by James Baldwin
A review
Many literary critics consider
James Baldwin to be one of the best writers in the history of the United
States. His books include, Go Tell It on the Mountain, Giovanni’s Room,
Another Country, Tell Me How Long the Train’s Been Gone, If Beal Street Could Talk,
Just Above My Head, and the short Story Collection Going to Meet the Man. Recently, I had the opportunity to read
Baldwin’s book The Price of the Ticket which
is a collection of his nonfiction writings from 1948-1985. This happens to be one of the best books I
have read. The following review explains
why I have this opinion.
One aspect of Baldwin’s literary
style I find compelling is the fact that he deals with a wide range of issues
from the point of view of his life experience which includes growing up in the
Harlem, New York. Many pseudo social
scientists would argue that this approach is subjective and lacks a
journalistic objectivity. However, after
reading this book I came away with the feeling that Baldwin makes his arguments
appear to be self-evident truths.
Therefore, in order to properly review this book I need to give a brief
biography of James Baldwin.
Baldwin's early life
James Arthur Baldwin was born in
Harlem, New York City in 1924 and passed away in 1987. His mother was a domestic worker and his
mother’s husband was a factory worker.
Baldwin was the eldest of nine children.
The person who James Baldwin called his father called him “The ugliest
child he ever saw.” When he was
fourteen, Baldwin became active in the church and gave the following reason for
his conversion. This passage also
describes the atmosphere that contributed to the difficult relationship between
Baldwin and the man he called his father.
“One did not have to be very
bright to realize how little one could do to change one’s situation; one did
not have to be abnormally sensitive to be worn down to a cutting edge by the
incessant and gratuitous humiliation and danger one encountered every working
day, all day long. The humiliation did
not apply merely to working days, or workers; I was thirteen and was crossing
Fifth Avenue on my way to the Forty-second Street library, and the cop in the
middle of the street muttered as I passed him, “Why don’t you niggers stay
uptown where you belong?” When I was
ten, and didn’t look, certainly, any older, two policemen amused themselves
with me by frisking me, making comic (and terrifying) speculations concerning
my ancestry and probable sexual prowess, and for good measure, leaving me flat
on my back in one of Harlem’s empty lots.
Just before and then during the Second World War, many of my friends
fled into the service, all to be changed there, and rarely for the better, many
to be ruined, and many to die. Others
fled to other states and cities––that is, to other ghettos. Some went on wine or whisky or the needle,
and are still on it. And others, like me
fled into the church.”[1]
Throughout his life Baldwin was a
voracious reader. He also had a ruthless
drive to pursue the truth, no matter what the cost. This stance caused Baldwin to break with the
church. However, throughout his writings
Baldwin frequently used the language he learned from his three-year
relationship with the church.
Baldwin’s active political
history may have started when he was thirteen and marched in a May Day parade
carrying banners and shouting, “East Side, West Side, all around the town, We
want the landlords to tear the slums down.”
His best friend introduced Baldwin
to the Young Peoples Socialist League.
He then, (at the age of nineteen) said he became a “Trotsyite––so that I
was in the interesting position of being an anti-Stalinist when America and
Russia were allies.” This means that at
the same time as there was an intense drive to support US involvement in the
second world war, Baldwin was one of the few who opposed this stance. The reason for his thinking had to do with
the fact that the people who practiced the discrimination Baldwin experienced
didn’t live in Germany, but in the United States of America.
Baldwin started writing as a
teenager and was given a job writing book reviews. This was one of many jobs he obtained in
order to make ends meet. In 1948 he won
a Rosenwald Fellowship for his book reviews and essays. He used this money to move to Paris,
France. At the time Baldwin had been
brutalized for being both Black and gay.
His best friend committed suicide, and for all these reasons he felt the
need to leave this country in order to gain the clear head he would need to
write. In the following passage, Baldwin
gives his reasons for leaving the United States.
Baldwin leaves the U.S. and then returns
“I left America because I doubted
my ability to survive the fury of the color problem here. (Sometimes I still do.) I wanted to prevent myself from becoming merely a Negro; or, even, merely a Negro
writer. I wanted to find out in what way
the specialness of my experience
could be made to connect me with other people instead of dividing me from
them. (I was as isolated from Negroes as
I was from whites, which is what happens when a Negro begins, at bottom, to
believe what white people say about him.)”[2]
In Paris, Baldwin was treated
with indifference, like most Americans at that time. He found this, in a way, a refreshing change
from the way he had been treated in the United States. However, since he had very little money, life
in Paris was far from easy.
