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Overview
“Thomas Glave walks the path of such greats in American literature as Richard Wright and James Baldwin . . . he cuts to the bone of what it means to be black in America, white in America, gay in America, and human in the world at large.” — Gloria Naylor
An excerpt:
The words to every song on earth are buried deep somewhere. Songs that must be sung, that must never be sung. That must be released from deep within the chest yet pulled back and held. Plaintive and low, they rail; buried forever beneath the passing flesh, alone and cold, they scream. The singer must clutch them to the heart, where they are sanctified, nurtured, healed. Songs which finally must be released yet recalled, in that place where no one except the singer ever comes, in one hand caressing the keys of life wounded, ravaged, in the other those of the precious skin and life revealed. The three of them and Cassandra know the words. Lying beneath them now and blind, she knows the words. Tasting turpentine and fire, she knows the words. -- Hell no, yo, that bitch ain't dead.-- A voice. -- Fucked up, yo. The rag's in her mouth, how we gone get some mouth action now?-- -- Aw, man, fuck that shit.-- Who says that? -- My turn. My turn.-- They know the words.
Night. Hell, no, broods the dim, that bitch ain't dead. Hasn't uttered half a sound since they began; hasn't opened her eyes to let the night look in again; hasn't breathed to the soft beating of the nightbird's wing. The turpentine rag in place. Cassandra, Cassandra. The rag, in place. Cassandra. Is she feeling something now? Cassandra. Will they do anything more to her now? Cassandra, will they leave you there? Focusing on flies, not meeting each other's eyes, will they leave you there? Running back from the burning forests behind their own eyes, the crackling and the shame? Will they leave you there? -- Push that bitch out on the ground, the one they call Dee says. -- Over there, by them cars and shit.-- Rusty cars, a dumping ground. So, Cassandra. Yes. They'll leave you there. Were they afraid? Happy? Who can tell? Three dark boys, three men, driving away in a battered car. Three boy-men, unseen, flesh, minds, heart. Flame. In their car. O my God, three rapists, the pret
Synopsis
“Thomas Glave walks the path of such greats in American literature as Richard Wright and James Baldwin . . . he cuts to the bone of what it means to be black in America, white in America, gay in America, and human in the world at large.” — Gloria Naylor
An excerpt:
The words to every song on earth are buried deep somewhere. Songs that must be sung, that must never be sung. That must be released from deep within the chest yet pulled back and held. Plaintive and low, they rail; buried forever beneath the passing flesh, alone and cold, they scream. The singer must clutch them to the heart, where they are sanctified, nurtured, healed. Songs which finally must be released yet recalled, in that place where no one except the singer ever comes, in one hand caressing the keys of life wounded, ravaged, in the other those of the precious skin and life revealed. The three of them and Cassandra know the words. Lying beneath them now and blind, she knows the words. Tasting turpentine and fire, she knows the words. — Hell no, yo, that bitch ain't dead.— A voice. — Fucked up, yo. The rag's in her mouth, how we gone get some mouth action now?— — Aw, man, fuck that shit.— Who says that? — My turn. My turn.— They know the words.
Night. Hell, no, broods the dim, that bitch ain't dead. Hasn't uttered half a sound since they began; hasn't opened her eyes to let the night look in again; hasn't breathed to the soft beating of the nightbird's wing. The turpentine rag in place. Cassandra, Cassandra. The rag, in place. Cassandra. Is she feeling something now? Cassandra. Will they do anything more to her now? Cassandra, will they leave you there? Focusing on flies, not meeting each other's eyes, will they leave you there? Running back from the burning forests behind their own eyes, the crackling and the shame? Will they leave you there? — Push that bitch out on the ground, the one they call Dee says. — Over there, by them cars and shit.— Rusty cars, a dumping ground. So, Cassandra. Yes. They'll leave you there. Were they afraid? Happy? Who can tell? Three dark boys, three men, driving away in a battered car. Three boy-men, unseen, flesh, minds, heart. Flame. In their car. O my God, three rapists, the pret
Black Issues Book Review
Thomas Glaves' gifts as a poet are clearly evident in this collection. His style weaves its way through the dark and disturbing subconscious thoughts of his characters with a melodic elegance. His stories explore controversial social issues such as racism, war and homophobia.
Editorials
Black Issues Book Review
Thomas Glaves' gifts as a poet are clearly evident in this collection. His style weaves its way through the dark and disturbing subconscious thoughts of his characters with a melodic elegance. His stories explore controversial social issues such as racism, war and homophobia.Library Journal
In this debut, O. Henry Award winner Glave plumbs his racial and cultural background--he is an African American/Caribbean gay male--in stark, vivid, and disturbingly real images and characters. We travel from the Bronx to Boston to the Caribbean and back again, finding secrets, betrayal, revolution, rebirth, and pain. One story, "A Real Place," concerning the torture of peasants taken prisoner during a coup, is written as a poem--a style this reviewer doesn't normally care for but in this case found most effective. Another story, "Flying," deals with the end of a marriage and the hopeful rebirth of both people. A third standout, "Their Story," follows two elderly men who find comfort in each other's company after the deaths of their wives. This is not always an easy collection to read, but Glave has a lot to say, and it's too important not to listen.--T.R. Salvadori, Margaret E. Heggan Free P.L., Hurffville, NJ Copyright 2000 Cahners Business Information.David Shields
A gifted stylist . . . Glave is blessed with ambition, his own voice and an impressive willingness to dissect how individuals actually think and behave.—New York Times Book Review
Joy Press
Crafted in intense prose that recalls the rhythmic narrative thrust of early Toni Morrison, Glave's Whose Song? And Other Stories fearlessly delves into the interior worlds of African American and Caribbean men whose secret desires and personal histories threaten the connection to both their families and communities... Thomas Glave is an extraordinary stylist, whose rare insight, boundless courage, and fierce imagination make these stories resound long after you turn the last page.—The Village Voice Literary Supplement
Lambda Book Report
This book is a gem.—Lambda Book Report