The Man Who Lived Underground

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Prefatory Note

The Man Who Lived Underground

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Memories of My Grandmother

Afterword by Malcolm Wright

Note on the Texts

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Prefatory Note

SOME READERS may recognize the title of this novel from the short story of the same name in Richard Wright’s collection Eight Men. Before it was a story, “The Man Who Lived Underground” was the longer work published here for the first time. Recognizing the significance and artistic integrity of the novel as distinct from the merits of the story, the author’s elder daughter, Julia Wright, reached out to the editors at Library of America, publisher of the unexpurgated texts of Native Son and Black Boy (American Hunger), to see whether the novel-length version might be published. The publication of The Man Who Lived Underground, she indicated, should be accompanied by the essay “Memories of My Grandmother,” pointing out that the latter resembled “How Bigger Was Born,” written to explain the genesis of Native Son, and that it was her father’s wish to see the two works published together.

The Man Who Lived Underground was written in an era when lynching and beatings of Black Americans were sufficiently widespread in the United States (not just in the South) to enforce both Jim Crow legislation and unwritten codes of behavior governing interactions between Blacks and whites. Wright’s novel captures this environment of fear, just as it reflects anxieties about the events of World War II then unfolding, when the fate of the world seemed to hang in the balance. Those wishing to learn more about how Wright came to create the work that he believed “stemmed more from sheer inspiration” than anything he had written, and about the many influences on its composition, are encouraged to turn to “Memories of My Grandmother” after reading the novel.

The Man Who Lived Underground

Part One

THE BIG WHITE DOOR closed after him. He pulled his ragged cap low over his eyes, and headed through the summer dusk for the bus line two blocks away. It was Saturday evening; he had just been paid off. A steady breeze from the sea dried his sweaty shirt. Above him red and purple clouds hovered above the edges of apartment buildings. He neared a street intersection, paused, and looked at the slender roll of green bills clutched in his right fist; in the deepening gloam he counted his wages:

“Five, ten, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen . . .”

He walked again, chuckling: Yeah, she never makes a mistake. Tired and happy, he liked the feeling of being paid of a Saturday night; during seven sweltering days he had given his bodily strength in exchange for dollars with which to buy bread and pay rent for the coming week. He would spend tomorrow at church; when he returned to work Monday morning, he would feel renewed. Carefully, so that he would run no risk of losing it, he put the tight wad of crisp bills securely into his right trouser-pocket and his arms swung free. Street lamps blazed suddenly and two lines of lazy yellow gradually converged in the distance before him.