Baldwin, in fact was arrested in
his first year in Paris. His roomate had
taken a sheet from a hotel the roommate had stayed in, and this act landed
Baldwin in prison for eight days. The
only reason why he was eventually released was because of his acquaintance with
an American lawyer living in Paris. This
and many other experiences caused Baldwin not to have any romantic illusions
about living in Paris. In the following
passage Baldwin describes his experience living in the Algerian section of
Paris.
“I had come to Paris with no
money and this meant that in those early years I lived mainly among les miserables––and, in Paris les miserables are Algerian. They slept four or five or six to a room, and
they slept in shifts, they were treated like dirt, and they scraped such
sustenance as they could off the filthy, unyielding Paris stones. The French called them lazy because they
appeared to spend most of their time sitting around, drinking tea, in their
cafes. But they were not lazy. They were mostly unable to find work, and
their rooms were freezing. (French
Students spent most of their time in cafes.
But they were not lazy.) The Arab
cafes were warm and cheap, and they were together there. They could not, in the main, afford the
French cafes, nor in the main, were they welcome there. And, though they spoke French, and had been,
in a sense, produced by France, they were not at home in Paris, no more at home
than I, though for a different reason.
They remembered, as it were an opulence, opulence of taste, touch, water
sun, which I had barely dreamed of, and they had not come to France to
stay. One day they were going home, and
they knew exactly were home was. They,
thus, held something within them which they would never come to surrender to
France. But on my side of the ocean, or
so it seemed to me then, we had surrendered everything, or had had everything
taken away, and there was no place for us to go: we were home. The Arabs were
together in Paris, but the American blacks were alone. The Algerian poverty was absolute, their
stratagems grim, their personalities, for me, unreadable, their present bloody
and their future certain to be more so: and yet, after all, their situation was
far more coherent than mine. I will not
say that I envied them, for I didn’t, and the directness of their hunger, or
hungers, intimidated me; but I respected them, and as I began to discern what
their history had made of them, I began to suspect, somewhat painfully, what my
history had made of me.”[3]
When the civil rights movement
erupted in the United States, Baldwin felt compelled to be a part of it and
returned to the United States. He
reported on what he saw in several states throughout the South at a time when
the Jim Crow laws were being challenged.
In the following passage, Baldwin described his impressions of attending
a church service in Montgomery, Alabama while the Reverend Martin Luther King
was presiding.
“Until Montgomery, the Negro
church, which has always been the place where protest and condemnation could be
most vividly articulated also operated as a kind of sanctuary. The minister who spoke could not hope to effect
any objective change in the lives of his hearers, and the people did not expect
him to. All they came to find, and all
that he could give them, was the sustenance for another day’s journey. Now, King could certainly give his
congregation that, but he could also give them something more than that, and he
had. It is true that it was they who had begun the struggle of which
he was now the symbol and the leader; it is true that it had taken all of their insistence to overcome in him a
grave reluctance to stand where he now stood.
But it is also true, and it does not happen often, that once he had
accepted the place they had prepared for him, their struggle became absolutely
indistinguishable from his own, and took over and controlled his life, He suffered with them and, thus, he helped
them to suffer. The joy which filled
this church, therefore, was the joy achieved by people who have ceased to
delude themselves about an intolerable situation, who have found their prayers
for a leader miraculously answered, and who now know that they can change their
situation, if they will.”[4]
James Baldwin also wrote extensively
about the forces opposed Martin Luther King, and anyone who chose to challenge
racism in the United States. In the
following passage he described how the racists who opposed the civil rights
movement were merely acting on the policies of the United States government.
“A mob cannot afford to doubt:
that the Jews killed Christ or that niggers want to rape their sisters or that
anyone who fails to make it in the land of the free and the home of the brave
deserves to be wretched. But these ideas
do not come from the mob. They come from
the state, which creates and manipulates the mob. The idea of black persons as property, for
example, does not come from the mob. It
is not a spontaneous idea. It does not
come from the people, who knew better, who thought nothing of intermarriage
until they were penalized for it: this idea comes from the architects of the
American States. These architects decided
that the concept of Property was more important––more real––than the
possibilities of the human being.”[5]
Baldwin continued in this vein
with the following passage.
