Mark Twain's "nigger"

The cowardice of removing the n-word from Huckleberry Finn.

If ever there was need to demonstrate the willingness of some Americans to downplay their country's undeniably racist history, this latest act of cultural revisionism should suffice. Fearing "pre-emptive censorship" at the hands of readers deemed too sensitive to make "textual encounters with this racial appellative", the Mark Twain scholar Alan Gribben has put together a new edition of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn that replaces the word "nigger" with the supposedly less "demeaning" term "slave". Its publisher, NewSouth Books, has uploaded on its site an excerpt from Gribben's introduction, in which he explains: "We may applaud Twain's ability as a prominent American literary realist to record the speech of a particular region during a specific historical era, but abusive racial insults that bear distinct connotations of permanent inferiority nonetheless repulse modern-day readers."

That this repulsion -- blind to context or artistic validity -- is indicative of the US's still unresolved attitudes to race should not be lost to Gribben, who, for 40 years, has "led college classes, bookstore forums and library reading groups in detailed discussions of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn". He recounts how students and audience members "seemed to prefer" his expurgated readings of Twain's work to the originals: "I could detect a visible sense of relief . . . as though a nagging problem with the text had been addressed." Yet surely the problem is not "with the text" but with the uncomfortable realities that the text cannot help but bring to the surface. If, as Gribben states, "the n-word remains inarguably the most inflammatory word in the English language", it demands to be asked why that is the case. Making it easier for readers to skirt the issue can only be a bad thing.

In his defence, Gribben cites the Harlem renaissance writer Langston Hughes and his 1940 plea for omitting the "incendiary word" from all literature. "Ironically or seriously, of necessity for the sake of realism, or impishly for the sake of comedy, it doesn't matter . . . [African Americans] do not like it in any book or play whatsoever, be the book or play ever so sympathetic." Yet it is disingenuous of Gribben to take Hughes so literally on this point, especially since Hughes's own well-known poem "Ku Klux" uses the word to devastating effect:

A Klansman said, "Nigger,
Look me in the face --
And tell me you believe in
The great white race."

In his memoir, The Big Sea, Hughes wrote: "The word nigger, you see, sums up for us who are colored all the bitter years of insult and struggle in America." By erasing it from Huck Finn, Gribben isn't erasing "insult and struggle" from the soul of America so much as papering over the cracks. To obscure the word "nigger" by euphemism, the Harvard law professor Randall Kennedy once argued, is to "flinch from coming to grips with racial prejudice":

Given the power of "nigger" to wound, it is important to provide a context within which presentation of that term can be properly understood. It is also imperative, however, to permit present and future readers to see for themselves directly the full gamut of American cultural productions, the ugly as well as the beautiful, those that mirror the majestic features of American democracy and those that mirror America's most depressing failings.

In Huck Finn's speech, Twain himself was subverting the traditional racial categories of "white" and "black" -- something that other writers (including Shelley Fisher Fishkin, author of Was Huck Black? Mark Twain and African American Voices) have explored in more depth than I can go into here. The character and book are inclusive of high life and low life, north and south, "sivilisation" and the "territories". It is this spirit of barrier-breaking inclusivity that marks out the work as distinctively American.

It boggles the mind that Gribben, an academic so clearly passionate about Twain and his achievements, should be willing to pander to the kind of readers who would unthinkingly allow his masterpiece to become the fifth most banned book of the 1990s. It would be a shame if schools in the US ever adopt his version into their curriculums.

Yo Zushi is a sub-editor of the New Statesman. His work as a musician is released by Eidola Records.

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Politicians and fashion? Why their approach can be telling

My week, from spying on the spies to Theresa May’s fashion charm offensive – and how Sadiq stole hearts.

About nine months ago I was asked if I wanted to spend a morning with Zac Goldsmith, as he appeared to be wakening from the slumber that had obviously taken hold of him when he decided to run for mayor of London. However, after about three minutes in his company (maybe less, actually) I realised that not even his campaign team – let alone voters in the Borough of Southwark – thought he had a hope in hell of winning.

