American hunger

American hunger

Richard Wright

Language: English

Pages: 146

ISBN: 0060804645

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

American Hunger, the second part of Richard Wright's autobiography, focuses on his life in Chicago, Illinois, from 1927 to 1937. The book was written in 1944

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“I wished Jim was here,” she sighed. “Who’s Jim?” I asked, jealous. I knew that she had other men, but I resented her mentioning them in my presence. “Just a friend,” she said. I hated her then, then hated myself for coming to her. “Do you like Jim better than you like me?” I asked. “Naw. Jim just likes to talk.” “Then why do you be with me, if you like Jim better?” I asked, trying to make an issue and feeling a wave of disgust because I wanted to. “You all right,” she said, giggling. “I

know what you talking about. The Herald-Examiner says it’s the coldest day since 1873.” “But the Trib oughta know,” Cooke countered. “It’s older’n that Examiner.” “That damn Trib don’t know nothing!” Brand drowned out Cooke’s voice. “How in hell you know?” Cooke asked with rising anger. The argument waxed until Cooke shouted that if Brand did not shut up he was going to cut his “black throat.” Brand whirled from the sink, his hands dripping soapy water, his eyes blazing. “Take that back,”

Communists called at my home. They pretended to be ignorant of what had happened at the unit meeting. Patiently I explained what had occurred. “Your story does not agree with what Nealson says,” they said, revealing the motive of their visit. “And what does Nealson say?” I asked. “He says that you are in league with a Trotskyite group, and that you made an appeal for other party members to follow you in leaving the party …” “What?” I gasped. “That’s not true. I asked that my membership be

it could drink of new and cool rains, bend in strange winds, respond to the warmth of other suns, and, perhaps, to bloom…. I headed North, full of a hazy notion that life could be lived with dignity, that the personalities of others should not be violated, that men should be able to confront other men without fear or shame, and that if men were lucky in their living on earth they might win some redeeming meaning for their having struggled and suffered here beneath the stars. It should be

“Then why are you reading all the time?” “I like to.” “But what do you get out of it?” “I get a great deal out of it.” And I knew that my words sounded wild and foolish in my environment, where reading was almost unknown, where the highest item of value was a dime or a dollar, an apartment or a job; where, if one aspired at all, it was to be a doctor or a lawyer, a shopkeeper or a politician. The most valued pleasure of the people I knew was a car, the most cherished experience a bottle of

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