“The point of all this is that
black men were brought here as a source of cheap labor. They were indispensable to the economy. In order to justify the fact that men were
treated as though they were animals, the white republic had to brainwash itself
into believing that they were indeed animals and deserved to be treated like animals. Therefore it is almost impossible for any
Negro child to discover anything about his actual history. The reason is that this ‘animal,’ once he
suspects his own worth, once he starts believing that he is a man, has begun to
attack the entire power structure. This
is why America has spent such a long time keeping the Negro in his place. What I am trying to suggest to you is that it
was not an accident, it was not an act of God, it was not done by well-meaning
people muddling into something which they didn’t understand. It was a deliberate policy hammered into
place in order to make money from black flesh.
And now, in 1963, because we have never faced this fact, we are in
intolerable trouble.”[6]
In an essay titled White Man’s Guilt, Baldwin looks at many
of the underlying reasons for racism.
This is what he had to say.
History and the search for the truth
“White man, hear me! History, as nearly no one seems to know, is
not merely something to be read. And it
does not refer merely, or even principally, to the past. On the contrary, the great force of history
comes from the fact that we carry it within us, are unconsciously controlled by
it in many ways, and history is literally present
in all we do. It could scarcely be
otherwise, since it is to history that we owe our frames of reference, our
identities, and our aspirations. And it
is with great pain and terror that one begins to realize this. In great pain and terror one begins to assess
the history which has placed one where one is and formed one’s point of
view. In great pain and terror because,
therefore, one enters into battle with that historical creation, Oneself, and
attempts to create oneself according to a principle more humane and more
liberating; one begins the attempt to achieve a level of personal maturity and
freedom which robs history of its tyrannical power, and also changes history.
“But, obviously, I am speaking as
an historical creation which has had bitterly to contest its history, to
wrestle with it, and finally accept it in order to bring myself out of it. My point of view certainly is formed by my
history, and it is probable that only a creature despised by history finds
history a questionable matter. On the
other hand, people who imagine that history flatters them (as it does, indeed,
since they wrote it) are impaled on their history like a butterfly on a pin and
become incapable of seeing or changing themselves, or the world.
“This is the place in which it
seems to me most white Americans find themselves. Impaled.
They are dimly, or vividly, aware that the history they have fed
themselves is mainly a lie, but they do not know how to release themselves from
it, and they suffer enormously from the resulting personal incoherence. This incoherence is heard nowhere more plainly
than in those stammering terrified dialogues which white Americans sometimes
entertain with the black conscience, the black man in America. The nature of this stammering can be reduced
to a plea. Do not blame me. I was not there. Anyway it was your chiefs who sold you to
me.
I was not present in the middle passage. I am not responsible for the textile mills of
Manchester, or the cotton fields of Mississippi. Besides, consider how the English, too,
suffered in those mills and in those awful cities! I also despise
the governors of southern states and the sheriffs of southern counties, and I also want your child to have a decent
education and rise as high as capabilities will permit. I have nothing against you, nothing! What have you got against me? What do you want? But on the same day, in another gathering and
in the most private chamber of his heart always, the white American remains
proud of that history for which he does not wish to pay, and from which,
materially, he has profited so much.
“On that same day in another
gathering, and in the most private chamber of his heart always, the black
American finds himself facing the
terrible roster of his lost: the dead, black junkie; the defeated, black
father; the unutterably weary, black mother; the unutterable ruined, black
girl. And one begins to suspect an awful
thing: That people believe that they deserve
their history, and that when they operate on this belief, they perish. But one knows that they can scarcely avoid
believing that they deserve it: one’s short time on this earth is very
mysterious and very dark and very hard.
I have known many black men and women and black boys and girls who
really believed that it was better to be white than black: whose lives were
ruined or ended by this belief; and I, myself, carried the seeds of this
destruction within me for al long time.”
“White man, hear me! A man is a man, a woman is a woman, a child
is a child. To deny these facts is to
open the doors on a chaos deeper and deadlier and, within the space of a man’s
lifetime, more timeless, more eternal, than the medieval vision of Hell. White man, you have already arrived at this
unspeakable blasphemy in order to make money.
