## Foreword

Reading this book I had the vision of a land, heretofore sunk in the mists of muteness, suddenly rise up into the eminence of song. Innumerable books have been written about the South: some good books have been written in the South. This book is the South. I do not mean that CANE covers the South or is the South's full voice. Merely this: a poet has arisen among our American youth who has known how to turn the essences and materials of his Southland into the essences and materials of literature. A poet has arisen in that land who writes, not as a Southerner, not as a rebel against Southerners, not as a negro, not as an apologist or priest or critic: who writes as a poet. The fashioning of beauty is ever foremost in his inspiration: not forcedly, but simply and because these ultimate aspects of his world are to him more real than all its specific problems. He has made songs and lovely stories of his land .. not of its yesterday, but of its immediate life. And that has been enough.

How rare this is will be clear to those who have followed with concern the struggle of the South toward literary expression: and the xx particular trial of that portion of its folk whose skin is dark. The gifted Negro has been so often thwarted from becoming a poet because his world was forever forcing him to recollect that he was a Negro. The artist must lose such lesser identities in the great Well of life. The English poet is not forever protesting and recalling that he is English. It is so natural and easy for him to be English that he can sing as a man. The French novelist is not forever noting: "This is French." It is so atmospheric for him to be French, that he can devote himself to saying: "This is human." This is an imperative condition for the creating of deep art. The whole will and mind of the creator must go below the surfaces of race. And this has been an almost impossible condition for the American negro to achieve, forced ever moment of his life into a specific and superficial plane of consciousness.

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The first negative significance of CANE is that this so natural and
restrictive state of mind is completely lacking. For Toomer, the Southland is
not a problem to be solved: it is a field of loveliness to be sung. The Ge-
orgia negro is not a downtrodden soul to be uplifted: he is material for
gorgeous painting. The segregated selfconscious brown belt of Washington
is not a topic to be discussed and expressed: an It is a subject of beauty and
of drama, worthy of creation in literary form.

It seems to me, therefore, that this is a first book in more ways than
one. It is a harbinger of the South's literary maturity: of its emergence
from the obsessions put upon its minds by the unending racial crisis: an ob-
session from which writers have made their indirect escape through sentiment-
alism, exoticism, polemic, 'problem' fiction and moral melodrama. It marks
the dawn of direct and unafraid creation. And, as the initial work of a man
of 27, it is the harbinger of a literary force of whose uncalculated future
I believe no reader of this book will be in doubt.

How typical is CANE of the South's still virgin soil and of its pressing
and
seeds! / The book's chaos of verse, tale, drama, its rhythmic rolling shift
narrative
from lyriism to expression, from Mystery to intimate pathos. But read the book
through and you will see a complex and significant form take substance from
its chaos. Part One is the primitive and evanescent black world of Georgia.
Part Two is the threshing and suffering brown world of Washington, lifted by
opportunity and contact into the anguish of selfconscious struggle. Part Three
is Georgia again ... the invasion into this black womb of the ferment seed: the
neurotic, educated, spiritually stirring Northern negro. As a broad form this
is superb, and the very looseness and unexpected shifts of the book's parts
make CANE still more South, still more of an aesthetic equivalent of the land.

What a land it is! What an Aeschylian beauty to its fateful problem!
Those of you who love our South will find here some of your love. Those of you
who know it not will perhaps begin to understand what a warm splendor is at

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last at dawn there.

"A feast of moon and men and barking hounds,
An orgy for some genius of the South
With bloodshot eyes and cane-lipped scented mouth
Surprised in making folk-songs ...."

So, in his still sometimes clumsy stride (for Toomer is finally a poet in prose) the author gives you an inkling of his revelation. An individual force, wise enough to drink humbly at this great Spring of his land .. such is the first impression of Jean Toomer, but beyond this humility and this power (which shows itself perhaps most splendidly in his complete freedom from the sense of persecution) there rises a figure more significant: the artist, hard, self-immolating, the artist who is not interested in races, whose domain in Life. The book's final part is no longer 'promise', it is achievement. It is no mere dawn: it is a bit of the full morning. These materials .. the ancient black man, mute and inaccessible and yet so MYCTICALLY close to the new tumultuous members of his race, the simple slave Past, the shredding negro Present, the irremlesscent passionate dream of the Tomorrow .. are made and measured by a craftsman into an unforgettable music. The notes of his counterpoint are particular, the themes are of intimate connection with us Americans. But the result is that abstract and absolute thing called Art.

WALDO FRAIK