Remove Buckley’s classical metaphors and eloquence, and he is making the same basic arguments one might find in a YouTube comment section today by someone who fears that the advancement of people of color means the end of white people.

Buckley seemed to me peculiarly old-fashioned here, as he represented a fading cultural-political figure: the educated, eloquent conservative who, while his views were usually the opposite of mine, I could at least respect as someone well-spoken and, often, well-read. I would rather debate with a Buckley than, say, a Bachmann or a Bannon. Yet the conservative buffoon, brought to the social fore perhaps most notably by the rise of evangelism on the right in the 1980s, is now the dominant image of this political group. The figure of the public, right-leaning intellectual has largely vanished in American culture, though shadows of it appear in how some conservatives describe figures like Dinesh D’Souza—who seems scarcely able to speak for a minute without intellectual, if not legal, dishonesty—and in certain conservative YouTube personalities. Buckley is no more, yet his poisonous rhetoric here lives on in so many contemporary “patriots.”

Patriotism, like any fanaticism, can be poison in the well of the self. Baldwin’s comment about the American flag reminded me of the recent brouhaha in Australia over Yassmin Abdel-Magied, a black Australian Muslim commentator who, on Anzac Day—a day meant to memorialize Australians and New Zealanders who have served in wars—composed a short post on social media highlighting refugees who were denied entry into Australia. Commentators attacked her. How dare she suggest anything other than pride on a day of supposed national unity? (Such outrage, of course, is a form of “snowflakeism”—but only if the left does it, of course.) Abdel-Magied’s fate—she fled to the UK after being hounded and is now popularly considered the most hated Muslim in Australia—echoes that of sports commentator Scott McIntyre who, two years before, was also critical of ANZAC Day’s unthinking patriotism.

Yet what better use of a national day, be it Anzac or the Fourth of July, is there than to ask what that nation means? What pride, Frederick Douglass famously asked, can the Fourth of July hold for someone oppressed by a nation?

Baldwin won, 544 to 164.

Would a Baldwin win today? He could, I’m sure. But whether he definitely would, I can’t say. After all, some of the voters drift on an iceberg, lost in dreams stronger than opium of another reality.

*

“In or about December, 1910, human character changed,” Virginia Woolf famously wrote in “Mr. Bennett and Mrs. Brown” in 1924. She meant this in the lovely tongue-in-cheek-yet-serious way so characteristic of her, and its truth value was much the same: the world, indeed, had in some sense changed a tad bit more than its usual rolling and rollicking and reforming. Yet Woolf’s claim, charming as it was, obviously applied more to one system of reality than another. If you were a black artist in certain parts of America on or around December of 1910, the world, indeed, might seem in a slow transmogrification—the beginnings of the revolutionary Harlem Renaissance, for instance, one of a number of black-led artistic movements that challenged what many white Americans thought about who should and even could create power and profundity in a work. Yet this part of the world had also hardly changed at all. For all its truth, Woolf’s broad statement about “human character” reflected an obvious narrowness of view of the world, a slim system of reality: her world, her reflection of a realm, not the world of someone utterly different who nonetheless lived in the world. Words and worlds connect; words create worlds and worlds create words, but it is easy to forget how small and simple—how false, in the whole—a word like “world” makes a vast globe seem.

Baldwin’s debate with Buckley is still our debate. 2017 is obviously not 1965. Yet, in some ways, it still is, even if we don’t wish to see what has never changed, even if we want to close our eyes and drift off on another glacier.

“When I was growing up, I was taught in American history books, that Africa had no history, and neither did I,” Baldwin said. “That I was a savage about whom the less said, the better, who had been saved by Europe and brought to America. And, of course, I believed it. I didn’t have much choice. Those were the only books there were.” What does it say, of our advanced age, that there are still new books that say the same?

二つの文化の間から: ジェームズ・ボールドウィンとウィリアム・F・バックリーの対論を観る

http://sciphi-jpfr.blogspot.com/2019/08/blog-post_10.html

1965年、ケンブリッジ大学で行われた歴史的ディベートを観る

アメリカの黒人作家ジェームズ・ボールドウィン VS. 保守派の論客ウィリアム・F・バックリー

テーマは「アメリカン・ドリームはアメリカの黒人の犠牲の上に成り立っているのか」

肯定するボールドウィンのサイドが圧勝したようである


こういうのを見せられると、言葉の持つ力を信じたくなる

彼らの文化が我々のものとは全く別物であることを痛いほど感じざるを得ない

真剣なるディベートの伝統は、日本には根付かないのだろうか

ジェイムズ・ボールドウィン - Wikipedia

https://ja.wikipedia.org/wiki/%E3%82%B8%E3%82%A7%E3%82%A4%E3%83%A0%E3%82%BA%E3%83%BB%E3%83%9C%E3%83%BC%E3%83%AB%E3%83%89%E3%82%A6%E3%82%A3%E3%83%B3