There was only ever going to be one winner, and the enthusiasm with which Sadiq Khan has been greeted by London has been heartwarming. He won the politician award at GQ’s Men of the Year Awards a few weeks ago, and I’d never heard such a roar as he leapt up on stage to collect it. Well, I’ve heard such roars for the likes of Michael Caine, Elton John and Amy Schumer, but rarely for a politician. In fact, the last time there was such fulsome applause for a politician at the GQ awards was when we gave one to a pre-Sextator David Blunkett. Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised: the last time Noel Gallagher graced us with his presence, he asked: “Is this what a Conservative party conference looks like?”

 

On the dole

The recent past is being hauled over so repeatedly that soon there are going to be ­retrospectives of events that happened only last week. Or next week. On paper, the new exhibition at the V&A in London, entitled “You Say You Want a Revolution? Records and Rebels 1966-1970”, seemed slightly behind the curve, but the reality is very different – as it’s probably the best exhibition you’ll see in London this year.

This is all down to the curation, which was handled by Geoffrey Marsh and Victoria Broackes, the wizards behind “David Bowie Is”, the most successful show in the V&A’s history. It’s a terrific exhibition, although being reminded of the cultural and political insurrection of the Sixties also reminds you of the period’s seemingly innate optimism as a new London was mushrooming into life. Winston Churchill was dead, abortion was about to be made legal and the rise in happiness seemed exponential. Britain was experiencing almost full employment (though the government wobbled slightly in the spring of 1966 when it was announced that the jobless total had gone up to half a million). It never occurred to anyone that there might not be a job
waiting for them when they left school or their red-brick university.

 

Priced out

There certainly won’t be a house waiting for them, not if they intend to live in London. The marketing bods behind the new development at Battersea Power Station came in to make a presentation at Vogue House a few weeks ago, showing us lots of slides and videos about their fabulous ­development. There’s a Frank Gehry this and a Frank Gehry that, a swimming pool, a private members’ club and lots of artisanal independent retailers selling organic rhubarb and fancy beer, blah blah blah.

Their roll-call of “good things” included the ominous words “affordable housing”, but this appears to be anything but. After the presentation, I promptly stuck my hand up and asked them what they actually meant by affordable housing. The answer I got wasn’t satisfactory, so I asked again: “What does your entry-level accommodation cost?” And the very charming man with the lapel-mike coughed apologetically and almost whispered, “£350,000.” At which point I made my excuses and left.

The idea that my daughters can one day get on the property ladder in London is pure fantasy, and they certainly won’t be living in Battersea, or indeed anywhere near it.

 

Back in fashion

Last Thursday, Theresa May hosted her first reception at Downing Street for the British fashion industry, an event that usually takes place twice a year, and which is attended by fashion designers, industry figures, newspaper and magazine editors and the like. ­Samantha Cameron was always a significant supporter of the sector (which contributes more to the country’s GDP than the car industry), as was Sarah Brown before her, and it is instructive that May has decided to follow in their footsteps.

It’s also telling that Mrs Cameron was not only invited to the event at No 10 but turned up, which says a lot about both women. Theresa May is a fundamentally shy person, yet she not only made a pitch-perfect speech in front of a Brexit-sensitive (and quite possibly suspicious) crowd, but chose to embrace the opportunity to espouse the growing importance of an industry that was so closely associated with the wife of her predecessor. There is such a lot of noise at the moment surrounding the PM’s apparent lack of interest in remaining on good terms with David Cameron, so one wonders what, if anything, is going on here. Taken at face value, May’s move at the reception was extremely classy.

 

The spying game

The following day I found myself in Cheltenham for a five-hour briefing on counterterrorism, cyber-defence, drug smuggling and child kidnapping at GCHQ.

I had expected the place to be like the Foreign Office, but it’s actually more like Google, Apple or Nike, and feels as though it could easily be a campus on America’s “Left Coast”.

There is an incredible sense of purpose at GCHQ, a feeling that they are all working for the common good, and frankly I found it infectious. While the denizens of Silicon Valley might be very adept at pushing the frontiers of consumerism, designing training shoes, telephones and algorithms, it felt far more appropriate to be spending time with men and women obsessed with making the world safer.

Dylan Jones is the editor-in-chief of GQ and a trustee of the Hay Festival

This article first appeared in the 22 September 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The New Times