Mules and Men
Zora Neale Hurston
Zora Neale Hurston drives back into Eatonville, sits on the store porch, and writes down seventy tales and the whole conversation around them — the first big collection of Black American folklore, published in 1935.
Folklore and anthropology on these shelves means a book made out of other people's talk. The writer goes somewhere, listens, writes down what is said, and then has to decide how much of the visit to leave in. That decision is what separates one of these books from a card index of tales.
The older way was to strip the visit out. A collector gathered stories, arranged them by type, footnoted the variants, and disappeared from the page. The reader got the tales and no idea who told them or why they bothered. Zora Neale Hurston did the opposite in Mules and Men: she drives into Eatonville, sits on a store porch, and the tales arrive in the middle of a conversation with people who are named.
Reading one of these books means reading two things at once. There is the material — a lying contest, a hoodoo initiation, a song for a dead man. There is also the transaction that produced it: what the collector was told, what was withheld, and what a stranger with a notebook changes just by sitting down. Franz Boas, who trained Hurston at Columbia, is the reason the second question gets asked at all.
Mules and Men
Zora Neale Hurston
Zora Neale Hurston drives back into Eatonville, sits on the store porch, and writes down seventy tales and the whole conversation around them — the first big collection of Black American folklore, published in 1935.
Tell My Horse
Zora Neale Hurston
Two years in Jamaica and Haiti on a Guggenheim Fellowship, written up as travel, political history and religion at once — and named after the sentence a Haitian spirit says when it takes over a body.
The Friday Letter
The Friday letter explains one book at a time — what style it works in, why that matters, and where to go next.