ジェイムズ・アーサー・ボールドウィン（James Arthur Baldwin、1924年8月2日 - 1987年11月30日）はアメリカ合衆国の小説家、著作家、劇作家、詩人、随筆家および公民権運動家である。代表作に『山にのぼりて告げよ』がある。

ボールドウィンの著作の大半は20世紀半ばのアメリカ合衆国における人種問題と性の問題を扱っており、黒人であり同性愛者であることに関した、アイデンティティへの疑問と探索、社会的コンプレックスや心理的圧力がテーマになっている^[1]。

NAMs出版プロジェクト: 定本柄谷行人集目次（付『世界共和国へ』）＋総合索引

https://nam-students.blogspot.com/2011/12/blog-post_01.html

ボールドウィン(ジェームス・).Baldwin,James,❹A162(『オセロ』),260(『次は火だ』×)

未記載

#4 The Utility of Aesthetics After Orientalism

美学の効用
https://www.amazon.co.jp/Nation-Aesthetics-Freud-Global-English-ebook/dp/B072XHTXQP/

Ironically, however, this anti-capitalist posture is possible only after the appearance of industrial-capitalism. We can see that fascism has its true seeds in this aestheticism. That is to say, fascism aesthetically sublimates the contradictions of capitalist economies by appearing anti-capitalist. 
　The example of Duchamp implies one more aspect about the process of bracketing and un-bracketing. The African-American writer James Baldwin talks about this process. He had not been interested in reading Shakespeare because he saw racial discrimination against blacks in Othello. However, while he was living in non-English-speaking Paris, he for the first time began to feel he could accept Shakespeare because he became selfconscious of being both a writer who was black and at the same time a writer who wrote in English.7 In this case, it is safe to say that Baldwin was able to see Othello as art by bracketing its discrimination toward blacks. However, the problem was not with Baldwin, but the white, English-speaking observers who saw Othello simply as art. They do not intentionally bracket what exasperated Baldwin but forget the very fact of bracketing of racism from the start. They believe that such imbeciles who cavil at the great bard fail to understand art. This is the same attitude that considers all those things to be art if they are placed in a museum. They need to stop bracketing race issues at least one time. We can see the same movement of bracketing/unbracketing regarding the viewpoints enabled by the emergence of feminist critique and queer theory. It points to the typical way heterosexual male readers ignore their process of bracketing. In other words, such approaches remove brackets, but they do not deny the artistry of the art. For example, in the case when given work portrays women as simply an aesthetic emblem of [heterosexual] male desire, unbracketing of sexism does not simply deny the artistry of the work. If it is a great work, the text will permit many alternative interpretations. And when we reread the text as such, we will bracket the earlier criticism, but it goes without saying that this does not erase such criticism.

。。。。

“Why I Stopped Hating Shakespeare.” The Observer, April 19, 1964.

https://bibliotecadaluta.files.wordpress.com/2017/08/james_baldwin_randall_kenan-the_cross_of_redemptio.pdf

https://www.amazon.co.jp/Cross-Redemption-Uncollected-Writings-English-ebook/dp/B003E8AISO/
ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=  “Why I Stopped Hating Shakespeare,” James Baldwin
https://www.folger.edu/sites/default/files/Why%20I%20Stopped%20Hating%20Shakespeare_JamesBaldwin.pdf

Excerpted from The Cross of Redemption by James Baldwin Copyright 2010 by The Estate of James Baldwin. Excerpted by permission of Pantheon, a division of Random House Inc. All rights reserved.