You cannot endure the things you acquire––the only reason you
continually acquire them, like junkies on hundred-dollar-a-day habits––and your
money exists mainly on paper. God help
you on that day when the population demands to know what is behind that
paper. But, even beyond this, it is
terrifying to consider the precise nature of the things you have bought with
the flesh you have sold––of what you continue to buy with the flesh you
continue to sell. To what, precisely,
are you headed? To what human product
precisely are you devoting so much ingenuity, so much energy.”[7]
This passage was not––in my
opinion––a blanket condemnation of white people. Throughout his life Baldwin met white people
who shared his beliefs, defended him as a human being, and were dedicated to
making this a better world. However,
Baldwin was also quick to point out that those white people who did not hold
these racist ideas represented a tiny minority in the United States. In the following passage he explains how
black people have not been fooled by the mythology they are taught which is
disguised as American history.
“The American Negro has the great
advantage of having never believed that collection of myths to which white
Americans cling: That their ancestors were all freedom-loving heroes, that they
were born in the greatest country the world has ever seen, or that Americans
are invincible in battle and wise in peace, that Americans have always dealt
honorably with Mexicans and Indians and all other neighbors or inferiors, that
American men are the world’s most direct and virile, that American women are
pure. Negroes know far more about white
Americans than that; it can almost be said, in fact, that they know about white
Americans what parents––or, anyway, mothers––know about their children, and
that they very often regard white Americans that way. And perhaps this attitude, held in spite of
what they know and have endured, helps to explain why Negroes, on the whole,
and until lately, have allowed themselves to feel so little hatred. The tendency has really been, insofar as this
was possible, to dismiss white people as the slightly mad victims of their own
brainwashing. One watched the lives they
led. One could not be fooled about that;
one watched the things they did and the excuses that they gave themselves, and
if a white man was really in trouble, deep trouble, it was to the Negro’s door
that he came. And one felt that if one
had had that white man’s worldly advantages, one would never have become as
bewildered and as joyless and as thoughtlessly cruel as he”[8]
While some of his writings might
give the impression that Baldwin was a pessimist, the following quotation
explains why he felt that the future belongs to those who have been wronged in
the past.
Reality, and the roots of the struggle for liberation
“Power, then, which can have no
morality itself, is yet dependent on human energy, on the wills and desires of
human beings. When power translates
itself into tyranny, it means that the principles on which that power depended,
and which were its justification, are bankrupt.
When this happens, and it is happening now, power can only be defended
by thugs and mediocrities––and seas of blood.
The representatives of the status
quo are sickened and divided, and dread looking into the eyes of their
young; while the excluded begin to realize, having endured everything, that
they can endure everything. They do not know the precise shape of the
future, but they know that the future belongs to them. They realize this––paradoxically––by the
failure of the moral energy of their oppressors and begin, almost
instinctively, to forge a new morality, to create the principals on which a new
world will be built.”[9]
James Baldwin did not limit his
writings to the politics of the United States and France. This is what he had to say about the war
against the people of Korea.
“I began to feel a terrified pity
for the white children of these white people: who had been sent, by their
parents, to Korea, though their parents did not know why. Neither did their parents know why these
miserable, incontestably inferior, rice-eating gooks refused to come to heel,
and would not be saved. But I knew why. I came from a long line of miserable,
incontestably inferior, rice eating, chicken-stealing, hog-swilling
niggers––who had acquired these skills in their flight from bondage––who still
refused to come to heel, and who would not be saved. If two and two make four, then it is a very
simple matter to recognize that people unable to be responsible for their own
children, and who care so little about each other, are unlikely instruments for
the salvation of the people who they permit themselves the luxury of despising
as inferior to themselves. Even in the
case of Korea, we, the blacks at least, knew why our children were there: they
had been sent there to be used, in exactly the same way, and for the same
reasons, as the blacks had been so widely dispersed out of Africa––an
incalculable investment of raw material in what was not yet known as the common
market.”[10]
Just as Baldwin compared the
struggle of Black people in this country to the struggle of Koreans, he also
compared the struggle of the Black Panthers to the struggle of the Vietnamese
people.
