Chapter 1_ Hyperlinking Cane.html

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&lt;h4&gt;Face&lt;/h4&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;poem&quot;&gt;
Hair—&lt;br&gt;
silver-gray,&lt;br&gt;
like streams of stars,&lt;br&gt;
Brows—&lt;br&gt;
recurved canoes&lt;br&gt;
quivered by the ripples blown by pain,&lt;br&gt;
Her eyes—&lt;br&gt;
mist of tears&lt;br&gt;
condensing on the flesh below&lt;br&gt;
And her channeled muscles&lt;br&gt;
are cluster grapes of sorrow&lt;br&gt;
purple in the evening sun&lt;br&gt;
nearly ripe for worms.&lt;br&gt;
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&lt;div style=&quot;padding: 5px 0 0 5px; height: 140px; width: 150px;position:fixed;left:0;top:0&quot;&gt;&lt;a href=&quot;javascript: window.history.back();&quot;&gt;Back&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</tw-passagedata><tw-passagedata pid="2" name="Portrait in Georgia" tags="" position="907,367">&lt;html&gt;&lt;head&gt;&lt;style&gt;
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&lt;h4&gt;Portrait in Georgia&lt;/h4&gt;
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Hair—braided chestnut,&lt;br&gt;
coiled like a lyncher’s rope,&lt;br&gt;
Eyes—fagots.&lt;br&gt;
Lips—old scars, or the first red blister,&lt;br&gt;
Breath—the last sweet scent of cane,&lt;br&gt;
And her slim body, white as the ash&lt;br&gt;
of black flesh after flame.&lt;br&gt;
&lt;/div&gt;
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&lt;h4&gt;Box Seat&lt;/h4&gt;

&lt;h5&gt;1&lt;/h5&gt;

&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Houses are shy girls whose eyes shine reticently upon the dusk body of the street. Upon the gleaming limbs and asphalt torso of a dreaming nigger. Shake your curled wool-blossoms, nigger. Open your liver lips to the lean, white spring. Stir the root-life of a withered people. Call them from their houses, and teach them to dream.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Dark swaying forms of Negroes are street songs that woo virginal houses.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Dan Moore walks southward on Thirteenth Street. The low limbs of budding chestnut trees recede above his head. Chestnut buds and blossoms are wool he walks upon. The eyes of houses faintly touch him as he passes them. Soft girl-eyes, they set him singing. Girl-eyes within him widen upward to promised faces. Floating away, they dally wistfully over the dusk body of the street. Come on, Dan Moore, come on. Dan sings. His voice is a little hoarse. It cracks. He strains to produce tones in keeping with the houses’ loveliness. Cant be done. He whistles. His notes are shrill. They hurt him. Negroes open gates, and go indoors, perfectly. Dan thinks of the house he’s going to. Of the girl. Lips, flesh notes of a forgotten song, plead with him. . .&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Dan turns into a side-street, opens an iron gate, bangs it to. Mounts the steps, and searches for the bell. Funny, he cant find it. He fumbles around. The thought comes to him that some one passing by might see him, and not understand. Might think that he is trying to sneak, to break in.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Dan: Break in. Get an ax and smash in. Smash in their faces. Ill show em. Break into an engine-house, steal a thousand horsepower fire truck. Smash in with the truck. Ill show em. Grab an ax and brain em. Cut em up. Jack the Ripper. Baboon from the zoo. And then the cops come. “No, I aint a baboon. I aint Jack the Ripper. I’m a poor man out of work. Take your hands off me, you bull-necked bears. Look into my eyes. I am Dan Moore. I was bom in a canefield. The hands of Jesus touched me. I am come to a sick world to heal it. Only the other day, a dope fiend brushed against me— Dont laugh, you mighty, juicy, meat-hook men. Give me your fingers and I will peel them as if they were ripe bananas.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Some one might think he is trying to break in. He’d better knock. His knuckles are raw bone against the thick glass door. He waits. No one comes. Perhaps they havent heard him. He raps again. This time, harder. He waits. No one comes. Some one is surely in. He fancies that he sees their shadows on the glass. Shadows of gorillas. Perhaps they saw him coming and dont want to let him in. He knocks. The tension of his arms makes the glass rattle. Hurried steps come towards him. The door opens&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Please, you might break the glass—the bell—oh, Mr. Moore! I thought it must be some stranger How do you do? Come in, wont you? Muriel? Yes. Ill call her. Take your things off, wont you? And have a seat in the parlor. Muriel will be nght down. Muriel! Oh Muriel! Mr. Moore to see you. She’ll be right down. You’ll pardon me, wont you? So glad to see you.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Her eyes are weak. They are bluish and watery from reading newspapers. The blue is steel. It gimlets Dan while her mouth flaps amiably to him.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Dan: Nothing for you to see, old mussel-head. Dare I show you? If I did, delirium would furnish you headlines for a month. Now look here. Thats enough. Go long, woman. Say some nasty thing and I&#x27;ll kill you. Huh. Better damned sight not. Ta-ta, Mrs Pribby.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Mrs. Pribby retreats to the rear of the house. She takes up a newspaper. There is a sharp click as she fits into her chair and draws it to the table. The click is metallic like the sound of a bolt being shot into place. Dan’s eyes sting. Sinking into a soft couch, he closes them. The house contracts about him. It is a sharp- edged, massed, metallic house. Bolted. About Mrs. Pribby. Bolted to the endless rows of metal houses. Mrs. Pribby’s house. The rows of houses belong to other Mrs. Pribbys. No wonder he couldn’t sing to them.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Dan: What’s Muriel doing here? God, what a place for her. Whats she doing? Putting her stockings on? In the bathroom. Come out of there, Dan Moore. People must have their privacy. Peeping toms. Ill never peep. Ill listen. I like to listen.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Dan goes to the wall and places his ear against it. A passing street car and something vibrant from the earth sends a rumble to him. That rumble comes from the earth’s deep core. It is the mutter of powerful underground races. Dan has a picture of all the people rushing to put their ears against walls, to listen to it. The next world-savior is coming up that way. Coming up. A continent sinks down. The new-world Christ will need consummate skill to walk upon the waters where huge bubbles burst. . . Thuds of Muriel coming down. Dan turns to the piano and glances through a stack of jazz music sheets. Ji-ji-bo, JI-JI-BO! . .&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;&quot;Hello, Dan, stranger, what brought you here?&quot;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Muriel comes in, shakes hands, and then clicks into a high-armed seat under the orange glow of a floor-lamp. Her face is fleshy. It would tend to coarseness but for the fresh fragrant something which is the life of it. Her hair like an Indian’s. But more curly and bushed and vagrant. Her nostrils flare. The flushed ginger of her cheeks is touched orange by the shower of color from the bmp.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Well, you havent told me, you havent answered my question, stranger. What brought you here?”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Dan feels the pressure of the house, of the rear room, of the rows of houses, shift to Muriel. He is light. He loves her. He is doubly heavy.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;&quot;Dont know, Muriel—wanted to see you—wanted to talk to you —to see you and tell you that I know what you’ve been through— what pain the bst few months must have been—”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;&quot;Lets dont mention that.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;&quot;But why not, Muriel? I—”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;&quot;Please.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;&quot;But Muriel, life is full of things like that. One grows strong and beautiful in facing them. What else is life?”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“I dont know, Dan. And I dont believe I care. Whats the use? Lets talk about something else. I hear there’s a good show at the Lincoln this week.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;&quot;Yes, so Harry was telling me. Going?”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“To-night.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Dan starts to rise.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“I didnt know. I dont want to keep you.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Its all right. You dont have to go till Bernice comes. And she wont be here till eight. I’m all dressed. I&#x27;ll let you know.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;&quot;Thanks”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Silence. The rustle of a newspaper being turned comes from the rear room.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Muriel: Shame about Dan. Something awfully good and fine about him. But he dont fit in. In where? Me? Dan, I could love you if I tried. 1 dont have to try. I do. O Dan, dont you know I do? Timid lover, brave talker that you are. Whats the good of all you know if you dont know that? I wont let myself. I? Mrs. Pribby who reads newspapers all night wont. What has she got to do with me? She is me, somehow. No she’s not. Yes she is. She is the town, and the town wont let me love you, Dan. Dont you know? You could make it let me if you would. Why wont you? Youre selfish. I&#x27;m not strong enough to buck it. Youre too selfish to buck it, for me. I wish you’d go. You irritate me. Dan, please go.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“What are you doing now, Dan?”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;&quot;Same old thing, Muriel. Nothing, as the world would have it. Living, as I look at things. Living as much as I can without—”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“But you cant live without money, Dan. Why dont you get a good job and settle down?”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Dan: Same old line. Shoot it at me, sister. Hell of a note, this loving business. For ten minutes of it youve got to stand the torture of an intolerable heaviness and a hundred platitudes. Well, damit, shoot on.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“To what? my dear. Rustling newspapers?&quot;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“You mustnt say that, Dan. It isnt right. Mrs. Pribby has been awfully good to me.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Dare say she has. Whats that got to do with it?”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Oh, Dan, youre so unconsiderate and selfish. All you think of is yourself.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“I think of you.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Too much—I mean, you ought to work more and think less. Thats the best way to get along.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Mussel-heads get along, Muriel. There is more to you than that—”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Sometimes I think there is, Dan. But I dont know. I’ve tried. I&#x27;ve tried to do something with myself. Something real and beautiful, I mean. But whats the good of trying? I&#x27;ve tried to make people, every one I come in contact with, happy—”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Dan looks at her, directly. Her animalism, still unconquercd by zoo-restrictions and keeper-taboos, stirs him. Passion tilts upward, bringing with it the elements of an old desire. Muriel’s lips become the flesh-notes of a futile, plaintive longing. Dan’s impulse to direct her is its fresh life.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Happy, Muriel? No, not happy. Your aim is wrong. There is no such thing as happiness. Life bends joy and pain, beauty and ugliness, in such a way that no one may isolate them. No one should want to. Perfect joy, or perfect pain, with no contrasting element to define them, would mean a monotony of consciousness, would mean death. Not happy, Muriel. Say that you have tried to make them create. Say that you have used your own capacity for life to cradle them. To start them upward-flowing. Or if you cant say that you have, then say that you will. My talking to you will make you aware of your power to do so. Say that you will love, that you will give yourself in love—”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;&quot;To you, Dan?”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Dan’s consciousness crudely swerves into his passions. They flare up in his eyes. They set up quivers in his abdomen. He is suddenly over-tense and nervous.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Muriel—”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;The newspaper rustles in the rear room.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Muriel—”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Dan rises. His arms stretch towards her. His fingers and his palms, pink in the lamplight, are glowing irons. Muriel’s chair is close and stiff about her. The house, the rows of houses locked about her chair. Dan’s fingers and arms are fire to melt and bars to wrench and force and pry. Her arms hang loose. Her hands are hot and moist. Dan takes them. He slips to his knees before her.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Dan, you mustnt.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Muriel—”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Dan, really you mustnt. No, Dan. No.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Oh, come, Muriel. Must I—”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Shhh. Dan, please get up. Please. Mrs. Pribby is right in the next room. She’ll hear you. She may come in. Dont. Dan. Shell sec you—”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Well then, lets go out.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“I cant. Let go, Dan. Oh, wont you please let go.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Muriel tries to pull her hands away. Dan tightens his grip. He feels the strength of his fingers. His muscles are tight and strong. He stands up. Thrusts out his chest. Muriel shrinks from him. Dan becomes aware of his crude absurdity. His lips curl. His passion chills. He has an obstinate desire to possess her.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Muriel, I love you. I want you, whatever the world of Pribby says. Damn your Pribby. Who is she to dictate my love? I’ve stood enough of her. Enough of you. Come here.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Muriel’s mouth works in and out. Her eyes flash and waggle. She wrenches her hands loose and forces them against his breast to keep him off. Dan grabs her wrists. Wedges in between her arms. Her face is close to him. It is hot and blue and moist. Ugly.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;&quot;Come here now.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Dont, Dan. Oh, dont. What are you killing?”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;&quot;Whats weak in both of us and a whole litter of Pribbys. For once in your life youre going to face whats real, by God—”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;A sharp rap on the newspaper in the rear room cuts between them. The rap is like cool thick glass between them. Dan is hot on one side. Muriel, hot on the other. They straighten. Gaze fearfully at one another. Neither moves. A clock in the rear room, in the rear room, the rear room, strikes eight. Eight slow, cool sounds. Bernice. Muriel fastens on her image. She smooths her dress. She adjusts her skirt. She becomes prim and cool. Rising, she skirts Dan as if to keep the glass between them. Dan, gyrating nervously above the easy swing of his limbs, follows her to the parlor door. Muriel retreats before him till she reaches the landing of the steps that lead upstairs. She smiles at him. Dan sees his face in the hall mirror, lie runs his fingers through his hair. Reaches for his hat and coat and puts them on. He moves towards Muriel. Muriel steps backward up one step. Dan&#x27;s jaw shoots out. Muriel jerks her arm in warning of Mrs. Pribby. She gasps and turns and starts to run. Noise of a chair scraping as Mrs. Pribby rises from it, ratchets down the hall. Dan stops. He makes a wry face, wheels round, goes out, and slams the door.&lt;/div&gt;

