a warped sense of communication
impairs the business of conventional narrative
I am compelled to protest
one will no longer be able to publish, therefore will one perish?
Will someone create an electronic book that one can
autograph? Or has that been done already? Will the opportunity
to be discovered posthumously become a thing of the past,
ruling out “better late than never?” Will the literary world
become as pornographic as the music business? A world in
which—with few exceptions—only the beautiful and attractive
mediocrities succeed while true singers are doomed to the
type and widely spaced chapter headings, more than half its 33
chapters averaging two to four pages. Powers exhibited in "I
Know Why the Caged Bird Sings" have deserted her in "Song."
Her titillating confessions and coquettish allusions come off as
redundant and hollow old tricks. She not only engages
book's content. Shamelessly, she cannibalizes the reputations of
three major black figures: Malcolm X (Al-Hajj Malik El-
Shabazz), James Baldwin and King Jr., using them as linchpins
on which to promote her specious pose as an activist.
i am seized with the desire to end
the world lengthens then contracts