James — Percival Everett
This is one of those books where I could feel it before I could explain it. From the jump, I knew I was in good hands as a reader. It’s been a few weeks since I finished James, and it still crosses my mind regularly. Those are my favorite kind of books.
I recently saw the author Percival Everett speak at an event at Morehouse, and he said something that really stuck with me: he always leaves the reader with some work to do as they embark along a novel’s journey. The best readers, he said, do the work. And that definitely rings true with James. The book is relatively easy to follow, but it’s also not the type of book you can just mindlessly breeze through. You're never lost, but you're not quite coasting either.
The first thing that sticks out is Everett’s crafty use of language, which is at the heart of the novel. In front of white people, the Blacks use a deliberately broken dialect, playing dumb to stay alive. Meanwhile, among themselves, they speak eloquently, they’re sharp, they’re witty, they’re quite literally the smartest people in the book. Nowadays, interestingly, it’s the opposite: many Black people overcompensate around white people, buttoning everything up, only letting the guard down once we’re back with our own people. It’s the same reflex in James, just aimed in a different direction. The slave-talk is almost like a costume the characters continually put on and take off.
Another thing that stands out in James is its humor, which is ironic to say about a book rooted in slavery and despair. But then again, that’s probably why it works so well—because everything around it is so heavy. The humor works wonderfully in tandem with the trauma all throughout, sorta like real life.
The world Everett builds pulls you all the way in. You almost forget you’re reading fiction at all. And I loved how the people move through it. Some characters stay the whole way. Some show up for a few chapters and disappear. Some pass through just for a brief moment—their impact on the story no less prominent. This, too, is a reflection of real life.
Of course, I won't get into how it ends, except to say it earned every page. I was sad it was over and completely satisfied at the same time. James won the Pulitzer and the National Book Award, and it’s more than deserving of all the recognition it received. My cosign doesn’t move the needle next to that—all I can really offer is where it left me: wanting to read everything Percival Everett has ever written.
Rating: 5/5
