American writers are on a roll. Bob Dylan wins the Nobel Prize for Literature (for backward children), and Paul Beatty the Booker Prize, the first American to do so because only Brits were considered in previous years.
Beatty was the unanimous choice, and it’s easy to see why: He’s a black American, the book is unreadable, and it explores the legacy of slavery and racial and economic inequality in America. Oh, yes, I almost forgot: The judges did mention that at a time when police violence in America against black people is at an all-time high—news to me, I thought it was the other way round, but I’m a dumb European—Americans should be forced to confront the country’s history of racism.
Some critics of The Sellout hinted it might not appeal to everyone because of its exhaustive use of the N-word and other stereotypical portrayals of black Americans. Bah, critics—what do they know? The New York Times raved about the novel, as did all of the usual suspects. I haven’t read The Sellout and do not plan to, so I would be doing a disservice to you, gentle reader, if I wrote that its historical sensitivity left me cold, as did the language. Unlike that other con man, Ta-Nehisi Coates, whose novel (posing as nonfiction) Between the World and Me has been on the bestseller list for over a year, Paul Beatty looks like an avuncular soul who at least tries to be funny in the Richard Pryor, Chris Rock manner by using the N-word whenever at a loss for others.
If more blacks wrote books rather than dealing drugs or sticking up banks, I’d be the happiest naturalized American in the world. As would many African-Americans, to use politically correct references. My problem is with the whites who throw awards at anything written by a black guy in order to show off to fellow bleeding-heart liberals that they’re in tune with them. Yet another novel, Underground Railroad, by Colson Whitehead, an American black, received notices by publishers that would make Papa Hemingway green—not with the hills of Africa, but with envy. The vile Times published a lengthy excerpt that had Uncle Toms hiding their faces in shame. A MacArthur “genius grant” followed, and Doubleday spoke of the opus in War and Peace terms, suggesting their offering was far superior to that dull Russian novel.
This guy Whitehead, like Ta-Nehisi, knows what he’s doing. Pile it on thick is the order of the day, and some bald-headed little fat man in the Times will get it excerpted quicker than you can say Jackie Robinson. Nonstop sadism by whites on the plantation is the order of the day in Underground Railroad. Torturing black slaves to death follows dinner as entertainment, and if the poor wretch doesn’t die from torture, he’s roasted to death after being doused with oil.
Now I went to a Southern university—The University, as Virginia refers to itself—where most of my fraternity brothers were from old Southern land-owning families. Needless to say, their ancestors must have been slaveowners. For some strange reason none of the traits revealed by Whitehead manifested themselves, at least in my presence. And when I was at Virginia, slavery had been abolished only 90 years beforehand. I guess I was at the wrong frat.
A character in this unreadable book, a white fugitive-slave chaser in the manner of Inspector Javert, announces that the American imperative is to kill, steal, enslave, and destroy. Boy, with language like that against whites, no wonder the Guggenheim Fellowship, the MacArthur genius grant, and the rest of the encomiums followed. It is open season on whites by the academy, the publishing world, the media, Hollywood, and, I suppose, many politicians a.d. (After the Donald). Wall Street and its crafty financiers pay lip service to the antiwhite tsunami, but that is all they do. They will not hire blacks that fail to meet shark requirements. No wonder, then, that the white working class feels hard done by. I think it’s about time they start throwing bombs—not against the fuzz, but at the crooked media and the academy. And what about a Molotov cocktail for Doubleday for publishing such rubbish? And a big, fat bonfire for the New York Times? Excelsior!
Just as I finished reading about the Booker Prize winner in the park off Fifth Avenue, I noticed a 25- or 30-year-old black man, well dressed and polite, offering a fist (it’s a greeting) to a rather naive Midwestern-looking woman tourist. She offered a fist back, and he began to tell her how he was soliciting funds for a school basketball team that was unable to compete because of the state having refused funding. “Careful, it’s a con,” I told her. The politeness turned into the kind of fury that whites show blacks in Whitehead’s novel. The tourist got scared and ran off. I laughed at the young man, and then, suddenly, he smiled and said, “I’m just trying to make a living.” I felt awful and gave him some cash. “Write an antiwhite book and make a fortune,” I said.