“Let us tell it like it is: the
rhetoric of a Stennis, a Maddox, a Wallace, historically and actually, has
brought death to untold numbers of black people and it was meant to bring death
to them. This is absolutely true, no
matter who denies it––no black man can possibly deny it. Now, in the interest of the public peace, it
is the Black Panthers who are being murdered in their beds, by the dutiful and
zealous police. But, for a policeman,
all black men, especially young black men, are probably Black Panthers and all
black women and children are probably allied with them: just as, in a
Vietnamese village, the entire population, men, women, children, are considered
as probable Vietcong. In the village, as
in the ghetto, those who were not dangerous before the search-and-destroy
operation assuredly become so afterward, for the inhabitants of the village,
like the inhabitants of the ghetto, realize that they are identified, judged,
menaced, murdered, solely because of the color of their skin. This is as curious a way of waging a war for
a people’s freedom as it is of maintaining the domestic public peace.”[11]
Baldwin called the last essay of The Price of the Ticket: Here Be
Dragons. This essay was written in
1985 and this is where he wrote about his sexual identity of being gay. Baldwin concluded this essay with the
following quotation which underscores the self evident truth that whatever a
person’s sexual identity is, that identity is perfectly legitimate.
“But we are all androgynous, not
only because we are all born of a woman impregnated by the seed of a man but
because each of us, helplessly and forever, contains the other––male in female,
female in male, white in black and black in white. We are a part of each other. Many of my countrymen appear to find this
fact exceedingly inconvenient and even unfair and so, very often, do I. But none of us can do anything about it.”[12]
One might wonder why I have found
this book to be so compelling. Well,
since James Baldwin looked at the issues in this book from his personal
experience, I might as well explain why this book was so inspiring to me. In order to do this I need to give some
background into my personal history.
I was born in Newark, New Jersey
in the year 1952. Although I was raised
in a neighborhood only about one hour’s drive from Harlem, this was a
completely different world from the one James Baldwin was raised in. Baldwin explained in his book that no one has
a skin color which is white. Therefore all of us are colored in one
way or another. However, in the United
States the politicians, university professors, and journalists consider me to
be white.
I am also Jewish and was raised
in the Weekquahic section of Newark that was overwhelmingly Jewish in my
younger years. Then, something happened
in Newark which some people call white
flight. Black people began moving
into the neighborhood and white people began to move out, and in a hurry. The price of real estate that usually goes
up, plummeted because people could not move out of their homes fast
enough. My family did not have the
resources to move and when I was in the sixth or seventh grade, I was surprised
to learn that the overwhelming majority of my classmates were Black.
My father had the unusual
profession of being a tennis instructor.
Every day during the summer we traveled to a country club where my
father worked, and then returned home to Newark in the evening. In other words, every day I witnessed the
contrast between the opulence of the country club, and the working class
atmosphere of Newark.
When I was fourteen years old a
rebellion of the African American community erupted in Newark. The media called this rebellion a
“riot.” Black people lived in Newark,
paid taxes, and worked at jobs that created an enormous amount of wealth in
this country. This same community became
exasperated at the routine police harassment they experienced. There was a demonstration against the police
and, as in all rebellions, there was some looting.
At this point, I should say
something about the looting which erupted in the 1967 rebellions in
Newark. Today in the United States about
one percent of the population owns about half of all financial wealth, while eighty
percent of the population owns no more than six percent of that wealth. The press does not consider this normal state
of affairs to be looting. To the
contrary, the press calls this relationship ethical,
and civilized. While I would argue that the tactic of
looting is not effective in the long term, this needs to be considered in
context with the normal looting which working people are exposed to every day.
However, in response to the 1967
Newark rebellions, the government collaborated with the media to spread the
totally fabricated rumor that there were “snipers” firing guns from the roofs
of buildings. The National Guard used
this fabricated rumor to justify the murder of twenty-one human beings and the
arrests of 700.
While this rebellion erupted, I
was at the country club. At the young
age of fourteen, I had already been desensitized to many of the horrors of the
world. Since everyone I knew went along
with the fantasy promoted in the press, I saw no reason to doubt that
story. Given what the press was saying
about the events in Newark, and my personal experience at the country club, I
couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about.
James Baldwin wrote about an
event in his childhood that caused him to begin to think differently. This is what he had to say about a picture he
saw while his family experienced the ravages of the depression of the
1930’s.
Moments that cause a transformation in the way we think
“Yet there is a moment from that time that I remember today and will probably
always remember––a photograph from the center section of the Daily News.
We were starving, people all over the country were starving. Yet here were several photographs of farmers,
somewhere in America, slaughtering hogs and pouring milk onto the ground in
order to force prices up (or keep them up), in order to protect their
profits. I was much too young to know
what to make of this beyond the obvious.