&lt;h5&gt;2&lt;/h5&gt;

&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;People come in slowly . . . mutter, laughs, flutter, whishadwash, “I’ve changed my work-clothes—” . . . and fill vacant seats of Lincoln Theater. Muriel, leading Bernice who is a cross between a washerwoman and a blue-blood lady, a washer-blue, a washer-lady, wanders down the right aisle to the lower front box. Muriel has on an orange dress. Its color would clash with the crimson box-draperies, its color would contradict the sweet rose smile her face is bathed in, should she take her coat off. She&#x27;ll keep it on. Pale purple shadows rest on the planes of her cheeks. Deep purple comes from her thick-shocked hair. Orange of the dress goes well with these. Muriel presses her coat down from around her shoulders. Teachers are not supposed to have bobbed hair. She&#x27;ll keep her hat on. She takes the first chair, and indicates that Bernice is to take the one directly behind her. Seated thus, her eyes are level with, and near to, the face of an imaginary man upon the stage. To speak to Berny she must tum. When she does, the audience is square upon her.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;People come in slowly .. . &quot;—for my Sunday-go-to-meeting dress. O glory God! O shout Amen!&#x27;’ . . and fill vacant seats of Lincoln Theater. Each one is a bolt that shoots into a slot, and is locked there. Suppose the Lord should ask, where was Moses when the light went out? Suppose Gabriel should blow his trumpet! The , seats are slots. The seats are bolted houses The mass grows denser. Its weight at first is impalpable upon the box. &#x27;Phen Muriel begins to feel it. She props her arm against the brass box-rail, to ward it off. Silly. These people are friends of hers: a parent of a child she teaches, an old school friend. She smiles at them. They return her courtesy, and she is free to chat with Berny. Berny’s tongue, started, runs on, and on. O washer-blue! O washer-lady!&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Muriel: Never sec Dan again. He makes me feel queer. Starts things he doesnt finish. Upsets me. I am not upset. I am perfectly calm. I am going to enjoy the show. Good show. I’ve had some show! This damn tame thing. O Dan. Wont see Dan again. Not alone. Have Mrs. Pribby come in. She was in. Keep Dan out. If I love him, can I keep him out? Well then, I dont love him. Now he’s out. Who is that coming in? Blind as a bat. Ding-bat. Looks like Dan. He mustnt see me. Silly. He cant reach me. He wont dare come in here. He’d put his head down like a goring bull and charge me. He’d trample them. He’d gore. He’d rape! Berny! He wont dare come in here.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Berny, who was that who just came in? I havent my glasses.&quot;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“A friend of yours, a good friend so I hear. Mr. Daniel Moore, Lord.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Oh. He’s no friend of mine.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“No? I hear he is.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;&quot;Well, he isnt.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Dan is ushered down the aisle. He has to squeeze past the knees of seated people to reach his own seat. He treads on a man’s corns. The man grumbles, and shoves him off. He shrivels close beside a portly Negress whose huge rolls of flesh meet about the bones of seat-arms. A soil-soaked fragrance comes from her. Through the cement floor her strong roots sink down. They spread under the asphalt streets. Dreaming, the streets roll over on their bellies, and suck their glossy health from them. Her strong roots sink down and spread under the river and disappear in blood-lines that waver south. Her roots shoot down. Dan’s hands follow them. Roots throb. Dan’s heart beats violently. He places his palms upon the earth to cool them. Earth throbs. Dan’s heart beats violently. He sees all the people in the house rush to the walls to listen to the rumble. A new-world Christ is coming up. Dan comes up. He is startled. The eyes of the woman dont belong to her. They look at him unpleasantly. From either aisle, bolted masses press in. He doesnt fit. The mass grows agitant. For an instant, Dan’s and Muriel’s eyes meet. His weight there slides the weight on her. She braces an arm against the brass rail, and turns her head away.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Muriel: Damn fool; dear Dan, what did you want to follow me here for? Oh cant you ever do anything right? Must you always pain me, and make me hate you? I do hate you. I wish some one would come in with a horse-whip and lash you out. I wish some one would drag you up a back alley and brain you with the whip- butt.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Muriel glances at her wrist-watch.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;&quot;Quarter of nine. Berny, what time have you?”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;&quot;Eight-forty. Time to begin. Oh, look Muriel, that woman with the plume; doesnt she look good! They say she’s going with, oh, whats his name. You know. Too much powder. I can see it from here. Here&#x27;s the orchestra now. O fine! Jim Clem at the piano!”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;The men fill the pit. Instruments run the scale and tune. The saxophone moans and throws a fit. Jim Clem, poised over the piano, is ready to begin. His head nods forward. Opening crash. The house snaps dark. The curtain recedes upward from the blush of the footlights. Jazz overture is over. The first act is on.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Dan: Old stuff. Muriel—bored. Must be. But she’ll smile and she’ll clap. Do what youre bid, you she-slave. Look at her. Sweet, tame woman in a brass box seat. Clap, smile, fawn, clap. Do what youre bid. Drag me in with you. Dirty me. Prop me in your brass box seat. I&#x27;m there, am I not? because of you. He-slave. Slave of a woman who is a slave. I&#x27;m a damned sight worse than you are. I sing your praises, Beauty! I exalt thee, O Muriel! A slave, thou art greater than all Freedom because I love thee.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Dan fidgets, and disturbs his neighbors. His neighbors glare at him. He glares back without seeing them. The man whose corns have been trod upon speaks to him.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;&quot;Keep quiet, cant you, mister. Other people have paid their money besides yourself to see the show.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;The man’s face is a blur about two sullen liquid things that are his eyes. The eyes dissolve in the surrounding vagueness. Dan suddenly feels that the man is an enemy whom he has long been looking for.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Dan bristles. Glares furiously at the man.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;&quot;All right. All right then. Look at the show. I’m not stopping you.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;&quot;Shhh,” from some one in the rear.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Dan turns around.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Its that man there who started everything. I didnt say a thing to him until he tried to start something. What have I got to do with whether he has paid his money or not? Thats the manager’s business. Do I look like the manager?”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Shhhh. Youre right. Shhhh.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;&quot;Dont tell me to shhh. Tell him. That man there. He started everything. If what he wanted was to start a fight, why didnt he say so?”
The man leans forward.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;&quot;Better be quiet, sonny. I aint said a thing about fight, yet.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Its a good thing you havent.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;&quot;Shhhh.&quot;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Dan grips himself. Another act is on. Dwarfs, dressed like prizefighters, foreheads bulging like boxing gloves, are led upon the stage. They arc going to fight for the heavyweight championship. Gruesome. Dan glances at Muriel. He imagines that she shudders. His mind curves back into himself, and picks up tail-ends of experiences. His eyes are open, mechanically. The dwarfs pound and bruise and bleed each other, on his eyeballs.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Dan: Ah, but she was some baby! And not vulgar either. Funny how some women can do those things. Muriel dancing like that! Hell. She rolled and wabbled. Her buttocks rocked. She pulled up her dress and showed her pink drawers. Baby! And then she caught my eyes. Dont know what my eyes had in them. Yes I do. God, dont I though! Sometimes I think, Dan Moore, that your eyes could bum clean . . . burn clean . . . BURN CLEAN! . .&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;The gong rings. The dwarfs set to. They spar grotesquely, playfully, until one lands a stiff blow. This makes the other sore. He commences slugging. A real scrap is on. Time! The dwarfs go to their comers and are sponged and fanned off. Gloves bulge from their wrists. Their wrists are necks for the tight-faced gloves. The fellow to the right lets his eyes roam over the audience. He sights Muriel. He grins.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Dan: Those silly women arguing feminism. Here&#x27;s what I should have said to them. &quot;It should be clear to you women, that the proposition must be stated thus:&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;poem&quot;&gt;
Me, horizontally above her.&lt;br&gt;
Action: perfect strokes downward oblique.&lt;br&gt;
Hence, man dominates because of limitation.&lt;br&gt;
Or, so it shall be until women learn their stuff.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br&gt;

&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;So framed, the proposition is a mental-filler. Dentist, I want gold teeth. It should become cherished of the technical intellect. I hereby offer it to posterity as one of the important machine-age designs. P. S. It should be noted, that because it is an achievement of this age, its growth and hence its causes, up to the point of maturity, antedate machinery. Ery . . .”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;The gong rings. No fooling this time. The dwarfs set to. They clinch. The referee parts them. One swings a cruel upper-cut and knocks the other down. A huge head hits the floor. Pop! The house roars. The fighter, groggy, scrambles up. The referee whispers to the contenders not to fight so hard. They ignore him. They charge. Their heads jab like boxing-gloves. They kick and spit and bite. They pound each other furiously. Muriel pounds. The house pounds. Cut lips. Bloody noses. The referee asks for the gong. Time! The house roars. The dwarfs bow, are made to bow. The house wants more. The dwarfs are led from the stage.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Dan: Strange I never really noticed him before. Been sitting there for years. Born a slave. Slavery not so long ago. He’ll die in his chair. Swing low, sweet chariot. Jesus will come and roll him down the river Jordan. Oh, come along, Moses, you&#x27;ll get lost; stretch out your rod and come across. LET MY PEOPLE GO! Old man. Knows everyone who passes the corners. Saw the first horse-cars. The fint Oldsmobilc. And he was born in slavery. I did see his eyes. Never miss eyes. But they were bloodshot and watery. It hurt to look at them. It hurts to look in most people’s eyes. He saw Grant and Lincoln. He saw Walt—old man, did you sec Walt Whitman? Did you sec Walt Whitman! Strange force that drew me to him. And I went up to see. The woman thought I saw crazy. I told him to look into the heavens. He did, and smiled. I asked him if he knew what that rumbling is that comes up from the ground. Christ, what a stroke that was. And the jabbering idiots crowding around. And the crossing-cop leaving his job to come over and wheel him away . . .&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;The house applauds. The house wants more. The dwarfs are led back. But no encore. Must give the house something. The attendant comes out and announces that Mr. Barry, the champion, will sing one of his own songs, “for your approval.” Mr. Barry grins at Muriel as he wabbles from the wing. He holds a fresh white rose, and a small mirror. He wipes blood from his nose. He signals Jim Clem. The orchestra starts. A sentimental love song, Mr. Barry sings, first to one girl, and then another in the audience. He holds the mirror in such a way that it flashes in the face of each one he sings to. The light swings around.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Dan: I am going to reach up and grab the girders of this building and pull them down. The crash will be a signal. Hid by the smoke and dust Dan Moore will arise. In his right hand will be a dynamo. In his left, a god’s face that will flash white light from ebony. Ill grab a girder and swing it like a walking-stick. Lightning will flash. Ill grab its black knob and swing it like a crippled cane. Lightning . . . Some one’s flashing . . . some one’s flashing . . . Who in hell is flashing that mirror? Take it off me, godam you.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Dan’s eyes are half blinded. He moves his head. The light follows. He hears the audience laugh. He hears the orchestra. A man with a high-pitched, sentimental voice is singing. Dan sees the dwarf. Along the mirror flash the song comes. Dan ducks his head. The audience roars. The light swings around to Muriel. Dan looks. Muriel is too close. Mr. Barry covers his mirror. He sings to her. She shrinks away. Nausea. She clutches the brass box-rail. She moves to face away. The audience is square upon her. Its eyes smile. Its hands itch to clap. Muriel turns to the dwarf and forces a smile at him. With a showy blare of orchestration, the song comes to its close. Mr. Barry bows. He offers Muriel the rose, first having kissed it. Blood of his battered lips is a vivid stain upon its petals. Mr. Barry offers Muriel the rose. The house applauds. Muriel flinches back. The dwarf steps forward, diffident; threatening. Hate pops from his eyes and crackles like a brittle heat about the box. The thick hide of his face is drawn in tortured wrinkles. Above his eyes, the bulging, tight-skinned brow. Dan looks at it. It grows calm and massive. It grows profound. It is a thing of wisdom and tenderness, of suffering and beauty. Dan looks down. The eyes are calm and luminous. Words come from them . . . Arms of the audience reach out, grab Muriel, and hold her there. Claps are steel fingers that manacle her wrists and move them forward to acceptance. Berny leans forward and whispers:&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Its all right. Go on—take it.&quot;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Words form in the eyes of the dwarf:&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;poem&quot;&gt;
Do not shrink. Do not be afraid of me.&lt;br&gt;
_Jesus_&lt;br&gt;
See how my eyes look at you.&lt;br&gt;
_the Son of God_&lt;br&gt;
I too was made in His image.&lt;br&gt;
_was once—_&lt;br&gt;
I give you the rose.&lt;br&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br&gt;

