Tales: Short Stories

By Amiri Baraka

“A clutch of early stories from the poet, playwright, and provocateur, infused with jazz and informed by racial alienation” (Kirkus Reviews).
 
“Baraka was, without question, the central figure of the Black Arts Movement, and was the most important theorist of that movement’s expression of the ‘Black Aesthetic,’ which took hold of the African American cultural imagination in earnest in the late sixties. While known primarily for his plays, poems, and criticism of black music, Baraka was also a master of the short story form, as this collection attests. Tales first appeared in 1967 and is an impressionistic and sometimes surrealistic collection of short fiction, showcasing Amiri Baraka’s great impact on African American literature of the 1950s and 1960s. Tales is a critical volume in Amiri Baraka’s oeuvre, and an important testament to his remarkable literary legacy.” —Henry Louis Gates Jr.
 
The sixteen artful and nuanced stories in this reissue of Amiri Baraka’s seminal 1967 collection fall into two parts: the first nine concern themselves with the sensibility of a hip, perceptive young black man in white America. The last seven stories endeavor to place that same man within the context of his awareness of and participation in a rapidly emerging and powerfully felt negritude. They deal, it might be said, with the black man in black America. Yet these tales are not social tracts, but absolutely masterful fiction—provocative, witty, and, at times, bitter and aggressive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Akashic Books
• Release date: Feb 16, 2016
• ISBN: 9781617754159

Book preview

A Chase

(Alighieri’s Dream)

Place broken: their faces sat and broke each other. As suns, Sons gone tired in the heart and left the south. The North, years later she’d wept for him drunk and a man finally they must have thought. In the dark, he was even darker. Wooden fingers running. Wind so sweet it drank him.

Faces broke. Charts of age. Worn thru, to see black years. Bones in iron faces. Steel bones. Cages of decay. Cobblestones are wet near the army stores. Beer smells, Saturday. To now, they have passed so few lovely things.

Newsreel chickens. Browned in the street. I was carrying groceries back across the manicured past. Back, in a coat. Sunk, screaming at my fingers. Faces broken, hair waved, simple false elegance. I must tell someone I love you. Them. In line near the fence. She sucked my tongue. Red, actual red, but colored hair. Soft thin voice, and red freckles. A servant.

You should be ashamed. Your fingers are trembling. You lied in the garage. You lied yesterday. Get out of the dance, down the back stairs, the street, and across in the car. Run past it, around the high building. Court Street, past the Y, harder, buttoning a cardigan, to Morton Street. Duck down, behind the car. Let Apple pass; a few others. Now take off back down Court, the small guys couldn’t run. Cross High, near Graychun’s, the Alumni House, donald the fag’s, the jews, to Kinney. Up one block, crooked old jews die softly under the moon. Past them. Past them. Their tombs and bones. Wet dollars blown against the fence. Past them, mattie’s Dr., waltine, turn at Quitman. You can slow some, but not too much. Through the Owl Club, Frankie, Dee’s dumb brother, turn, wave at them. Down the back steps, to dirt, then stone. The poolroom, eddie smiles, points at his hat, pats his car keys, phone numbers. Somerset and the projects. To Montgomery and twist at Barclay. Light people stare. Parties, relationships forming to be explained later. Casual strangers’ faces known better than any now. Wood jaws sit open, their halls reek, his fingers tug at yellow cotton pants and slip inside. One finger her eyes open and close—her mouth opens moaning deep agitated darkly.

In the middle of the street, straight at the moon. Don’t get close to the buildings. Too many exits, doors, parks. Straight at the moon, up Barclay. Green tyrolean, gray bells, bucks. The smoking lights at Spruce. Hip charles curtis. But turn before Herman or Wattley. They pace in wool jails, wool chains, years below the earth. Dead cocks crawling, eyes turned up in space. Near diane’s house and the trees cradling her hidden flesh. Her fingers, her mouth, her eyes were all I had. And she screams now through soft wrinkles for me to take her. A Nun.

Wheeling now, back on the sidewalk, Saturday drunks spinning by, fish stores yawned, sprawled niggers dying without matches. Friends, enemies, strangers, fags, screaming louder than all sound. Young boys in hallways touching. Bulldaggers hiding their pussies. Black dead faces slowly ground to dust.