Why I Stopped Hating Shakespeare   by James Baldwin  Every writer in the English language, I should imagine, has at some point hated Shakespeare, has turned away from that monstrous achievement with a kind of sick envy. In my most anti-English days I condemned him as a chauvinist ("this England" indeed!) and because I felt it so bitterly anomalous that a black man should be forced to deal with the English language at all — should be forced to assault the English language in order to be able to speak — I condemned him as one of the authors and architects of my oppression. Again, in the way that some Jews bitterly and mistakenly resent Shylock, I was dubious about Othello (what did he see in Desdemona?) and bitter about Caliban. His great vast gallery of people, whose reality was as contradictory as it was unanswerable, unspeakably oppressed me. I was resenting, of course, the assault on my simplicity; and, in another way, I was a victim of that loveless education which causes so many schoolboys to detest Shakespeare. But I feared him, too, feared him because, in his hands, the English language became the mightiest of instruments. No one would ever write that way again. No one would ever be able to match, much less surpass, him. Well, I was young and missed the point entirely, was unable to go behind the words and, as it were, the diction, to what the poet was saying. I still remember my shock when I finally heard these lines from the murder scene in Julius Caesar. The assassins are washing their hands in Caesar's blood. Cassius says: Stoop then, and wash. — How many ages hence Shall this our lofty scene be acted over,  In states unborn and accents yet unknown! What I suddenly heard, for the first time, was manifold. It was the voice of lonely, dedicated, deluded Cassius, whose life had never been real for me before — I suddenly seemed to know what this moment meant to him. But beneath and beyond that voice I also heard a note yet more rigorous and impersonal — and contemporary: that "lofty scene," in all its blood and necessary folly, its blind and necessary pain, was thrown into a perspective which has never left my mind. Just so, indeed, is the heedless State over¬thrown by men, who, in order to overthrow it, have had to achieve a desperate single- mindedness. And this single- mindedness, which we think of (why?) as ennobling, also operates, and much more surely, to distort and diminish a man — to distort and diminish us all, even, or perhaps especially, those whose needs and whose energy made the overthrow of the State inevitable, necessary, and just. And the terrible thing about this play, for me — it is not necessarily my favorite play, whatever that means, but it is the play which I first, so to speak, discovered — is the tension it relentlessly sustains between individual ambition, self- conscious, deluded, idealistic, or corrupt, and the blind, mindless passion which drives the individual no less than it drives the mob. "I am Cinna the poet, I am Cinna the poet...I am not Cinna the conspirator" — that cry rings in my ears. And the mob's response: "Tear him for his bad verses!" And yet — though one howled with Cinna and felt his terrible rise, at the hands of his countrymen, to death, it was impossible to hate the mob. Or, worse than
impossible, useless;  for here  we were, at  once  howl¬ing and  being torn to pieces,  th only  receptacles  of  evil  and  the  only  receptacles  of  nobility  to be  found  in all  the universe. But  the  play  does  not  even suggest  that  we have the  perception to know  evil from good  or that  such  a  distinction can ever  be  clear:  "The  evil  that  men do lives after them;  The  good  is  oft  interred  with  their bones  . . ." Once  one  has  begun to suspect  this  much  about  the  world — once  one  has  begun to suspect, that  is,  that  one  is  not, and  never will  be, innocent, for the  reason that  no one  is — some  of  the  selfprotective veils  between oneself  and  reality  begin to fall  away.  It  is probably  of  some  significance,  though we  cannot  pursue it  here, that  my  first real apprehension of  Shakespeare  came  when I  was  living in France, and  thinking and speaking in  French. The necessity  of  mastering a  foreign language  forced  me  into a  new relationship to my  own. (It  was  also in France,  therefore,  that  I began  to read  the  Bible again.) My  quarrel  with  the  English  language  has  been that  the  language  reflected  none  of  my experience. But  now I began to see  the  matter in quite  another way.  If  the  language  was not  my  own, it  might  be  the  fault  of  the  language;  but  it  might  also be  my  fault. Perhaps the  language  was  not  my  own because  I had  never attempted  to use  it, had  only  learned to imitate  it. If  this  were  so, then it  might  be  made  to bear the  burden of  my  experience if  I could  find  the  stamina  to challenge  it, and  me, to such  a  test. In support  of  this  possibility,  I had  two mighty  witnesses:  my  black  ancestors, who evolved  the  sorro w songs, the  blues,  and  jazz,  and  created  an  entirely  new  idiom  in an overwhelmingly  hostile  place;  and  Shakespeare, who was  the  last  bawdy  writer in the English  language.  What  I began to see — speaking in  Frenc h — especially  since,  as  I say,  I  was  living and is  that  it  is  experience  which  shapes  a  language;  and  it  is  language which  controls  an  experience.  The  structure  of  the  French  language  told  me  something of  the  French  experience, and  also something  of  the  French  expectations — certainly not which  were the  American expectations,  since  the  French  daily  and  hourly  said  things which  the  Americans  could  not  say  at  all. (Not  even in French.)  Similarly,  the  language with  which  I had  grown up had  certainly not  been the  King's  English. An immense experience  had forged  this  language;  it  had  been (and  remains)  one  of  the  tools  of  a people's  survival, and  it  revealed  expectations  which  no white  American could  easily entertain. The  authority  of  this  language  was  in its  candor, its  irony,  its  density,  and  its beat:  t his  was  the  authority  of  the  language  which  produced  me, and  it  was  also the authority  of  Shakespeare. Again, I  was  listening very  hard  to jazz  and  hoping, one  day,  to translate  it  into language,  and  Shakespeare's  bawdiness  became  very  important  to me, sin ce  bawdiness was  one  of  the  elements  of  jazz  and  revealed  a  tremendous,  loving, and  realistic  respect for the  body,  and  that  ineffable  force  which  the  body  contains, which  Americans  have mostly  lost, which  I had  experienced  only  among Negroes,  and  of  which I  had  then been taught  to be  ashamed. My  relationship, then,  to the  language  of  Shakespeare  revealed  itself  as  nothing less than my  relationship to myself  and  my  past.  Under this  light, this  revelation, both
myself and my past began slowly to open, perhaps the way a flower opens at morning, but more probably the way an atrophied muscle begins to function, or frozen fingers to thaw. The greatest poet in the English language found his poetry where poetry is found: in the lives of the people. He could have done this only through love — by knowing, which is not the same thing as understanding, that whatever was happening to anyone was happening to him. It is said that his time was easier than ours, but I doubt it — no time can be easy if one is living through it. I think it is simply that he walked his streets and saw them, and tried not to lie about what he saw: his public streets and his private streets, which are always so mysteriously and inexorably connected; but he trusted that connection. And, though I, and many of us, have bitterly bewailed (and will again) the lot of an American writer — to be part of a people who have ears to hear and hear not, who have eyes to see and see not — I am sure that Shakespeare did the same. Only, he saw, as I think we must, that the people who produce the poet are not responsible to him: he is responsible to them. That is why he is called a poet. And his responsibility, which is also his joy and his strength and his life, is to defeat all labels and complicate all battles by insisting on the human riddle, to bear witness, as long as breath is in him, to that mighty, unnameable, transfiguring force which lives in the soul of man, and to aspire to do his work so well that when the breath has left him, the people — all people! — who search in the rubble for a sign or a witness will be able to find him there. Excerpted from The Cross of Redemption by James Baldwin Copyright 2010 by The Estate of James Baldwin. Excerpted by permission of Pantheon, a division of Random House Inc. All rights reserved.