&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Muriel, tight in her revulsion, sees black, and daintily reaches for the offering. As her hand touches it, Dan springs up in his seat and shouts:&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“JESUS WAS ONCE A LEPER!”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br&gt;

&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Dan steps down.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;He is as cool as a green stem that has just shed its flower.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Rows of gaping faces strain towards him. They are distant beneath him, impalpable. Squeezing out, Dan again treads upon the corn-foot man. The man shoves him.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;&quot;Watch where youre going, mister. Crazy or no, you aint going to walk over me. Watch where youre going there.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Dan turns, and serenely tweaks the fellow’s nose. The man jumps up. Dan is jammed against a seat-back. A slight swift anger flicks him. His fist hooks the other’s jaw.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;&quot;Now you have started something. Aint no man living can hit me and get away with it. Come on on the outside.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;The house, tumultuously stirring, grabs its wraps and follows the men.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;The man leads Dan up a black alley. The alley-air is thick and moist with smells of garbage and wet trash. In the morning, singing niggers will drive by and ring their gongs. . . Heavy with the scent of rancid flowers and with the scent of fight. The crowd, pressing forward, is a hollow roar. Eyes of houses, soft girl-eyes, glow reticently upon the hubbub and blink out. The man stops. Takes off his hat and coat. Dan, having forgotten him, keeps going on.&lt;/div&gt;
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&lt;h4&gt;Bona and Paul&lt;/h4&gt;
&lt;h5&gt;1&lt;/h5&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;On the school gymnasium floor, young men and women are drilling. They are going to be teachers, and go out into the world.. Thud, thud.. And give precision to the movements of sick people who all their lives have been drilling. One man is out of step. In step. The teacher glares at him. A girl in bloomers, seated on a mat in the corner because she had told the director that she is sick, sees that the footfalls of the men are rhythmic and syncopated. The dance of his blue-trousered limbs thrill her.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Bona: He is a candle that dances in a grove swung with pale balloons.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Columns of the drillers thud towards her. He is in the front row. He is in no row at all. Bona cn look close at him. His red-brown face—&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Bona: He is a harvest moon. He is an autumn leaf. He is a nigger. Bona! But dont all the dorm girls say so? And dont you, when you are sane, say so? Thats why I love—Oh, nonsense. You have never loved a man who didnt first love you. Besides —&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Columns thud away from her. Come to a halt in line formation. Rigid. The period bell rings, and the teacher dismisses them.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;A group collects around Paul. They are choosing sides for basket-ball. Girls against boys. Paul has his. He is limbering up beneath the basket. Bona runs to the girl captain and asks to be chosen. The girls fuss. The director comes to quiet them. He hears what Bona wants.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“But, Miss Hale, you were excused—”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“So I was, Mr. Boynton, but—”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“— you can play basket-ball, but you are too sick to drill.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“If you wish to put it that way.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;She swings away from him to the girl captain.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Helen, I want to play, and you must let me. This is the first time I’ve asked and I dont see why—”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Thats just it, Bona. We have our team.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Well, team or no team, I want to play and thats all there is to it.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;She snatches the ball from Helen;s hands and charges down the floor.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Helen shrugs. One of the weaker girls says that she’ll drop out. Helen accepts this. The team is formed. The whistle blows. The game starts. Bona, in center, is jumping against Paul. He plays with her. Out-jumps her, makes a quick pass, gets a quick return, and shoots a goal from the middle of the floor. Bona burns crimson. She fights and tries to guard him. One of her team-mates advises her not to play so hard. Paul shoots his second goal.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Bona begins to feel a little dizzy and all in. She drives on. Almost hugs Paul to guard him. Near the basket, he attempts to shoot, and Bona lunges into his body and tries to beat his arms. His elbow, going up, gives her a sharp crack on the jaw. She whirls. He catches her. Her body stiffens. Then becomes strangely vibrant, and bursts to a swift life within her anger. He is about to give way before her hatred when a new passion flares at him and makes his stomach fall. Bona squeezes him. He suddenly feels stifled, and wonders why in hell the ring of silly gaping faces that’s caked about him doesnt make way and give him air. He has a swift illusion that it is himself who has been struck. He looks at Bona. whir. Whir. They seem to be human distortions spinning tensely in a fog. Spinning.. Dizzy..spinning… Bona jerks herself free, flushes a startling crimson, breaks through the bewildered teams, and rushes from the hall.&lt;/div&gt;

&lt;h5&gt;2&lt;/h5&gt;

&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Paul is in his room of two windows.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Outside, the South-Side L track cuts them in two.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Bona is one window. One window, Paul&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Hurting Loop-jammed L trains throw them in swift shadow.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Paul goes to his. Gray slanting roofs of houses are tinted lavender in the setting sun. Paul follows the sun, over the stock-yards where a fresh stench is just arising, across wheat lands that are still waving above their stubble, into the sun. Paul follows the sun to a pine-matted hillock in Georgia. He sees the slanting roofs of gray unpainted cabins tinted lavender. A Negress chants a lullaby beneath the mate-eyes of a southern planter. Her breasts are ample for the suckling of a song. She weans it, and sends it, curiously weaving, among lush melodies of cance and corn. Paul follows the sun into himself in Chicago.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;He is at Bona’s window.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;With his own glow he looks through a dark pane.&lt;/div&gt;

&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Paul’s room-mate comes in.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Say, Paul, I’ve got a date for you. Come on. Shake a leg, will you?”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;His blond hair is combed slick. His vest is snug about him.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;He is like the electric light which he snaps on.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Whatdoysay, Paul? Get a wiggle on. Come on. We havent got much time by the time we eat and dress and everything.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;His bustling concentrates on the brushing of his hair.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Art: What in hell’s getting into Paul of late anyway? Christ, but he’s getting moony. Its his blood. Dark blood: moony. Doesnt get anywhere unless you boost it. You’ve got to keep it going—&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Say, Paul!”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;—or it’ll go to sleep on you. Dark blood; nigger? Thats what those jealous she-hens say. Not Bona though, or she.. From the South.. Wouldnt want me to fix a date for him and her. Hell of a thing, that Paul’s dark: youve got to always be answering questions.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Say, Paul, for Christ’s sake leave that window, cant you?”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Whats it, Art?”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Hell, I’ve told you about fifty times. Got a date fro you. Come on.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“With who?”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Art: He didnt use to ask; now he does. Getting up in the air. Getting funny.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Heres your hat. Want a smoke? Paul! Here. I’ve got a match. Now come on and I’ll tell you all about it on the way to supper.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Paul: He’s going to Life this time. No doubt of that. Quit your kidding. Some day, dear Art, I’m going to kick the living slats out of you, and you wont know what I’ve done it for. And your slats will bring forth Life.. beautiful woman...&lt;/div&gt;

_Pure Food Restaurant._

&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Bring me some soup with a lot of crackers, understand? And then a roast-beef dinner. Same for you, eh, Paul? Now as I was saying, you’ve got a swell chance with her. And she’s game. Best proof: she dont give a damn what the dorm girls say about you and her in the gym, or about the funny looks that Boynton gives her, or about what they say about, well, hell, you know Paul. And say, Paul, she’s a sweetheart. Tall, not puffy and pretty, more serious and deep — the kind you like these days. And they say she’s got a car. And say, she’s on fire. But you know all about that. She got Helen to fix it up with me. The four of us—remember the last party? Crimson Gardens! Boy!”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Paul’s eyes take on a light that Art can settle in.&lt;/div&gt;

&lt;h5&gt;3&lt;/h5&gt;

&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Art has on his patent-leather pumps and fancy vest. A loose fall coat is swung across his arm. His face has been massaged, and over a close shave, powdered. It is a healthy pink the blue od evening tints a purple pallor. Art is happy and confident in the good looks that his mirror gave him. Bubbling over with a joy he must spend now if the night is to contain it all. His bubbles, too, are curiously tinted purple as Paul watches them. Paul, contrary to what he had thought he would be like, is cool like the dusk, and like the dusk, detached. His dark face is a floating shade in evening’s shadow. He sees Art, curiously. Art is a purple fluid, carbon-charged, that effervesces beside him. He loves Art. But is it not queer, this pale purple fascimile of a red-blooded Norwegian friend of his? Perhaps for some reason, white skins are not supposed to live at night. Surely, enough nights would transform them fantastically, or kill them. And their red passion? Night paled that too, and made it moony. Moony. Thats what Art thought of him. Bona didnt, even in the daytime. Bona, would she be pale? Impossible. Not that red glow. But the conviction did not set his emotion flowing.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Come right in, wont you? The young ladies will be right down. Oh, Mr Carlstrom, do play something for us while you are waiting.We just love to listen to your music. You play so well.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Houses, and dorm sitting-rooms are places where white faces seclude themselves at night. There is a reason…&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Art sat on the piano and simply tore it down. Jazz. The picture of Our Poets hung perlously.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Paul: I’ve got to get the kid to play that stuff for me in the daytime. Moght be different. More himself. More nigger. Different? There is. Curious, though.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;The girls come in. Art stops playing, and almost immediately takes up a petty quarrel, where he had last left it, with Helen.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Bona, black-hair curled staccato, sharply contrasting with Helen’s puffy yellow, holds Paul’s hand. She squeezes it. Her own emotion supplements the return pressure. And then, for no tangible reason, her spirits drop. Without them, she is nervous, and slightly afraid. She resents this. Paul’s eyes are critical. She resents Paul. She flares at him. She flares to poise and security.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Shall we be on our way?”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Yes, Bona, certainly.”&lt;/div&gt;

&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;The Boulevard is sleek in asphalt, and, with arc-lights and limousines, aglow. Dry leaves scamper behind the whir of cars. The scent of exploded gasoline that mingles with them is faintly sweet. Mellow stone mansions overshadow clapboard homes which now resemble Negro shanties in some southern alley. Bona and Paul, and Art and Helen, move along an island-like, far-stretching strip of leaf-soft gorund. Above them, words of shadow-planes and solids, silently moving. As if on one of these, Paul looks down on Bona. No doubt of it: her face is pale. She is talking. Her words have no feel to them. One sees them. They are pink petals that fall upon velvet cloth. Bona is soft, and pale, and beautiful.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Paul, tell me something about yourself— or would you rather wait?”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“I’ll tell you anything you’d like to know.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Not what I want to know, Paul; what you want to tell me.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;&quot;You have the beauty of a gem fathoms under seas.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“I feel that, but I dont want to be. I want to be near you. Perhaps I will be if I tell you something. Paul, I love you.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;The sea casts up to its jewel into his hands, and burns them furiously. To tuck her arm under his and hold her hand will ease the burn.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“What can I say to you, brave dear woman—I cant talk love. Love is a dry grain in my mouth unless it is wet with kisses.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“You would dare? Right here on the boulevard? Before Arthur and Helen?”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Before myself? I dare.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Here then.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Bona, in the slim shadow of a tree trunk, pulls Paul to her. Suddenly she stiffens. Stops.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“But you have not said you love me.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“I cant—yet—Bona.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Ach, you never will. Youre cold. Cold.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Bona: Colored; cold. Wrong somewhere.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;She hurries and catches up with Art and Helen.&lt;/div&gt;