Headlight, Bubbles, Kennie, Rogie, Junie Boy, T. Bone, Rudy (All Hillside Place) or Sess, Ray, Lillian, Ungie, Ginger, Shirley, Cedie Abrams. Past them, displaced, blood seeps on the pavement under marquees. Lynn Hope marches on Belmont Ave. with us all. The Three Musketeers at the National. (Waverly Projects.) Past that. Their arms waving from the stands. Sun and gravel or the 3 hole opens and it’s more beautiful than Satie. A hip, change speeds, head fake, stop, cut back, a hip, head fake . . . then only one man coming from the side . . . it went thru my head a million times, the years it took, seeing him there, with a good angle, shooting in, with 3 yards to the sidelines, about 10 home. I watched him all my life close in, and thot to cut, stop or bear down and pray I had speed. Answers shot up, but my head was full of blood and it moved me without talk. I stopped still the ball held almost like a basketball, wheeled and moved in to score untouched.

*   *   *

A long stretch from Waverly to Spruce (going the other way near Hillside). A long stretch, and steeper, straight up Spruce. And that street moved downtown. They all passed by, going down. And I was burning by, up the hill, toward The Foxes and the milk bar. Change clothes on the street to a black suit. Black wool.

4 corners, the entire world visible from there. Even to the lower regions.

The Alternative

This may not seem like much, but it makes a difference. And then there are those who prefer to look their fate in the eyes.

Between Yes and No

—Camus

The leader sits straddling the bed, and the night, tho innocent, blinds him. (Who is our flesh. Our lover, marched here from where we sit now sweating and remembering. Old man. Old man, find me, who am your only blood.)

Sits straddling the bed under a heavy velvet canopy. Homemade. The door opened for a breeze, which will not come through the other heavy velvet hung at the opening. (Each thread a face, or smell, rubbed against himself with yellow glasses and fear at their exposure. Death. Death. They (the younger students) run by screaming. Tho impromptu. Tho dead, themselves.

The leader, at his bed, stuck with 130 lbs. black meat sewed to failing bone. A head with big red eyes turning senselessly. Five toes on each foot. Each foot needing washing. And hands that dangle to the floor, tho the boy himself is thin small washed out, he needs huge bleak hands that drag the floor. And a head full of walls and flowers. Blinking lights. He is speaking.

Yeh? The walls are empty, heat at the ceiling. Tho one wall is painted with a lady. (Her name now. In large relief, a faked rag stuck between the chalk marks of her sex. Finley. Teddy’s Doris. There sprawled where the wind fiddled with the drying cloth. Leon came in and laughed. Carl came in and hid his mouth, but he laughed. Teddy said, Aw, Man.

Come on, Hollywood. You can’t beat that. Not with your years. Man, you’re a schoolteacher 10 years after weeping for this old stinking bitch. And hit with a aspirin bottle (myth says).

The leader is sprawled, dying. His retinue walks into their comfortable cells. I have duraw-ings, says Leon, whimpering now in the buses from Chicago. Dead in a bottle. Floats out of sight, until the Africans arrive with love and prestige. Niggers. They say. Niggers. Be happy your ancestors are recognized in this burg. Martyrs. Dead in an automat, because the boys had left. Lost in New York, frightened of the burned lady, they fled into those streets and sang their homage to the Radio City.

The leader sits watching the window. The dried orange glass etched with the fading wind. (How many there then? 13 rue Madeleine. The Boys Club. They give, what he has given them. Names. And the black cloth hung on the door swings back and forth. One pork chop on the hot plate. And how many there. Here, now. Just the shadow, waving its arms. The eyes tearing or staring blindly at the dead street. These same who loved me all my life. These same I find my senses in. Their flesh a wagon of dust, a mind conceived from all minds. A country, of thought. Where I am, will go, have never left. A love, of love. And the silence the question posed each second. Is this my mind, my feeling. Is this voice something heavy in the locked streets of the universe. Dead ends. Where their talk (these nouns) is bitter vegetable. That is, the suitable question rings against the walls. Higher learning. That is, the moon through the window clearly visible. The leader in seersucker, reading his books. An astronomer of sorts. Will you look at that? I mean, really, now, fellows. Cats! (Which was Smitty from the City’s entree. And him the smoothest of you American types. Said, Cats. Cats. What’s goin’ on? The debate.