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James Baldwin, The Fire Next Time (New York: Dial Press, 1963)..？

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https://shakespeare.berkeley.edu/essays/othello-iagos-audience

The Outcast State - Public Seminar

2019/06/18 · Beyond Othello,Shakespeare's drama struggles to reveal important nuances of black culture. ... In his essay “Why I Stopped Hating Shakespeare,” James Baldwin writes, “The greatest poet in the  ...

This Brechtian response is reinforced not only by conservative critics such as Thomas Rymer and T. S. Eliot but also by many radical feminists and African-Americans. Such distancing even occurs in many critics' views of other characters in the play, not just Roderigo, but even the women: far from identifying Desdemona as a victim of machismo, both reactionary and progressive thinkers despise her, from Thomas Rymer's sarcasm about her poor housekeeping skills in losing her handkerchief in his Short View of Tragedy (1693), through James Baldwin's contempt for her dependency (in the Shakespeare anniversary edition of Le Figaro Littéraire in 1964), down to modern feminist attacks on her self-sacrifice: "Desdemona's moral development is arrested at the level of altruistic self-denial" (Diane Dreher, Domination and Defiance, 90).

"オセロ" イアゴの観客｜シェイクスピアの演出
https://shakespeare.berkeley.edu/essays/othello-iagos-audience

このブレヒタリアン的な反応は、トーマス・ライマーやT.S.エリオットのような保守的な批評家だけでなく、多くの急進的なフェミニストやアフリカ系アメリカ人によっても補強されている。このような距離感は、ロデリーゴだけでなく、劇中の他の登場人物、さらには女性に対する多くの批評家の見解にさえも現れている。デズデモーナを男らしさの犠牲者とみなすのではなく、反動的な思想家も進歩的な思想家も彼女を軽蔑している。トーマス・ライマーの『悲劇の短観』（1693年）でハンカチを失った彼女の家事能力の低さについての皮肉から、ジェームズ・ボールドウィンの依存症に対する軽蔑（1964年の『フィガロ・リテレーア』のシェイクスピア記念版での）、そして彼女の自己犠牲に対する現代のフェミニストの攻撃に至るまで。"デズデモーナの道徳的発達は、利他的な自己否定のレベルで逮捕される」（ダイアン・ドレハー『支配と防御』90）。

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The resulting complacency may well be one of the sources of Othello's popularity, for Evans observes that the play is among those with the highest “proportion of ... through James Baldwin's contempt for her dependency (in the Shakespeare anniversary issue of Le Figaro Littéraire, in 1964), down to modern feminist attacks ...

Philip C. Kolin - 2013 - ‎プレビュー - ‎他の版