Souls of Black Folk: A Graphic Interpretation

The Souls of Black Folk, a collection of essays by W.E.B. Du Bois, was published in 1903, and provides insight by a renown Black academic-activist in a unique position to speak to the American Black experience. A new graphic adaptation by Paul Peart-Smith honors the original work by Du Bois and makes it more accessible by synthesizing it and melding it to comics.

One can argue that this landmark work by Du Bois doesn’t require a comics adaptation. In its powerful writing, the original states its case clearly and precisely. Du Bois masterfully alternates from reportage, commentary and personal essay. The pace of the work is thoroughly modern. The format is concise and compelling, complete with various bits of artwork, illustration, and even passages from Black spirituals. That said, this graphic novel works with the original’s idiosyncratic style as if a perfectly suited additional musician has been added to a jam session.

 

Great visual storytelling is the result of patiently and audaciously wading into a subject and being brave and confident enough to shake off details to reach the key material. That is what Paul Peart-Smith does here with his interpretation. It makes me think of some of the best short documentaries I’ve seen. Sometimes, I want to plumb for the essentials to a subject with no apologies or maybe I want to appreciate another medium’s take on a story. A solid graphic adaptation holds its own in this regard without needing to compete for attention.

In this book, Peart-Smith consistently intertwines the original text with a keen sense of what’s going to keep the page alive. One horizontal panel of a lone mule out in the distance observed from afar through a never-ending fence, for instance, strikes the right chord in evoking the sorrow of promises not kept, an allusion to the “forty acres and mule” the U.S. government initially promised freed slaves. As Du Bois relates to the reader, a mistake was made somewhere. Du Bois goes on to ironically agree that the South has a point in fearing “an educated Negro” since it’s true that education among all kinds of men has an element of danger and revolution. To accompany this quote, Peart-Smith provides a crisp portrait of Hiram Rhodes Revels, America’s first Black United States senator.

So, it’s a balancing act as Peart-Smith juggles and matches the right imagery to the right snippet of text. But it’s more than that. In a sense, The Souls of Black Folk has entered a world within a world with this adaptation. As the title makes clear, this is every bit an exploration of the human heart in the depths of despair seeking a way out. If slavery was the South’s “peculiar institution,” then the way out of it must surely be as peculiar, if not more so, than the way in. I feel Du Bois’s frustration, and determination, to explain American history as he experienced it firsthand. And I feel Peart-Smith’s inspired reaction to every argument and observation that Du Bois makes.

Peart-Smith gracefully tackles three of the famous phrases in the book early on: the color line; the vast veil; and the double-consciousness. On the first few pages, Peart-Smith depicts Du Bois navigating white guilt over slavery, which sets up the assertion of “the problem of the color line.” This segues to recollections of his first experiences with racism as a boy, being denied entrance to a whole other world by “a vast veil.” Ultimately, we reach the conclusion that African-Americans will always see reality, one African and the other American, through “a double-consciousness.” One vision cannot exist without the other, both of equal value. In the end, the African-American, despite the risk and danger, “must be himself, and not another.” To this statement, Peart-Smith devotes one of the most striking pages in the book, of a Black man “being himself” all the way to his death by lynching.

Du Bois, by a bit of privilege, charm and perhaps even luck, avoided anything close to being lynched. His fate involved being an esteemed educator. But even Du Bois was regularly reminded of his place in American society. This essay collection reaches its crescendo with “Of the Meaning of Progress,” with Du Bois recollecting how, as a student at Fisk University, he tutored a small group of children during the summer in a nearby village. He was greeted with the customary pleasantry by the white owners of the school but, at dinner, he was not allowed to eat with them. He was given all of one month to provide a glimmer of education to the town’s youth and, even that was cut short by demands to return to work in the fields. Peart-Smith, as if guided by Du Bois himself, captures all sorts of subtle nuances, signs of being at the brink, observations deep in the mind’s eye, that act as a second pair of eyes in conveying the delicate game of playing by one set of rules while dreaming of a better life, for future generations if not for yourself. I’m talking about the cumulative effect of a little drawing of an all-too-coveted chicken dinner here, a portrait of a roach-infested dwelling there, followed by an image of a diligent youth reading as his prized book is soaked by torrential rain. A boy living in a world that asked little of him and mercilessly ridiculed whatever he might offer it. Does this add up to a fate worse than slavery? Ask Du Bois. Ask Peart-Smith. Both provide a window from which to consider these matters. As a matter of fact, ask Thomas Nast, who provides a very sobering commentary in his famous 1874 political cartoon on white supremacy, included in Du Bois’s original work.

With genteel courtesy, Du Bois still manages to roar with rage. It’s fascinating to read his introductory remarks in the essay, “Of Booker T. Washington.” Du Bois goes out of his way to give praise to Washington’s good intentions, which amount to what came to be known, in a Washington speech, as “The Atlanta Compromise.” The idea was that Blacks should not ask for too much, no civil rights or voting rights, at least not any time soon. Instead, they should focus on vocational training and amassing wealth as best they can. Du Bois points out that this intent is all well and good except that it is a dead end. Without any rights, African-Americans are left with nothing to show for their efforts. Here, Peart-Smith dutifully follows the line of argument right up to the clincher. No matter how well Washington manages to compromise, he is leaving out all that matters most: life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. So, as goes the path of the artful essay so goes the path of the artful comics encapsulation.

The collection winds down with revisiting previous thoughts on Booker T. Washington and related existential matters. In a morbid turn, Du Bois considers his dead infant son better off as he is now “above the veil.” But, hang on, we get a second wind with “Of Alexander Crummell,” which explores the Pan Africanism movement Crummell founded and Du Bois became involved with. This is then followed by, believe it or not, a horror story, which brings to my mind, at least, a forerunner of things to come with Jordan Peele. There’s no doubt that Du Bois would be beside himself to see what Peart-Smith did with his foray into what amounts to a bit of early pulp fiction. “Of the Coming of John” features two young men named John, one Black, one white, both leaving their small town to make their mark in the big city. It’s once the two Johns come back home that each must confront the other.

And then we end with some thoughts on the Black spiritual, and its roots in slave songs. As Du Bois saw it, there was more vigor and ingenuity than beauty in America, except for a few things like "the Negro folk song," borne out of the rhythmic cry of the slave. This final essay, “Of the Songs of Sorrows,” reads like an epic poem with a defiant ferocity. Du Bois does not mince words here and challenges his white readers to realize how much African-Americans have contributed to the nation, even long before the arrival of the Pilgrims. But, despite the rage, there is also an impulse to reach out, to reason. The book ends with such a plea: “In thy good time may infinite Reason turn the tangle straight, and these crooked marks on a fragile leaf indeed be not.” It is a desire for a better and just world that can never be overstated.

This book is edited by Paul Buhle and Herb Boyd, who provide excellent notes before each chapter as well as an afterword. An introduction is provided by Jonathan Scott Holloway. It is clear that a great deal of care was taken in the creation of this book. This is a work that needs to be on more people's radars. I think the academic press is leading the way with more engaging work in comics each year. Souls of Black Folk: A Graphic Interpretation is an example of how work of a subtle and complex nature can be brought to the attention of a new generation.

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