&lt;h5&gt;4&lt;/h5&gt;

&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Crimson Gardens. Hurrah! So one feels. People… University of Chicago students, members of the stock exchange, a large Negro in crimson uniform who guards the door.. Had watched them enter. Had leaned towards each other over ash-smeared tablecloths and highballs and whispered: What is he, a Spaniard, an Indian, an Italian, a Mexican, a Hindu, or a Japanese? Art had at first fidgeted under their stares.. What are you looking at, you godam pack of owl-eyed hyenas?.. but soon settled into his fuss with Helen, and forgot them. A strange thing happened to Paul. Suddenly he knew that he was apart from the people around him. Apart from the pain which they had unconsciously caused. Suddenly he knew that people saw, not attractiveness in his dark skin, but difference. Their stares, giving him to himself, filled something long empty within him, and were like green blades sprouting. in his consciousness. There was fullness, and strength and peace about it all. He saw himself, cloudy, but real. He saw the faces of the people at the tables round him. White lights, or as now, the pink lights of the Crimson Gardens gave a glow and immediacy to white faces. The pleasure of it, equal to that of love or dream, of seeing this. Art and Bona and Helen? He’d look. They were wonderfully flushed and beautiful. Not for himself; because they were. Distantly. Who were they, anyway? God, if he knew them. He’d come in with them. Of that he was sure. Come where? Into life? Yes. No. Into the Crimson Gardens. A part of life. A carbon bubble. Would it look purple if he went out into the night and looked at it? His sudden starting to rise almost upset the table.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“What in hell—pardon—whats the matter, Paul?”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“I forgot my cigarettes—”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Youre smoking one.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“So I am. Pardon me.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;The waiter straightens them out. Takes their order.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Art: What in hell’s eating Paul? Moony aint the word for it. From bad to worse. And those godam people staring so. Paul’s a queer fish. Doesnt seem to mind… He’s my pal, let me tell you, you horn-rimmed owl-eyed hyena at that table, and a lot better than you whoever you are… Queer about him. I could stick up for him if he’d only come out, one way or the other, and tell a feller. Besides, a room-mate has a right to know. Thinks I wont understand. Said so. He’s got a swell head when it comes to brains, all right. God, he’s a good straight feller, though. Only, moony. Nut. Nuttish. Nuttery. Nutmeg… “What’d you say, Helen?”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“I was talking to Bona, thank you.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Well, its nothing to get spiffy about.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“What? Oh,  of course not. Please lets dont start some silly argument all over again.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Well.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Well.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Now thats enough. Say, waiter, whats the matter with our order? Make it snappy, will you?”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Crimson Gardens, Hurrah! So one feels. The drinks come. Four highballs. Art passes cigarettes. A girl dressed like a bare-back rider in flaming pink, makes her way through tables to the dance floor. All lights are dimmed till they seem a lush afterglow of crimson. Spotlights the girl. She sings. “Liza, Little Liza Jane.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Paul is rosy before his window.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;He moves, slightly, towards Bona.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;With his own glow, he seeks to penetrate a dark pane.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Paul: From the South. What does that mean, precisely, except that you’ll love or hate a nigger? -Thats a lot. What does it mean except that in Chicago you’ll have the courage to neither love or hate. A priori. But it would seem that you have. Queer words, arent these, for a man who wears blue pants on a gym floor in the daytime. Well, never matter. You matter. I’d like to know you whom I look at. Know, not love. Not ot that knowing is a greater pleasure; but that I have just found the joy of it. You came just a month too late. Even this afternoon I dreamed. To-night, along the Boulevard, you found me cold. Paul Johnson, cold! Thats a good one, eh, Art, you fine old stupid fellow, you! But I feel good! The color and the music and the song… A Negress chants a lullaby beneath the mate-eyes of a southern planter. O song!.. And unawakened. Your own. Oh, they’re awake all right. “And you know it too, dont you Bona?”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“What, Paul?”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“The truth of what I was thinking.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“I’d like to know I know—something of you.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“You will—before the evening’s over. I promise it.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Crimson Gardens. Hurrah! So one feels. The bare-back rider balances agilely on the applause which is the tail of her song. Orchestral instruments warm up for jazz. The flute is a cat that ripples its fur against the deep-purring saxophone. The drum throws sticks. The cat jumps on the piano keyboard. Hi diddle, hi diddle, the cat and the fiddle. Crimson Gardens..hurrah!..jumps over the moon. Crimson Gardens! Helen.. O Eliz.. rabbit-eyes sparking, plays up to, and tries to placate what she considers to be Paul’s contempt. She always does that..Little Liza Jane… Once home, she burns with the thought of what she’s done. She says all manner of snidy things about him, and swears that she’ll never go out again when he is along. She tries to get Art to break with him, saying that if Paul, whom the whole dormitory calls a nigger, is more to him than she is, well, she’s through. She does not break with Art. She goes out as often as she can with Art and Paul. She explains this to herself by a piece of information which a friend of hers had given her: men like him (paul) can fascinate. One is not responsible for fascination. Not one girl had really loved Paul; he fascinated them. Bona didnt; only thought she did. Time would tell. And of course, she didn’t. Liza… She plays up to, and tries to placate, Paul.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Paul is so deep these days, and I’m so glad he’s found someone to interest him.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“I dont believe I do.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;The thought escapes from Bona just a moment before her anger at having said it.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Bona: You little puffy cat, I do. I do!&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Dont I, Paul? Her eyes ask.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Her answer is a crash of jazz from the palm-hidden orchestra. Crimson Gardens is a body whose blood flows to a clot upon the dance floor. Art and Helen clot. Soon, Bona and Paul. Paul finds her a little stiff, and his mind, wandering to Helen (silly little kid who wants every highball spoon her hands touch, for a souvenir), supple, perfect little dancer, wishes for the next dance when he and Art will exchange.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Bona knows that she must win him to herself.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Since when have men like you grown cold?”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“The first philosopher.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“I thought you were a poet—or a gym director.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Hence, your failure to make love.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Bona’s eyes flare. Water. Grow red about the rims. She would like to tear away from him and dash across the clotted floor.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“What do you mean?”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Mental concepts rule you. If they were flush with mine—good. I dont believe they are.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“How do you know, Mr.Philosopher?”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Mostly a priori.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“You talk well for a gym director.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“And you—”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“I hate you. Ou!”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;She presses away. Paul, conscious of the convention in it, pulls her to him. Her body close. Her head still strains away. He nearly crushes her. She tries to pinch him. Then sees people staring, and lets her arms fall. Their eyes meet. Both, contemptuous. The dance takes blood from their minds and packs it, tingling, in the torsos of their swaying bodies. Passionate blood leaps back into their eyes. They are a dizzy blood clot on a gyrating floor. They know that the pink-faced people have no part in what they feel. Their instinct leads them away from Art and Helen, and towards the big uniformed black man who opens and closes the gilded exit door. The cloak-room girl is tolerant of their impatience over such trivial things as wraps. And slightly superior. As the black man swings the door for them, his eyes are knowing. Too many couples have passed out, flushed and fidgety, for him not to know. The chill air is a shock to Paul. A strange thing happens. He sees the Gardens purple, as if her were way off. And a spot is in the purple. The spot comes furiously towards him. Face of the black man. It leers. It smiles sweetly like a child’s. Paul leaves Bona and darts back so quickly that he doesnt give the door-man a chance to open. He swings in. Stops. Before the huge bulk of the Negro.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Youre wrong.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Yassur.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“Brother, youre wrong.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;“I came back to tell you, to shake your hand, and tell you that you are wrong. That something beautiful is going to happen. That the gardens are purple like a bed of roses would be at dusk. That I came into the Gardens, into life in the Gardens with one whom I did not know. That I danced with her, and did not know her. That I felt passion, contempt and passion for her whom I did not know. That I thought of her. That my thoughts were matches thrown into a dark window. And all the while the Gardens were purple like a bed of roses would be at dusk. I came back to tell you, brother, that white faces are petals of roses. That dark faces are petals of dusk. That I am going out and gather petals. That I am going out and know her whom I brought here with me to these Gardens which are purple like a bed of roses would be at dusk.”&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;Paul and the black man shook hands.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;prose&quot;&gt;When he reached the spot where they had been standing, Bona was gone.&lt;/div&gt;