The leader’s job (he keeps it still, above the streets, summers of low smoke, early evening drunk and wobbling thru the world. He keeps it, baby. You dig?) was absolute. I have the abstract position of watching these halls. Walking up the stairs giggling. Hurt under the cement steps, weeping . . . is my only task. Tho I play hockey with the broom & wine bottles. And am the sole martyr of this cause. A.B., Young Rick, T.P., Carl, Hambrick, Li’l Cholley, Phil. O.K. All their knowledge Flait! More! Way! The leader’s job . . . to make attention for the place. Sit along the sides of the water or lay quietly back under his own shooting vomit, happy to die in a new gray suit. Yes. And what not."

How many here now? Danny. (brilliant dirty curly Dan, the m.d.) Later, now, where you off to, my man. The tall skinny farmers, lucky to find sales and shiny white shoes. Now made it socially against the temples. This hotspot Darien drunk teacher blues . . . and she tried to come on like she didn’t even like to fuck. I mean, you know the kind . . . The hand extended, palm upward. I place my own in yours. That cross, of feeling. Willie, in his grinning grave, has it all. The place, of all souls, in their greasy significance. An armor, like the smells drifting slowly up Georgia. The bridge players change clothes, and descend. Carrying home the rolls.

Jimmy Lassiter, first looie. A vector. What is the angle made if a straight line is drawn from the chapel, across to Jimmy, and connected there, to me, and back up the hill again? The angle of progress. I was talkin’ to ol’ Mordecai yesterday in a dream, and it’s me sayin’ ‘dig baby, why don’t you come off it?’ You know.

The line, for Jimmy’s sad and useless horn. And they tell

Reviews for Tales

[lisadeniscia-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

To read these tales simply ease into them as you would sink into a surrealistic painting--enjoy them--and let them happen to you. Don't worry about following anything--just experience these tales and let go. "We build our emotions into blank invisible structures which never exist." Love it!I received a free copy of this book from LibraryThing. Thank you.

[cammykitty · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Amiri Baraka was a prominent African American poet of the 60s and Tales is a reprint collection of some of his short stories. I wish I could say I loved the collection, but I didn't really. Perhaps I didn't enjoy it so much because he is a "lyrical prophet of despair" as it even says on the cover. Despair isn't my favorite mode. I think it is really a matter of "I guess ya had to be there." I feel I'm missing cultural references that would at a sparkling "a ha" reaction to the stories. I do know the cultural references for the last two stories, Jazz-Afrofuturist stories, and I reacted exactly that way. I know this story!!! Ha! Like I was in on an inside joke. "The Alternative" particularly reminds me of Delaney's Dhalgren which is definitely some sort of quintessential 1960s. I particularly enjoyed the irony of "Going Down Slow." So, the long and the short of it, this collection isn't for everyone but if you have a particular interest in Baraka or the 1960s are into despair, this one is for you.

[bezoar44 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I received a free copy of this book, and am grateful. This collection of stories was first published in 1967, nearly 50 years ago. They were all (or nearly all) written before LeRoi Jones changed his name to Amiri Baraka, while he was still working out his identity as a black artist. Many of these stories I found nearly incomprehensible, as they are written in a Joycean stream-of-conciousness style. I also had trouble telling when Jones is writing with a character's voice distinct from his own, versus using the character as a mouthpiece to say exactly what Jones thinks. Related to that, I've found it hard to distinguish facetious humor from extreme views meant to be taken completely seriously. A couple stories that I did understand, and liked, included 'Heroes Are Gang Leaders', and a Black Power science fiction fantasy, 'Answers in Progress.' But for most of the stories, a good critical guide - not part of this edition - could go a long way to making them more accessible. One final note: the casual anti-gay bigotry throughout the stories is annoying. It says a lot about the way living as the target of racism can mess with a man's identity, prompting him to double down on rigid tropes of (straight) masculinity. But in these stories, it feels baked into Jones' worldview, rather than present as an artistic choice, and it's wearing.