People were being forced to starve, and being driven to death for the
sake of money.”[13]
Like Baldwin, there was a moment
that caused me to begin to think differently about the world I lived in. Since my father was a tennis instructor, I
was introduced to the game at an early age.
However, in Newark, tennis was not a game that most young people
played. For this reason, although I was
never better than an above average player, I was the best tennis player in my
high school for four consecutive years.
I attended a public music and art
high school that required an entrance exam in order to be accepted. Although this was a magnet school, the
condition of the school was run down and there was no full sized gymnasium for
about 700 students. I had no teachers at
all for the subjects of Spanish and Physics.
While attending those classes, all the students merely sat and tried to
stay out of trouble. The school itself
was located in close proximity to the projects.
The dilapidated condition of the school I attended reflected a national
trend where schools in urban areas are under-funded while schools in many
suburban communities might have double the funding per student.
In my senior year of high school
I met someone who attended Livingston High and we went to that school––about
thirty minutes outside of Newark––to play a game of tennis. I was shocked by what I saw at that school. The school was set back from the main road
about a quarter of a mile and was surrounded by trees. Not only were there tennis courts, but a
football field, a baseball field, and a swimming pool all on the campus of the
school.
I took a minute to gaze at the
enormity of the contrast between this school and the school I attended. Both these schools were public, but they were
as different as night and day. Then, I
thought about the contrast between the country club I went to as a child and
the reality of Newark, New Jersey. I
thought about the fact that this contrast didn’t exist because someone made a
mistake or an error in judgment. This
contrast existed because there was something fundamentally wrong with the
system of government we were living under.
Within the next year I joined an organization called the Young Socialist
Alliance and began a lifelong commitment to aiding the movement that is
attempting to make this a world where human needs are more important than
profits.
During a period of twenty years I
worked in factories for two companies in the auto manufacturing industry. One job that lasted for fourteen years was
organized by the United Auto Workers Union.
In the course of those years I experienced the reality of how workers
who produce the wealth of this country are treated––merely as appendages of
machines. At the job I had for fourteen
years, we gave the company concessions, improved quality, and increased
productivity. The company rewarded us
for this effort by closing the plant and eliminating about 2,500 jobs. This was so a German Baron who owns a one
billion dollar art collection could maximize profits on his investments.
These are some of the reasons why
I could identify with James Baldwin’s statement, “White man, here me!” Clearly I’m not African American and will
never be able to fully appreciate what this experience means. However, working in a factory in this
country, I’ve been exposed to a similar hypocrisy that rationalizes the abusive
treatment workers experience every day.
Although I’ve read many excellent books about the history of working
people, Baldwin’s The Price of the Ticket
is unique in the insight it gives to the reality of what it means to live
in the world today.
Although this is a fairly long
review, it only contains a small fraction of the vast array of ideas covered in
The Price of the Ticket. I felt that it would be better to give a
flavor for Baldwin’s writing rather than list many of the issues he wrote
about. I will just say that in the 690
pages of this book there is scarcely a paragraph that is not worth reading.
Clearly, I don’t agree with
everything written in this book. There
are no two people in the world who have the same opinions on everything. However, James Baldwin’s ruthless pursuit of
the truth and the utter beauty with which he presents his arguments makes this
book special, and I believe inspiring to anyone who wants to strip away the
mythology we are exposed to every day.
[1] Baldwin,
James, The Price of the Ticket, P.
339 Chapter: The Fire Next Time, 1963
[2] Ibid,
Chapter: The Discovery of What It Means
to Be an American, 1959, P. 171
[3] Ibid,
Chapter: No Name in the Street, 1972, P. 461
[4] Ibid,
Chapter: The Dangerous Road Before Martin
Luther King,1961, P. 250
[5] Ibid, Introduction, 1985, P. xix
[7] Ibid,
Chapter: White Man’s Guilt, 1965, P.
410, 411, 413
[8] Ibid,
Chapter: The Fire Next Time, 1963, P.
377, 378
[9] Ibid,
Chapter: No Name in the Street, 1972,
P. 495
[10]Ibid,
Chapter: The Devil Finds Work, 1976,
P. 611
[11]Ibid,
Chapter: No Name in the Street, 1972,
P. 517, 518
[12]Ibid,
Chapter: Here Be Dragons, 1985, P.
690
[13]Ibid,
Chapter Dark Days, 1980, P. 659