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&lt;div style=&quot;padding: 5px 0 0 5px; height: 140px; width: 150px;position:fixed;left:0;top:0&quot;&gt;&lt;a href=&quot;javascript: window.history.back();&quot;&gt;Back&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;
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&lt;div class=&quot;title&quot;&gt;Introduction&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;Throughout _Americanah_, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie references various outside works, hyperlinking her words with the work of other authors. This effect is true of referencing in general, but it is important to think of it as hyperlinking because of the unique digitality of _Americanah_. One such reference comes with Jean Toomer’s _Cane_. _Cane_, published in 1923, is a collection of short stories and poems that focuses on black experience in the Reconstructionist south. _Cane_ was born out of Toomer’s experiences as a white-passing man who returns to Georgia in order to learn more about the black American past. _Americanah_, published in 2013, details the life of a woman who emigrates to the United States from Nigeria for university. Both stories focus on diaspora, centralizing characters who are forced to grapple with tensions stemming from intra-racial identity. Another similarity between these two texts is their unique digitality. In this chapter, I will consider Adichie’s use of _Cane_ within _Americanah_, specifically how understanding the reference that Adichie makes forces a closer reading of her novel, helping readers to explore themes and ideas that might go otherwise unnoticed.&lt;/div&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;Adichie first references _Cane_ when Ifemelu, _Americanah’s_ main character, begins reading it while having her hair braided at a salon in Trenton, New Jersey. _Cane_ brings with it reference to a more sophisticated world, a world that readers might assume that the customers of the salon do not have access to. There’s potential to read this reference in many different ways, but one purpose might be to draw attention to _Cane_’s unexpected presence in the space. The well-educated Ifemelu, her ideas, and her experiences are seemingly out of place in the Trenton hair salon. Early moments in the novel place Ifemelu in spaces like Princeton, spaces known for their prestige. Texts like _Cane_ are believed to belong exclusively to these spaces. They are seen as traditionally reserved for elite classrooms and intended to be read solely by academics. However, the tension is that Ifemelu does transact in the space of the hair salon in addition to the aforementioned spaces of prestige. She admits to feeling out of place in the salon, but does find common ground with the other characters in the scene. This tension introduces Ifemelu’s discomfort in transacting across racial, class, and geographical boundaries, a problem that will reappear throughout the novel.&lt;/div&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;One notable example of this dynamic comes within the novel’s first few pages. Adichie writes:&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;block&quot;&gt;She liked, most of all, that in this place of affluent ease, she could pretend to be someone else, someone specially admitted into a hallowed American club, someone adorned with certainty. But she did not like that she had to go to Trenton to braid her hair (3).&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;The line “She could pretend to be someone else...” offers the possibility of Ifemelu’s liminality. Liminality refers to spaces or people placed in-between the borders of existence. In Ifemelu’s case, liminality refers to her inability to ever fully exist within any space and thus, her life spent in the in-between. Ifemelu fails to find a concrete sense of self in any of the spaces she moves through and cannot fully commit to any of the distinct identities she has the potential to embody. Thus, she continuously moves in and out of each. She feels as if she does not belong in Trenton, hence her reluctance about having to go there to get her hair braided. However, even at Princeton, she finds herself pretending to fit in. Absence of a sense of belonging is a clear trope throughout her time in the US, but this particular moment highlights the intensity of her liminal status. She truly exists in the space between two identities, resulting in the turmoil of self that much of the book explores.&lt;/div&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;While this scene in the hair salon presents the tensions between Ifemelu, the various elements of her identity, and the other customers in the salon, it is crucial to make note of the heterotopic nature of this space. Heterotopic spaces eliminate pre-existing social difference upon entry, connecting seemingly separate people over a shared social similarity. The heterotopic nature of the salon helps to facilitate Ifemelu’s liminality, but it also underscores these differences when she does move out of the space. The salon provides a place of comfort, allowing Ifemelu to temporarily exist within this space, gaining a momentary escape from the previous questioning of identity. However, this movement is only temporary. Leaving this unique space creates an immediate return to these questions, and might even make the questioning of self more severe.&lt;/div&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;Later in the same scene, Ifemelu’s sense of self is impacted by an assumed divide between high culture and low culture. She takes note of her surroundings: “Next to the fan were combs, packets of hair attachments, magazines bulky with loose pages, piles of colorful
DVDs” (12). The magazines and array of DVDs represent a lower source of entertainment, especially when they are juxtaposed with the esteemed novel _Cane_. The DVDs are of Nigerian films, or as they are more commonly known, Nollywood, and Ifemelu later expresses her dislike for them, noting “their exaggerated histrionics and their improbable plots.” These are all attributes reminiscent of soap operas, and elements that readers certainly wouldn’t associate with literature like _Cane_. However, within _Cane_, Toomer actually utilizes these tropes in a short story that technically fulfills the genre of “soap opera.” Toomer’s short story “Carma” is referred to as “the crudest melodrama” (15). “Carma” details the story of a woman who cheats on her husband, resulting in alienation within her town and ending with a dramatic and violent chase through a cane field. The story is sad, dramatic, and intense, connecting to the themes and descriptors consistent with the Nollywood films that appear in the salon. The reader assumes a dissonance between these two forms of entertainment. However, their similarities signify a blending of these seemingly distinct examples of culture. Understanding “Carma” allows readers to recognize that Ifemelu herself might not fully understand all that _Cane_ holds. Further, readers also see how Ifemelu’s sense of self actually resonates with _Cane_. Perhaps _Cane_’s presence in the hair salon is not as outlandish as readers initially thought, and perhaps Ifemelu’s own presence in the salon isn’t so strange either. By considering the role _Cane_ plays, we see how Ifemelu’s worlds start to blend. Readers are made aware of the chaotic nature inherent in the construction of her identity, gaining more insight into her struggle with her own sense of self.&lt;div&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;Later in the novel, Ifemelu attends a Nigerpolitan meeting with her friend Ranyiundo. In a discussion of Nollywood films, Ifemelu explicitly describes the genre as “melodramatic”: “‘I like Nollywood,’ Ifemelu said, even though she, too, thought Nollywood was more theater than film. The urge to be contrarian was strong. If she set herself apart, perhaps she would be less of the person she feared she had become. ‘Nollywood may be melodramatic, but life in Nigeria is very melodramatic&#x27;&quot; (504). The connections between texts seen as “high culture” and those deemed to be lower are made explicit. Ifemelu writes off Nollywood films for their melodramatic tendencies, but then later embraces the same themes in a different form. The blending of these two worlds within the hair salon allows the connections to permeate beyond the heterotopic space, extending the complicated sense of self that defines Ifemelu’s existence during her time in the US.&lt;/div&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;Ifemelu’s need to set herself apart in order to be “less of the person she feared she had become,” underscores her ability to construct her own identity and the ways that this distinct liminality facilitates this ability. Ifemelu’s liminality partially stems from a need for survival; her liminality allows her to exist in certain spaces and simply manage through this difficult time. But, perhaps more dangerously, it comes out of a distinct fear of one of the versions of herself that she is beginning to gravitate towards. As is the case with much of the book, Ifemelu’s inside thoughts vary from what she actually expresses — her private and public thoughts do not sync up. Her internal disapproval of Nollywood films juxtaposed with the simple phrase “I like Nollywood,” further intensifies the idea of a performance of self that runs throughout much of the novel. Just as Ifemelu might not fully understand all that _Cane_ holds, she might not fully understand how she has already changed.&lt;/div&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;This moment is yet another in a series of examples in which Adichie mirrors the idea of hyperlinking across the novel. Readers are met with certain themes and details early on, and are expected to recall this information later in their reading. The use of _Cane_ is so crucial in this example because it helps to reinforce the point being made about melodrama and Nollywood films. Knowledge of _Cane_’s tendency for the melodramatic, and its explicit embrace of this descriptor further highlights Ifemelu’s inconsistency. Access to this background reinforces the importance of this repetition and the idea of hyperlinking across the novel. It connects to Ifemelu’s ever-changing sense of self, while also fully showing just how complicated this dynamic remains.&lt;/div&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;With these overlapping examples in mind, it’s evident that when Adichie writes, “Ifemelu opened her novel Jean Toomer’s Cane, and skimmed a few pages” the choice of _Cane_ was very intentional. By referencing _Cane_, the themes already apparent throughout _Americanah_ are amplified. _Cane_ serves as the key, one that can unlock seemingly hidden elements throughout _Americanah_. It helps to reveal themes and examples that might go unnoticed in a surface level reading. However, this referencing begs the questions, what’s at stake should you not be familiar with _Cane_? What’s lost if recalling these overlapping elements does not fit within your own memory bank?&lt;/div&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;The answer connects to the concept of hyperlinking. Readers can either choose to follow the hyperlink, delving deeper into the author’s world and enjoying a more detailed understanding of what the reference entails or they can simply continue scrolling. I recognize that this is the case with reading references in general, but the need for this digital approach is made clear by the unique form that each of these works takes on. _Americanah_ is composed of prose and post, as Adichie weaves blog posts in with standard prose writing. With _Cane_, Toomer embraces a similar method, blending poetry, prose, and song to create a uniquely composed narrative. Though published ninety years apart, the form of both of these novels underscores the importance of taking a digital approach, one that illustrates and helps us to make sense of the networked nature of these texts. _Americanah_ is more complicated than a surface level reading would reveal, and the digital approach allows readers to begin to engage with all of its complexities.&lt;/div&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;Throughout this section, you will find links below. Move through each section at your own pace. Pages with a beige background are stories from Jean Toomer&#x27;s _Cane_. You can choose to read them, or move straight to the analysis. Please do not hit the back button.&lt;/div&gt;
&lt;br&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;center&quot;&gt;[[Begin with Adichie|First Reference]] | [[Begin with Toomer|Analysis of Portrait in Georgia]]  &lt;br&gt;&lt;br&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</tw-passagedata><tw-passagedata pid="6" name="First Reference" tags="" position="138,201">&lt;html&gt;&lt;meta name=&quot;citation_title&quot; content=“this is a test“&gt;
&lt;meta name=&quot;citation_author&quot; content=“testing, Lauren”&gt;
&lt;meta name=&quot;citation_publication_date&quot; content=“2017/31/3”&gt;&lt;/html&gt;

