Page 87 - BLACK SKIN, WHITE MASK
P. 87

48 BLACK SKIN, WHITE MASKS



                                  Andrée spiritually in Mme. Coulanges and physically in Clarisse. It is insane.
                                  But that is how it is: I love Clarisse. I love Mme. Coulanges, even though I
                                  never really think of either of them. All they are for me is an excuse that
                                  makes it possible for me to delude myself. I study Andrée in them and I
                                  begin to know her by heart. . . . I don’t know. I know nothing. I have no wish
                                  to try to know anything; or, rather, I know nothing any more except one
                                  thing: that the Negro is a man like the rest, the equal of the others, and that
                                  his heart, which only the ignorant consider simple, can be as complicated
                                  as the heart of the most complicated of Europeans. 5
                                  For the simplicity of the Negro is a myth created by superfi cial
                                observers. “I love Clarisse, I love Mme. Coulanges, and it is
                                Andrée Marielle whom I really love. Only she, no one else.” 6
                                  Who is Andrée Marielle? You know who she is, the daughter of
                                the poet, Louis Marielle. But now you see that this Negro, “who
                                has raised himself through his own intelligence and his assiduous
                                                                                     7
                                labors to the level of the thought and the culture of Europe,”  is
                                incapable of escaping his race.
                                  Andrée Marielle is white; no solution seems possible. Yet,
                                association with Payot, Gide, Moréas, and Voltaire seemed to
                                have wiped out all that. In all good faith, Jean Veneuse “believed
                                in that culture and set himself to love this new world he had
                                discovered and conquered for his own use. What a blunder he
                                had made! Arriving at maturity and going off to serve his adopted
                                country in the land of his ancestors was enough to make him
                                wonder whether he was not being betrayed by everything about
                                him, for the white race would not accept him as one of its own
                                and the black virtually repudiated him.” 8
                                  Jean Veneuse, feeling that existence is impossible for him
                                without love, proceeds to dream it into being. He proceeds to
                                dream it alive and to produce verses:
                                           When a man loves he must not speak;
                                           Best that he hide it from himself.

                                5.  Ibid., p. 83.
                                6.  Ibid., p. 83.
                                7.  Ibid., p. 36.
                                8.  Ibid., p. 36.








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