When, early December of 1987, the news came of Jimmy s death France at the age of 63, I went down to the basement with a handful of keys and on the third or fourth try opened a footlocker and dug out a musty black report binder labeled, white ink, POEMS - JAMES BALDWIN. Below the name, there is a popeyed caricature affixed with brittle, yellowed cellophane tape. Inside, on loose sheets, there are a couple of poems first draft, but the punched and bound contents of the binder are the carbon copies of poems - Nursery Rhyme, Wastrel Song, Lament, Breakfast with Apollo, Three A.M., Song for a Laughing Boy, and others, all with the name and address the upper left-hand corner: James Baldwin, 348 East 15th Street, New York City 3, NY. On the backs of the pages are taped the rejection slips, from Dwight Macdonald's Politics, from Tomorrow Magazine, from Kerker Quinn at Accent, from Contemporary Poetry and The Virginia Quarterly Review and Partisan Review, from The Sewanee Review and The Winged Word. The tape's stickum has darkened and soaked through the paper, forming discolored bars on the overleaf text, as if someone were highlighting lines (For my brain is horror and my body, wrath) with a nasty, burnt-umber marker. On a plain 3 x 5 slip is the word Sorry, signed Alan Swallow, for NMQR. And PBR of The Kenyon Review writes, This is interesting work - especially 'Breakfast with Apollo.' But we think we'd rather wait till you work yourself freer of the Eliot influence to find a mode of your own. Written my hand, not much changed well over four decades, are the dates: Submitted to Kenyon Review 3/4/45, rej. 3/30/45, and so on. But one poem that went to Politics was mailed on the 4th and came whipping back on the 8th. Editors were faster back those days, but even then such speed seemed excessive to the point of insult. It depressed us. However, PBR was right one respect: The predominant influence was Eliot. Jimmy was the habit of carrying Four Quartets around his pocket, a habit that cost him one of the long list of jobs he found and lost with astonishing alacrity during that winter and spring of 1944-45. Those months qualify as part of the desperate years the Village (as Jimmy later characterized them), the years that immediately preceded his flight to Paris November of 1948. That is, they qualify by falling within that five-year period. But for a time late winter and early spring he was on East 15th Street, and it was a time more of work and of hope than of desperation. Off and on, for more than five years, I've been thinking of that time. I was 22, going on 23, a graduate of UC-Berkeley, and I had come to New York because my grade-point average and a paper on Siberian shamans had won me a scholarship to the New School's Graduate Faculty of Social and Political Science, where, Professor Kroeber back Berkeley had assured me, I would fit in better. What he meant was that Berkeley's Department of Anthropology would not welcome my application to stay on as a graduate student. I had already exhibited a tendency to stir things up and, sensing my troublemaker potential, they preferred to have me 3,000 miles away. Berkeley was not then what it became over two decades later; even my habit of wearing slacks and striped t-shirts to class was a mark against me. I was strictly a West Coast girl and had never been farther east than Denver, but I went and found myself dumped out of a taxi the middle of the street front of my destination, a run-down hotel near Madison Square Garden where lived the one person I knew all of Manhattan. Within weeks I had joined the Young People's Socialist League and was getting up before dawn to take the train to Far Rockaway with a comrade named Milton Zatinsky, our mission being to stand the snow at the gates of an upholstery factory and hand out leaflets designed to arouse class consciousness a work force made up of totally bourgeois and only semi-conscious young women. …
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