&lt;div class=&quot;title&quot;&gt;The First Reference to _Cane_&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;block&quot;&gt;Ifemelu opened her novel, Jean Toomer’s _Cane_, and skimmed a few pages. She had been meaning to read it for a while now, and imagined she would like it since Blaine did not. A precious performance, Blaine had called it, in that gently forbearing tone he used when they talked about novels, as though he was sure that she, with a little more time and a little more wisdom, would come to accept that the novels he liked were superior, novels written by young and youngish men and packed with things, a fascinating, confounding accumulation of brands and music and comic books and icons, with emotions skimmed over, and each sentence stylish aware of it own stylishness. She had read many of them, because he recommended them, but they were like cotton candy that so easily evaporated from her tongue’s memory. She closed the novel; it was too hot to concentrate.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class=&quot;rightalbl&quot;&gt;14&lt;/div&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;The first mention of _Cane_ comes within the first chapter of _Americanah_. Despite initially seeming to be a random, irrelevant detail of the scene, the allusion to this foundational text of African American literature is clearly rich with crucial information that will help to expand upon key elements throughout _Americanah_. It is no coincidence that _Cane_ is the text Adichie chooses to reference in this moment. Originally published in 1923, the novel might seem starkly different from _Americanah_. But, _Cane_’s appearance so early on in _Americanah_ might signify Adichie’s desire for it to inform a reading of her novel. Of course, this desire assumes that readers will be familiar with _Cane_, something that will likely be untrue for at least some subset of her readership. What does it mean should readers miss or fail to understand the full importance of the reference? This is partially a question of accessibility, as a full understanding of the reference will inevitably be excluded from some portion of her audience. However, _Americanah_ can and will continue to be read without a full understanding of the ways that _Cane_ is connected. _Cane_’s presence centralizes the function of other references within the text, a problem that, as alluded to earlier, hyperlinking might help to solve. 
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;As defined by Lev Manovich in _The Language of New Media_, hyperlinking allows individual media objects to be linked together, keeping their identity while wiring these objects together into one new object. Literally, a hyperlink makes connections between two words on different pages or two different words in the same sentence. As Manovich describes, hyperlinks afford authors the opportunity to retain the identity of their original media, creating structures that live outside of the original document (41). Manovich further defines hyperlinking in clarifying the dynamics of the relationship between each linked source. “The two sources connected through a hyperlink have equal weight; neither one dominates the other” (76). 
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;It is interesting to apply this characteristic to the role of _Cane_ as it exists within _Americanah_. Thinking about references as hyperlinks, in the spirit of Manovich&#x27;s definiton, extends the idea that these texts should be read next to each other and in conversation. The reference allows for the two texts to enter into conversation on equal footing, creating something entirely new out of the experience of reading them together. This idea is also helpful in considering how Adichie later urges her readers to think about diaspora. Hyperlinking is a component crucial to blog style writing. It allows authors to interweave outside references seamlessly within their own writing, but retains the possibility of choice for a reader. Hyperlinks might further develop an argument, or provide an aside, but they consistently provide audiences with the opportunity to jump off and further explore related ideas. This idea of choice and authority over the narrative is a major component of blog writing, reinforcing the possibility of reading _Americanah_ as a hyperlinked text that is dependent on blog style rather than reading it as solely rooted in traditional prose. Readers who do have knowledge of _Cane_ are free to pull in that outside knowledge, illuminating the text in new and immersive ways. And for the reader who has not yet read _Cane_, they hold the freedom to decide, having the opportunity to continue on with the pages ahead of them, or turning aside to engage with the referenced hpyerlink. The novel’s immersive nature can be credited to this blending of references. In _Americanah_, Adichie gives her readers something like a &quot;choose your own adventure game,&quot; presenting various different options for her readership.&lt;/div&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;Further, in _Twisty Little Passages_, Nick Montfort provides a helpful definition of hypertext, one that, when applied to _Americanah_, helps to highlight the immersive nature of the text, and the function of the references as hyperlinks. Montfort writes: “A hypertext fiction (as it is most commonly defined and discussed) is a system of fictional and interconnected texts traversed using links” (12).While Montfort&#x27;s definition is helpful, these two texts also begin to show the ways we might begin to think about people&#x27;s experiences as hypertext. Throughout both _Americanah_ and _Cane_, readers see character&#x27;s experiences unfolding, creating links and networks between moments. They begin to offer the possibility of the digital and material worlds colliding.&lt;/div&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;Although a hypertext work might posit some aspect of interactivity, there is no way for readers to generate their own elements of the narrative. Nothing in the programming allows a reader to type or directly interact with the text, but, as is the case with _Americanah_, interactivity is still centralized because of the choices that readers are offered by the links. Hypertext works give readers some sense of ownership over a work, making the reading experience all the more immersive while also making each reading experience generative in its own way.&lt;/div&gt;
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&lt;div class=&quot;center&quot;&gt;[[Continue with _Americanah_|Blaine]] or [[Return to Toomer|Analysis of Face]]&lt;br&gt;&lt;br&gt;</tw-passagedata><tw-passagedata pid="7" name="Second Reference" tags="" position="401,233">&lt;div class=&quot;title&quot;&gt;The Second Reference to _Cane_&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;_“Aisha looked on, sly and quiet. Later, she whispered to Ifemelu, her expression suspicions, “You here fifteen years, but you don’t have American accent. Why?”_&lt;/div&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;_Ifemelu ignored her and, once again, opened Jean Toomer’s Cane. She stared at the words and wished suddenly that she could turn back time and postpone this move back home. Perhaps she had been hasty. She should not have sold her condo. She should have accepted Letterly magazine’s offer to buy her blog and keep her on as a paid blogger. What if she got back to Lagos and realized what a mistake it was to move back? Even the thought that she could always return to America did not comfort as much as she wished it to. (231)_&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;The second reference to _Cane_ appears over two hundred pages (seventeen chapters) after the first reference. The dual references highlight the changing sense of temporality throughout the novel, picking up 17 chapters later in the same scene that opened the novel. A reader will reach the second reference with a new repertoire of information about the novel and its characters. While the initial reference gives the reader insight about Blaine, this second reference focuses on Ifemelu, acting as an indirect insight into her characterization. However, the effect of this example of character development is very different. Instead of Adichie providing simple information about the character’s opinions, readers are made privy to Ifemelu’s internal dialogue and anxieties, a unique insight that, up until this point, was typically seen only within the confines of Ifemelu’s blog. This delve into Ifemelu’s mind in a moment apart from the blog once again underscores _Cane_’s ability to inform a reading of _Americanah_. _Cane_ already tells us a great deal about Ifemelu, and gaining new insight in relation to a reference to _Cane_ spotlights how it might inform our reading to a deeper extent.&lt;/div&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;The other important element that this second reference to _Cane_ helps to explore is the balance between the possibility and detriments of return. Ifemelu’s anxieties stem from her looming return home and an inability to return to the America she currently knows. Further, in this moment she is also returning to the text, an indicator of the cyclical nature of time and her experiences. Perhaps this return is a commentary on reading, providing yet another example of the ways _Americanah_ is self-theorizing. Adichie seems to be asking readers to engage with the text more deeply, asking her audience to read the novel once and then read it again. Even if this isn’t a moment of Adichie positing the importance of her own novel, the idea of “re-” is crucial to hold. The reader revisits the reference to _Cane_ with new knowledge about characters described in the first reference, as well as new information about the present situation. With this new knowledge, they will see the reference in very different ways, mirroring the effect of Ifemelu’s return. Readers cannot return to the reference of _Cane_ in the same way or as the same reader version of themselves, just as Ifemelu cannot return to each place she calls home as the same person she was previously.&lt;/div&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;As this scene progresses, a character named Kelsey enters the hair salon. She commits various micro aggressions, stereotyping the home countries of the stylists and blindly upholding America’s alleged superiority. Put more simply, she occupies a space she really shouldn’t be in. Kelsey quickly engages in conversation with Ifemelu, the catalyst for a crucial example of self theorization that further links _Cane_ and _Americanah_ while also serving as an opportunity for Adichie to critique literature and readership more broadly.&lt;/div&gt;
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&lt;div class=&quot;center&quot;&gt;[[Continue to Kelsey]] | [[Continue to Nigeria]]&lt;br&gt;&lt;br&gt;&lt;/div&gt;
</tw-passagedata><tw-passagedata pid="8" name="Continue to Kelsey" tags="" position="332,503">&lt;% s.kelsey += 1 %&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;title&quot;&gt;Kelsey&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;In another example of the ways the reference to _Cane_ transforms an understanding of _Americanah_, readers gain insight into Ifemelu’s characterization by way of another character, all within the framework provided by the reference to _Cane_.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;block&quot;&gt;What are you reading?” Kelsey turned to Ifemelu. Ifemelu showed her the cover of the novel. She did not want to start a conversation. Especially not with Kelsey. She recognized in Kelsey the nationalism of liberal Americans who copiously criticized America but did not like you to do so; they expected you to be silent and grateful, and always reminded you of how much better than wherever you had come from America was. “Is it good?” “Yes.” “It’s a novel, right? What’s it about?” Why did people ask “What is it about?” as if a novel had to be about only one thing. Ifemelu disliked the question; she would have disliked it even if she did not feel, in addition to her depressed uncertainty, the beginning of a headache. “It may not be the kind of book you would like if you have particular tastes. He mixes prose and verse.” “You have a great accent. Where are you from?” “Nigeria.” (233)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;By focusing on her liberal nationalism, Adichie uses Kelsey to depict a certain kind of person, one characterized by their inability to understand. She makes baseless comments about the backgrounds of the stylists in the hair salon while taking America’s imagined superiority as given. Kelsey’s entrance comes at an interesting moment and contributes further to the importance of the reference to _Cane_, while also progressing the plot of _Americanah_. Kelsey becomes one of the few Americans that Ifemelu does speak out against without the protection provided by her blog. This critique is done in person. Juxtaposing the line “She recognized in Kelsey the nationalism of liberal Americans who copiously criticized America but did not like you to do so; they expected you to be silent and grateful, and always reminded you of how much better than wherever you had come from America was,” with Ifemelu’s earlier described moment of questioning whether or not she should return to Nigeria intensifies the deep turmoil Ifemelu experiences as a result of migration. Kelsey’s feeling of superiority is not lost on Ifemelu, and a reader might expect Ifemelu’s own tensions surrounding her new status to impede her from speaking out against Kelsey. But, in this moment, readers see a new slice of self of Ifemelu, one that is uninhibited and freely speaks her mind. This moment acts as a signifier for similar moments to come, although these moments of freeness almost exclusively come on the blog. With the imagined support of _Cane,_ Ifemelu can freely speak her mind in person, coming closer to the full self as created by her move.&lt;/div&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;Ifemelu’s short description of _Cane_ is also important to consider. In her commentary, she says “He mixes prose and verse,&quot; underscoring the connections between Toomer’s text and _Americanah_, while also partially speaking to the reception of _Cane_. Audiences now recognize the ways in which _Cane_ was groundbreaking for its time, setting a precedent for the “post-modern” text by subverting the standard work previously seen in the field. Toomer took a unique approach with _Cane_, not only blending forms of writing in ways not previously seen but also taking on a distinct form that features various line breaks and images, all culminating in a very distinct narrative. Once again, the reference highlights the connections between _Cane_ and _Americanah_. Adichie’s ability to blend blog form writing and standard prose, and subvert previously established forms can be partially credited to Toomer.&lt;/div&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;Finally, Kelsey’s blatant disregard for Ifemelu’s response is hilariously terrible. Ifemelu explains the novel, admittedly briefly and in a seemingly dismissive tone, but then Kelsey ignores the actual content of the conversations and jumps directly to Ifemelu’s accent. It’s another stereotypically ignorant moment, one that pulls back in many of the damaging interactions Ifemelu has throughout the novel — many of which become the focus of blog posts. Just as Ifemelu questions her decision to leave America, this negative experience with Kelsey pulls back in the questioning of her return to Nigeria. Ifemelu&#x27;s time in America has not been consistently positive, but she still questions her decision to move back. Perhaps Kelsey — her insensitive nature, her feeling of superiority and her inability to understand that novels can be about more than one thing — helps to ease her anxiety.&lt;/div&gt;
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&lt;div class=&quot;center&quot;&gt;  [[Move on to something else|Toomer Connector]] | [[Continue on to Nigeria|Continue to Nigeria]]&lt;br&gt;&lt;br&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</tw-passagedata><tw-passagedata pid="9" name="Continue to Nigeria" tags="" position="485,502">&lt;% s.nigeria += 1 %&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;title&quot;&gt;Connections to Nigeria&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;As explored earlier, Adichie’s reference to _Cane_ provides readers with the same choices of hyperlink, offering the option to engage with new content and creating a jumping off point for new information, or simply just moving past it. The “jumping off point” effect is mirrored by Ifemelu’s thoughts after she pulls out the novel for the second time. The reference to _Cane_ signifies a shift in voice, one that allows readers a new opportunity for insight into Ifemelu’s thoughts, and one that is not previously offered.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;Ifemelu ignored her and, once again, opened Jean Toomer’s _Cane_. She stared at the words and wished suddenly that she could turn back time and postpone this move back home. Perhaps she had been hasty. She should not have sold her condo. She should have accepted Letterly magazine’s offer to buy her blog and keep her on as a paid blogger. What if she got back to Lagos and realized what a mistake it was to move back? Even the thought that she could always return to America did not comfort her as much as she wished it to. (230-231)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;After interacting with the other customers in the hair salon, Ifemelu pulls out _Cane_ once again, and her thoughts momentarily take readers out of the setting of the hair salon, tumbling them back into Ifemelu’s mind. “She stared at the words and wished suddenly that she could turn back time and postpone this move back home.” Temporality and space shift throughout this scene, with readers being jolted out of the scene in what would likely be depicted as a flashback scene in a movie. Why does Adichie pull _Cane_ back in to frame Ifemelu’s questioning about her decision to move back to Nigeria? Considering _Cane_ supplements the various themes already at play in this section, and its presence in this moment amplifies their presence. With its blending of poetry and prose, and its creation of a generic montage, _Cane_ represents the person Ifemelu becomes while in America. With this text, Toomer does things that do not typically happen back in Nigeria, like explicitly commenting on racism. Perhaps the reference to _Cane_ represents this anxiety over how she has changed and the impact her return home will have on this new self. Ifemelu’s constant anxiety regarding the self she presents will be extended by the move.&lt;/div&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;Further indication that _Cane_ represents anxiety regarding a “changed self” is highlighted by the reference made to Ifemelu’s blog in this scene. Her role as a blogger is one consumed by transition and change. Anxiety regarding change is constant, but _Cane_ heightens Ifemelu’s fears about moving back home due to the fact that she will lose the sense of self already created in America. Keeping this life, and her blog, would enable Ifemelu to continue to hold a certain degree of privilege, continually shaping the version of herself she puts out to the world. In returning to Nigeria, — the place Ifemelu once thought of as a homeland — not only will she lose the person she has become in America, but she will also lose the ability to construct her own identity. Change is always stressful, but migration disrupts an entire sense of identity.&lt;/div&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;In _Cane_, Toomer also portrays a distinct sense of nostalgia, specifically a longing for a time and place that appear to be slipping away, both with modernization and industrialization, as well as the Great Migration entering as replacements. “Even the thought that she could always return to America did not comfort her as much as she wished it to.” This line illuminates the fear surrounding return as it appears within _Americanah_. Ifemelu can always move back, but she will not be moving back to the same Nigeria she previously experienced, and she will not be the same person. A second move back to America does not promise stability for Ifemelu either. Even if she did eventually decide to move back to America, both she and her environment will be changed. With constant movement in and out of places, change is constant, and _Cane_ recognizes the rapidity with which change can occur. This same rapidity exists in the movement between Adichie&#x27;s hyperlinks throughout the novel.  Adichie’s hyperlinked reference to _Cane_, paired with Ifemelu’s own inner turmoil surrounding her move, evoke an unattainable longing for the past, one that is only imagined, and never actually fulfilled. The two texts highlight the ever-changing nature of identity and place, centralizing how a sense of self is never truly concretized.&lt;/div&gt;
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&lt;div class=&quot;center&quot;&gt; [[Move on to something else|Toomer Connector]]  | [[Continue to Kelsey]]&lt;/div&gt;</tw-passagedata><tw-passagedata pid="10" name="Blaine" tags="" position="224,396">&lt;div class=&quot;title&quot;&gt;Blaine&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;Adichie’s reference to _Cane_ provides important insight into Ifemelu’s life, but also catalyzes further character development of those connected to Ifemelu. Within the first reference to _Cane_, the reader is not given much information about Ifemelu, but instead is told about Blaine, a character who has yet to be fully introduced. Blaine’s dismissal of _Cane_ is the reason Ifemelu believes that she will like it, a moment that provides important early insight as to how their relationship will develop. The description of Blaine’s thoughts on _Cane_ offer an unexpected juxtaposition for readers, creating a tension between what Blaine thinks of the novel and what is fundamentally true of _Cane_.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;block&quot;&gt;A precious performance, Blaine had called it, in that gently forbearing tone he used when they talked about novels, as though he was sure that she, with a little more time and a little more wisdom, would come to accept that the novels he liked were superior, novels written by young and youngish men and packed with things, a fascinating, confounding accumulation of brands and music and comic books and icons, with emotions skimmed over, and each sentence stylishly aware of its own stylishness. (14) &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;Blaine’s thoughts present _Cane_ as a text that does not fulfill his lofty list of requirements. If given just this description, readers might assume that _Cane_ was written by an old, out of touch writer and that it fails to flow smoothly as a narrative. The first falsehood presented in Blaine’s description is disputed by the fact that  Toomer was relatively young when he published _Cane_, writing at a prime 30 years old. Blaine might be right to criticize the fluidity of the novel, as it depends on disruption in its blending of poetry, prose, and unique formatting techniques. However, Blaine’s misunderstanding once again highlights the necessity of deeper reading. Blaine fails to recognize the elements that make _Cane_ so connected and fluid, most obviously the circle imagery that signifies Toomer’s expectations for how the novel should flow. These techniques contribute to _Cane_’s “stylishness.” The novel is revolutionary, acting as its own “confounding accumulation of brands and music and comics books and icons,” a working model for the very texts that Blaine claims to desire. Blaine’s dismissal of _Cane_ in this moment highlights an underlying tension in his and Ifemelu’s relationship, a tension that will come to a head later in the novel. With _Cane_ acting as a signifier of Ifemelu’s changed self, Blaine’s dislike of it foreshadows themes of incompleteness that will come to define Ifemelu’s life in America. Her contestation of Blaine’s commentary points to the way in which she will eventually come to be in their relationship, taking on a newly empowered self. Beyond further exploring the relationship between Ifemelu and Blaine, Blaine’s “insights” about the novel, as mentioned earlier, reify the importance of a deeper reading. With knowledge of _Cane_, readers can see that Blaine’s description of the novels he likes actually directly aligns with _Cane&#x27;s_ contents. Readers can see how Blaine is too quick to judge _Cane_, failing to execute the deeper reading that is so crucial to the novel, but also to a comprehensive understanding of Ifemelu.&lt;/div&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;From this short description, it seems that a crucial element of Blaine’s standards is that texts be what might be described as post-modern. Blaine desires a blending of various techniques and styles, something _Cane_ does both overtly and subtly. Toomer’s combination of prose and poetry in _Cane_ is an obvious element that fulfills Blaine’s idealized wish list. Additionally, one of the main themes throughout _Cane_ is the recognition of the detriments of modernization. Toomer’s use of a modern approach to achieve this goal should put _Cane_ at the top of Blaine’s short list. However, the fact of his never having read the novel lingers as the ultimate irony. &lt;/div&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;With Adichie&#x27;s use of _Cane_, readers gain an early glimpse into the forthcoming problems that will play out between Blaine and Ifemelu  while simultaneously being made aware of the elements of _Cane_ that echo throughout _Americanah_. This reference informs a reading of _Americanah_ from the outset in ways that might not be seen without this comprehensive knowledge of the text. Pairing these revelations centralizes how interconnected they are. Considering _Cane_ reveals more about Ifemelu and inevitably allows readers to learn more about Ifemelu&#x27;s sense of self. The same themes that create tension throughout _Cane_ will culminate in the relationship between Blaine and Ifemelu throughout _Americanah_.&lt;/div&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;Finally, Blaine’s description of _Cane_ as a “precious performance” is telling, especially when considering the aforementioned ways _Cane_’s presence informs a reading of Ifemelu. This line comes so early on in the novel that readers cannot be expected to fully understand the weight of this description within the novel’s first few pages. However, re-engaging with this earlier moment shows the ways that it does foreshadow details to come about Ifemelu’s sense of self, specifically its constructed nature. If _Cane_ is the novel that represents Ifemelu’s time in America, the description of it as a “precious performance” is incredibly apt. Blaine assumes that _Cane_ is meant to show off in some way and that it might not actually represent the author, and Ifemelu’s existence in America can be described in a similar way. Ifemelu performs a certain kind of self, one that might not align with exactly who she is, but one that helps her to survive in this new environment.&lt;/div&gt;
&lt;% s.boxseat += 1 %&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;Muriel, the main character in Jean Toomer&#x27;s short story &quot;[[Box Seat]],&quot; is stuck between a space of hyper-visibility and a space of hiddenness. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;block&quot;&gt;Muriel has on an orange dress. Its color would clash with the crimson box draperies, its color would contradict the sweet rose smile her face is bathed in, should she take her coat off. She’ll keep it on. Pale purple shadows rest on the planes of her cheeks. Deep purple comes from her thick-shocked hair. Orange of the dress goes well with these (83)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;By choosing to leave her coat on, Muriel avoids being exposed by the stark contrast of her dress with the environment around her. She chooses to remain in the shadows, intentionally keeping her jacket on as means to avoid exposure. The description then turns to her hair, focusing on the ways that her hair pairs beautifully with her dress. This moment explores the complicated dynamic between internal and external factors. Muriel chooses to blend in with her surroundings and allow the outside world to shape her rather than embracing and showcasing what is part of her, both in terms of her appearance and her sense of self. She conforms to outside expectations, taking cues from the world around her as the standard for how she should act, submitting to the setting as it surrounds her.&lt;/div&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;This act of conforming paired with a tumultuous sense of identity directly aligns with the tensions that Ifemelu undergoes. Muriel faces the same questions as Ifemelu, considering whether or not she should submit to what her environment demands or remain true to herself and what she knows. Both Muriel and Ifemelu must decide if they should sacrifice their selves in order to fit in, or if they should retain their true sense of self and risk exposure. What complicates this tension even further, though, is that, for each of these characters, their sense of self is already under attack. Had they each felt secure in their identity, apart from the tensions of diaspora and changing environment, the decision might have been different.&lt;/div&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;Muriel’s decision to submit to outside feeling is reminiscent of Ifemelu’s choice in acquiescing to the needs of her audiences instead of remaining true to the ideas she presents on her blog. Ifemelu offers a different version of herself when speaking publicly. After her first talk goes poorly, Ifemelu commits to a new public persona, one that directly contrasts with the interior persona represented on her blog. “And so, in the following weeks, as she gave more talks at companies and schools, she began to say what they wanted to hear, none of which she would ever write on her blog...” (377). Ifemelu’s decision to conform to public desire directly links with Muriel’s decision to remain hidden. As you have probably figured out, &lt;% print(s.playername) %&gt;, reading about Muriel in &quot;Box Seat&quot; offers insight into Ifemelu, especially how they both [[hide and deflect their interior selves in favor of fitting in more favorably with a public incapable of handling their difference.|Toomer]]&lt;/div&gt;
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&lt;div class=&quot;center&quot;&gt;[[Continue reading about _Cane_ in _Americanah_|Second Reference]]&lt;br&gt;&lt;br&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</tw-passagedata><tw-passagedata pid="11" name="Analysis of Portrait in Georgia" tags="" position="887,235">&lt;div class=&quot;title&quot;&gt;Jean Toomer&#x27;s &quot;Portrait in Georgia&quot;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br&gt;


