The Native Son | Page 4

to writing about California is that scenery and
climate - and weather even - will creep in. Inevitably anything you

produce sounds like a cross between a railroad folder and a circus
program. You can't discuss the people without describing their
background; for they reflect it perfectly; or their climate, because it has
helped to make them the superb beings they are. A tendency manifests
itself in you to revel in superlatives and to wallow in italics. You find
yourself comparing adjectives that cannot be compared - unique for
instance. Unique is a persistent temptation. For, the rules of grammar
not-withstanding, California is really the most unique spot on the
earth's surface. As for adjectives like enormous, colossal, surpassing,
overpowering and nouns like marvel, wonder, grandeur, vastness, they
are as common in your copy as commas.
Another difficulty is that nobody outside California ever believes you. I
don't blame them. Once I didn't believe it myself. If there was anything
that formerly bored me to the marrow of my soul, it was talk about
California by a regular dyed-in-the-wool Californiac. But I got mine
ultimately. Even as I was irritated, I now irritate. Even as I was bored, I
now bore. Ever since I first saw California, and became, inevitably, a
Californiac, I have been talking about it, irritating and boring
uncounted thousands. I begin placatingly enough, "Yes, I know you
aren't going to believe this," I say. "Once I didn't believe it myself. I
realize that it all sounds impossible. But after you've once been there - "
Then I'm off. When I've finished, there isn't an hysterical superlative
adjective or a complimentary abstract noun unused in my vocabulary.
I've told all the East about California. I've told many of the countries of
Europe about California. I even tell Californians about California. I will
say to the credit of Californians though that they listen. Listen! did I
say listen? They drink it down like a child absorbing its first fairy tale.
In another little volume devoted to the praise of California, Willie Britt
is on record as saying that he'd rather be a busted lamp-post on Battery
Street than the Waldorf-Astoria. I said once that I'd rather be sick in
California than well anywhere else. I'm prepared to go further. I'd
rather be in prison in California than free anywhere else. San Quentin is
without doubt the most delightfully situated prison in the whole world.
Besides I have a lot of friends - but I won't go into that now. Anyway if
I ever do get that severe jail-sentence which a long-suffering family has

always prophesied for me, I'm going to petition for San Quentin.
Moreover, I would rather talk about California than any other spot on
earth. I'd rather write about California than any other spot on earth. Is it
possible that any Californian Chamber of Commerce has to pay a press
agent? Incredible! Inexplicable! I wonder that local millionaires don't
bid their entire fortune for the privilege. Now what has Willie Britt to
say?
Yes, my idea of a pleasant occupation would be listing, cataloguing,
inventorying, describing and - oh joy! - visiting the wonders of
California. But that would be impossible for any one enthusiast to
accomplish in the mere three-score-and-ten of Scriptural allotment.
Methusalah might have attempted it. But in these short-lived days,
ridiculous to make a start. And so, perforce, I must share this joyous
task with other and more able chroniclers. I am willing to leave the
beauty of the scenery to Mary Austin, the wonder of the weather to
Jesse Williams, the frenzy of its politics to Sam Blythe, the beauty of
its women to Julian Street, the glory of the old San Francisco to Will
Irwin, the splendor of the new San Francisco to Rufas Steele, its
care-free atmosphere to Allan Dunn, if I may place my laurel wreath at
the foot of the Native Son. Indeed, when it comes to the Native Son, I
yield the privilege of praise to no one.
For the Native Son is an unique product, as distinctively and
characteristically Californian as the gigantic redwood, the flower
festival, the ferocious flea, the moving-picture film, the annual boxing
and tennis champion, the golden poppy or the purple prune. There is
only one other Californian product that can compare with him and
that's the Native Daughter. And as for the Native Daughter - - But if I
start up that squirrel track I'll never get back to the trail. Nevertheless
some day I'm going to pick out a diamond-pointed pen, dip it in wine
and on paper made from orange-tawny POPPY petals, try to do justice
to the Native Daughter. For this inflexible moment, however, my
subject is the Native Son. But if scenery and climate - and weather even