[tungsten_peerts · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

So ... yeah. When I was in undergraduate school, my mentor (who, for what it is worth, was a black woman) described a frightening encounter she had had with Baraka (at the Cleveland Playhouse, perhaps -- I can't remember). I recall her describing a large entourage and machine guns, etc etc. She used to say (I paraphrase) "the stuff he wrote when he was still Leroi Jones was awesome, brilliant, surrealist ... then he changed his name and started doing all this 'Kill Whitey' crap."Even then, I thought .... hmmm.I thank Akashic Press for the book, and in a much larger sense for re-issuing so many great items from Baraka's catalogue. The book under consideration is material from the early to mid 60s (it was first published in 1967), and it is hot stuff. Some of these tales have recognizable -- at least with a little effort -- plots, and all of it is very much the prose of a poet. It's also the prose of someone who is very connected to music, almost painfully connected, and to blues/jazz in particular. This work has a rhythm and a sway that could only come from having spent countless hours in smoky clubs listening to jazz and beating on the table with flat hands. It reminded me somehow of Kerouac's Dr. Sax -- and in particular, of watching/listening to Kerouac read excerpts from Dr. Sax with Steve Allen at the piano. Of course, this sometimes-abstract prose comes from the hands of a black genius in the 1960s, hands growing more and more angry as time goes on.The production is tres classy -- the cover has a nice feel and sports a Carl Van Vechten photo of Baraka. Also, I must say that Akashic has apparently done the right thing and hired a live breathing copy editor/proofreader ... something that even huge presses don't seem to be bothering with these days. Bravo!You may know of some of the controversies that swirled around Baraka. I urge you to lay preconceptions aside and pick up this small but very full book. If you are offended, you will find it out soon. Me, I'd love to hear this book read out loud!

[orangewords · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I will echo some other reviewers here and say that this book simply wasn't for me. Baraka was clearly a very talented man, but this collection was too disjointed and abstract for me. I liked the narratives that were less cryptic and obtuse, but they were few and far between. Even in the more abstract narratives there were consistent glimmers of wonderful poetry, but as a whole, this book was a miss for me. Still, I will follow up and read more of his poetry to see what I think of his other work.

[pomo58 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This re-issue of Tales by LeRoi Jones (Amiri Baraka) is ideally suited for (and will hopefully be used in) literature courses as well as Black Studies/African-American Studies courses. Originally published in 1967 this collection captures an important transitional period in Baraka's writing. While he had always addressed the issue of being Black in America he was moving from doing so in a traditional voice, often considered a non-threatening voice to a largely white academic and literary audience. As he developed a voice that was not only more his own but also better able to speak to other Blacks he became perceived as far more threatening.The tales here are not light breezy reads, but neither are indecipherable. They do require an intention to understand what they may be saying or implying. As is well known and probably doesn't require repeating, his voice became infused with a jazz/rhythm & blues flow. Like good poetry (and he was a very good poet) the ears are an important element in understanding and appreciating his stories. These do reward the reader for an oral enactment of the tales. I do think that these tales are more effective because they are not so simple. When we are forced to slow our reading and think about what we read it helps us to test different perspectives and possibilities, which can only serve to enrich any reading.In addition to students (whether formal or informal) of literature, the Black Arts Movement and the intersections of literature, music, culture and politics I think this would also benefit writers who might want to experience different ways of infusing their writing with movement, meaning and rhythm. While I consider this a 5 star classic I am giving it 4 (4.5) stars because many readers will find these to be too far removed from a standard short story with a very clear progression. Additionally, I think an interested reader should try to read (or re-read) more of Baraka's work to better contextualize this work.Reviewed from a copy made available by the publisher via LibraryThing.

[sean191 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I knew Amiri Baraka was known for angry, unapologetic poetry. I knew he was the poet laureate of NJ before people flipped out and the post was eliminated in order to remove him from being the poet laureate. I'd read a handful of his poems over the years, so I had some preconceived notions. I hadn't read his short stories though and I'm not sure if it's because they were short stories - some bordering on a stream of conscious writing - that I didn't get what I expected. The mastery of the language was there, social consciousness and commentary and controversial phrasing and statements were sprinkled throughout, but the anger so obvious in his poetry wasn't really there. I think in the mid-'60s these stories probably hit like a bombshell in a fractured society, but compared to some statements in art and activism seen today, they seemed a little tame. It wasn't until the very last story, which started with a poem, that they ramped up to fury I expected. It was a worthwhile read for the historical value - getting an idea of where some of one of the most famous protest writers in America and the art was still inn abundance.