&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;The poem “Portrait in Georgia” features many of the key elements that appear throughout Toomer&#x27;s _Cane_: the presence of the male gaze, nature, color imagery, and more. It is interesting to consider “Portrait in Georgia” within the context of the hair salon setting where [[Adichie first places a reference to _Cane_ in _Americanah_.|First Reference]] While the salon does serve as a heterotopic space, bringing together people who might not otherwise socially interact, it also reifies the tensions that conversations about hair signify in Black communities, tensions that run throughout _Americanah_. “[[Portrait in Georgia]]” is also dependent on these tensions, forcing readers to focus on an oppressed body, taking physical elements and replacing them with twisted signifiers of oppression.&lt;/div&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;“Hair — braided chestnut, Coiled like a lyncher’s rope.” With this line, Toomer offers readers the beautiful image of chestnut hair, but then this image is quickly conflated with the jarring image of a lyncher’s rope. This juxtaposition serves as a startling commentary on corporeality, specifically noting how presentations of beauty can also be representations of violence. Toomer&#x27;s connection of corporeal elements to violent imagery signifies violence done to racialized or gendered bodies.&lt;/div&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;“Portait in Georgia” and _Americanah_ share further similarities. Both works centralize the impacts of the male gaze, even if it happens in different ways. Ifemelu’s sexually violent encounter with the tennis coach is a moment of particular importance, and her inability to tell anyone about it forces her into silence. The descriptions throughout “Portrait in Georgia,” ones that compare female physical attributes to elements of nature, are disturbingly similar to the moments following Ifemelu’s encounter. After Ifemelu leaves the tennis coach’s apartment — his name is never revealed — her mind sweeps immediately to the landscape back home in Nigeria, specifically the colors found in nature and the senses that they evoke. The disjuncture from the present moment is jarring in the text, quickly sweeping readers out of the intense moment of violence and dropping them in a new, seemingly serene setting. As  Ifemelu leaves his city apartment, instead of describing bustling city streets and flashing lights, readers are transported to this distant and natural world.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;block&quot;&gt;She stood up. “Can I think about this and give you a call?” “Of course.” He shrugged, shoulders thick with sudden irritability, as though he could not believe she did not recognize her good fortune. As he let her out, he shut the door quickly, not responding to her final “Thank you.” She walked back to the station, mourning the train fare. The trees were awash with color, red and yellow leaves tinted the air golden, and she thought of the words she had recently read somewhere: Nature’s first green is gold. The crisp air, fragrant and dry, reminded her of Nsukka during the harmattan season, and brought with it a sudden stab of homesickness, so sharp and so abrupt that it filled her eyes with tears. (177) &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;This jump to nature and movement within the city scene once again connects to many themes throughout _Cane_, for instance juxtaposing scenes of industrialization and nature scenes. Just as “Portrait in Georgia” juxtaposes male gaze, natural elements, and the sexualization of women’s bodies, the challenging exchange that Ifemelu has with the coach does much of the same work. “Nature’s first green is gold,” for instance, references Robert Frost’s “Nothing Gold Can Stay,” a poem that describes the instability of perfection and how the happy things in life cannot possibly stay the same. This line also foreshadows the impending unraveling of Ifemelu and Obinze’s relationship. The seemingly perfect pair cannot stay the same nor retain their imagined perfection once Ifemelu&#x27;s encounter damages her relationship to herself, forcing her into silence.&lt;/div&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;The other interesting element within this passage is that this jump to nature reminds Ifemelu of home; it serves as another flashback-esque moment. Nature brings her out of the stressful present day city moment and back to a moment in which she previously went without stress and tension. This jump draws further on the themes throughout _Cane_, specifically the differences, and negativity that the movement to the city brings. After her traumatic experience, Ifemelu longs for the natural and comforting elements of home that the city lacks.&lt;/div&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;Moving ahead in the novel, readers see nature once again acting as a signifier for the intense moment that lies ahead. The section that contains the culminating moment of Ifemelu’s turmoil begins with the line: _“It was late autumn, the trees had grown antlers, dried leaves were sometimes trailed into the apartment, and the rent was due.”_ This imagery offers a picturesque image of fall, but then ends with the stress of rent, creating another moment of ambiguity based on the strangeness of this juxtaposition. This passage draws connections between the disruption within moments of nature that appear throughout _Cane_ and _Americanah_. Readers do not expect stressful images of not being able to pay rent to come during descriptions of picturesque fall imagery. The juxtaposition of these traumatizing moments with typically serene natural image leaves these already challenging scenes all the more jarring.&lt;/div&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;Following the encounter with the tennis coach, the descriptions of Ifemelu heading to the train are re-invoked. However, this time it is no coincidence that the first snowfall comes after this eventual temporary pausing of Ifemelu and Obinze’s relationship. Winter brings about the end of the luscious, thriving nature previously described, highlighting the inability to return home and the end of a certain sense of self for Ifemelu. Ifemelu&#x27;s encounter with the tennis coach is the catalyst for much of the rest of the novel, so what does it mean for this catalyst to be one of endings? Winter often serves as a signifier for death and dismalness, and this first snowfall points to the ways in which this troubling moment culminates with the ending of many cycles, cycles that contribute to and help to stabilize a sense of self. _Cane_’s presence in _Americanah_ does much to highlight the importance of nature in these moments and the ways that it mirrors the same events that occur in Ifemelu’s life. [[_Cane_ follows these cycles, but studies their disruptions, highlighting how a departure from the norm will inevitably negatively impact one&#x27;s self-understanding|Analysis of Face]].&lt;/div&gt;
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</tw-passagedata><tw-passagedata pid="12" name="Analysis of Face" tags="" position="1027,153">&lt;% s.face += 1 %&gt;

&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;In the short story “Face,” Toomer uses similar themes and techniques evident throughout “Portrait in Georgia,” though more subtly. Stylistically, the poems are very similar. [[Both use the word &quot;hair” as the starting point, and it is the first image that readers encounter|Face]]. While this technique is the same, the actual formatting is slightly different, as “Face” renders the description of each feature separate from the actual signifier. This decreases the image&#x27;s intensity, which also speaks to Toomer&#x27;s decision not to connect the image to a larger narrative. Conversely, “[[Portrait in Georgia]]” names the “lyncher’s rope” in the opening few lines, framing each subsequent bit of information as if it is a consequence of this harsh object’s presence. “Face” refuses to identify any of the sources for the “ripples blown by pain” or the “grapes of sorrow,” and they instead are all left to a reader’s imagination. Though the actual source of violence is absent, the effects of comparing bodies with natural elements remain.&lt;/div&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt; The unrelenting nature of the male gaze compared with the oppressive toll on her body informs Ifemelu’s response after her encounter with the tennis coach. Pain inflicted on the body is taken as eerily natural, as both Adichie and Toomer show by way of their representations. “Face” might also help to make sense of Ifemelu’s own silence regarding the episode with the tennis coach. Just as Toomer silences the actual sources of this pain and violence within the poem, Ifemelu self-silences. For her, this is means of surivival, allowing her to live with herself after commiting what she interprets as a heinous act, but this silence only intensifies the conflict associated with this act. She immediately distances herself from those around her, neglecting to take phone calls and isolating herself from her roommates, but with this physical distancing, she also emotionally distances herself from Obinze. “Face” helps us to think about Ifemelu’s contraction into pain after violence. Her incapacity to talk about it perpetuates its damaging effects, making the initial act of violence all the more disruptive and harmful. [[Once again, _Cane_ offers a connection to _Americanah_, one that illuminates the themes surrounding Ifemelu’s complex and constantly evolving identity.|Analysis of Bona and Paul]]&lt;/div&gt;
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</tw-passagedata><tw-passagedata pid="13" name="Analysis of Bona and Paul" tags="" position="1148,54">&lt;% s.bonapaul += 1 %&gt;

&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;Toomer’s short story “[[Bona and Paul]]” is perhaps one of the best examples in which the overlap in structural elements that Toomer and Adichie share is made clear, their &quot;digitality.&quot; Adichie often uses text from blog posts and repeats it in subsequent examples of prose or other blog posts. Toomer’s short stories and poems work similarily, which forces readers to consider the ways potentially isolated moments might be connected, centralizing the role of the hyperlink. &lt;/div&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;In _Cane_, this effect directly coincides with Toomer’s hope for the arc of the work, specifically the presentation of these stories as existing in a circle. This point further posits the connectedness of the novel, as the stories are literally intended to run up against each other. Examples from “Bona and Paul” include the story’s reference to the “harvest moon” and other similar moonlike imagery. For readers, this will of course conjure reminders of an earlier story in _Cane_, “Blood Burning Moon.” Other examples of this technique include the explicit repetition of specific lines. One such example in “Bona and Paul” is the repetition of the line “a strange things happens” (106). This line echoes a sentence that appears in a short story that came much earlier in the work titled “Esther.&quot; The line in Esther is slightly varied, reading: “Then a strange thing happens...” (29). However, the overlap is clear. While repetition serves many different purposes across literature, here Toomer makes a clear point about the connectedness of his stories. _Cane_ is intended to be read as a collection, not a displaced set of distinct stories. The repetition here allows readers to begin to form the connections between stories, just as Adichie’s repetition begins to show the interconnectedness of her ideas across time.&lt;/div&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;The other important way that a reading of “Bona and Paul” informs a reading of _Americanah_ is the moment in which Paul recognizes his blackness and the dentrimental effects that it has on his life. Notably, another variation of the &quot;strange things&quot; line signifies this dramatic and climatic moment in the text.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;block&quot;&gt;A strange thing happened to Paul. Suddenly he knew that he was apart from the people around him. Apart from the pain which they had unconsciously caused... Their stares, giving him to himself, filled something long empty within him, and were like green blades sprouting in his consciousness... He saw himself, cloudy, but real. (102)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;In this moment, Toomer offers a dream-like description of Paul’s consciousness. The out-of-body nature of Paul’s realization speaks to Ifemelu’s own experiences with a recognition of self. The feeling of apartness that Paul experiences is one specific to Ifemelu’s experience, and her own coming to terms with identity relates to the ambitious nature of her existence. “He saw himself, cloudy, but real.” Ifemelu, meanwhile, does not immediately recognize the person that she has become, but she does learn to accept this new sense of selfhood, to some degree. Paul’s coming to terms with his new sense of identity mirrors that of Ifemelu. They both parse through the fog, trying on different personas until they come to a hazy realization of their true selves.&lt;/div&gt;
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&lt;div class=&quot;center&quot;&gt;[[Click here to Continue|Adichie connector]]&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br&gt;&lt;br&gt;


</tw-passagedata><tw-passagedata pid="14" name="Toomer" tags="" position="107,547">&lt;div class=&quot;center&quot;&gt;Toomer&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;Just as Toomer’s work underscores the themes of questioning of identity and Ifemelu&#x27;s inability to transact across racial, geographical, and class divides throughout _Americanah_, Toomer’s own life begins to reflect some of his own challenges with these questions. As Rudolph L. Byrd and Henry Louis Gates, Jr. note, much of _Cane_ was born out of Toomer’s own anxiety surrounding both his racial and literary identity. Because of his skin color, education, and wide circle of cultural exposure, Toomer is able to transact across geographic and cultural boundaries, existing in the world of “the Lost Generation” downtown in New York City while also gaining praise uptown as an emerging writer in the Harlem Renaissance. As they tell us, “In the two or three years preceding the publication of _Cane_ in 1923, Toomer—perhaps more than any of the black writer— moved seemingly effortlessly between these two cultural worlds&quot; (164).&lt;/div&gt; 
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;Toomer’s own rise to writing fame mirrors that of the growth of Ifemelu&#x27;s blog. He surpasses unspoken boundaries, existing simultaneously within two inherently contradictory spaces.&lt;/div&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;Further, Byrd and Gates explicitly connect the apparent themes throughout _Cane_ and those that are at the heart of _Americanah_ with Toomer’s own life. In linking these ideas to modernism, we see the waves of change that both Toomer’s presence as an author allow for, but also the connections to the damaging feelings that Toomer, his characters and Ifemelu all experience as a result of this change.&lt;/div&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;Bird and Gates recognize “Toomer embodied in his person, in his disposition, and in his art many of the signal elements—hybridity, alienation, fragmentation, dislocation, migration, fluidity, experimentation—that define American modernism, and that he would so imaginatively address in _Cane_&quot; (166). This description of Toomer offers another way of thematically connecting _Cane_ and _Americanah_, while also aligning Adichie&#x27;s and Toomer’s approaches. As I will discuss more in Chapter 4 of this thesis, readers can see how Adichie reflects some of herself in Ifemelu. &lt;/div&gt;

&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;Byrd and Gates&#x27;s attention to Toomer’s own agency over his sense of self once again pairs brilliantly with the feelings that Ifemelu experiences. Toomer’s ability to move between worlds granted him the opportunity to define his own existence, a privilege afforded to Ifemelu with the construction of her blog. Just as Ifemelu’s writing allows her to construct the self she wishes to present, Toomer’s writing performs a similar effect, just as Toomer’s distinct status afforded him the chance to choose his public racial identity. However, this opportunity for access does not come without cost. Ifemelu&#x27;s existence across spaces also forces her to question her identity in each geographic  space she occupies, for example how her time in the United States forces her to think of herself as an &quot;African American,&quot; rather than as an African per se-- a distinction that Ifemelu most directly talks about in a blog post, &quot;To My Fellow Non-American Blacks: In American, You Are Black, Baby&quot; (273). In transacting across multiple spaces, an understanding of a &quot;true&quot; sense of identity becomes elusive. Toomer&#x27;s ability to pass for white does grant him agency of choice in how he identifies, but he later comes to see this as a potential tragedy.&lt;/div&gt;
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&lt;div class=&quot;center&quot;&gt;[[Back|Blaine]] 
&lt;br&gt;&lt;br&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</tw-passagedata><tw-passagedata pid="15" name="Conclusion" tags="" position="784,499">&lt;div class=&quot;title&quot;&gt;Conclusion: When You Miss the Reference&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;By using Toomer&#x27;s _Cane_ to inform the form and the content of _Americanah_, Adichie requires her audience to play along with her use of a classic African-American text that structurally presages hypertext literature to point out the hypertextuality of her own novel. By doing this, she demonstrates something important about time, space, and migration.
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;There is also the question, however, of what happens whenever a reference goes without being understood by a reader. In this example, _Cane_ offers great insight into Ifemelu’s struggles. At the same time, it remains completely possible for a reader to understand _Americanah_ even if they read without digging down through _Americanah_ and into _Cane_. This is how many of my early readings of the novel went. I proposed a project about _Americanah_ before encountering _Cane_, but this process of using _Cane_ to read _Americanah_ helped me better understand how I read in today&#x27;s world, in a world where hyperlinking and hypertext have become common. Blog readers often quickly scroll past a hyperlink, inevitably missing some element that might help to inform their reading. But, hyperlinks are not meant to serve as the important part of a piece. You are also expected to read without clicking.  Hyperlinks merely supplement the actual core message being offered. They offer the research and the connections. &lt;/div&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;Reader interactivity is at the heart of this relationship, further highlighting how _Americanah_ as a whole comes to resemble the exact structure of a blog. A reader can choose to delve deeper into what Toomer has to offer with _Cane_, or they can simply continue on with what they see on the page&#x27;s first layer of meaning. Either decision will produce a unique reading experience that reaches different conclusions, but each reading experience holds value.&lt;/div&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;My initial reading of _Americanah_ probably simply understood _Cane_ to be just another novel that might be merely interesting to the scene, failing to recognize the deep and meaningful connections it holds with _Americanah_. This does not mean that my initial readings were not valuable and important. The matter of getting the reference versus not getting the reference simply connects to how our life experiences are layered and connected, and we choose when to dig more deeply. The digital offers writers a tool that allows them to keep those deeper layers of research and connection at the reader&#x27;s fingertips, supplementing the foundational text with a vast network of times and spaces, a digital equivalent to diasporic experiences of migration.&lt;/div&gt;
&lt;div class=&quot;lprose&quot;&gt;In the next part of my project, I will focus more on my analysis of digitality and identity in _Americanah_. &lt;/div&gt;
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&lt;div class=&quot;center&quot;&gt;   [[Continue|https://ltuiskula.github.io/thesis/2]] &lt;/div&gt; &lt;br&gt;&lt;br&gt;</tw-passagedata><tw-passagedata pid="16" name="Adichie connector" tags="" position="649,246">&lt;br&gt;
&lt;br&gt;[[I&#x27;ve read a bit here about Adichie&#x27;s use of Toomer, so just take me to the next Adichie section.|Second Reference]]
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[[I haven&#x27;t read about Adichie and Toomer yet, so take me to the beginning of that path.|First Reference]]
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[[I&#x27;ve seen it all. Take me to the conclusion.|Conclusion]] 
</tw-passagedata><tw-passagedata pid="17" name="Toomer Connector" tags="" position="650,370">[[I haven&#x27;t read through the Toomer sections yet, so take me there now|Analysis of Portrait in Georgia]]
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[[I&#x27;ve seen it all. Take me to the conclusion.|Conclusion]] 
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