The Native Son | Page 6

Inez Haynes Irwin
folder with its voluble
vocabulary has already beaten me to it. I do not refer solely to that rich
yellow-and-violet, springtime bourgeoning which turns California into
one huge Botticelli background of flower colors and sheens. I do not
refer to that heavy purple-and-gold, autumn fruitage, which changes it
to a theme for Titian and Veronese. I am thinking particularly of those
surprising phenomena left over from pre-historic eras; the "big" trees -
the sequoia gigantea, which really belong to the early fairy-tales of H.
G. Wells, and to those other trees, not so big but still giants - the
sequoia sempivirens or redwoods, which make of California forests
black-and-silver compositions of filmy fluttering light and solid bedded
shade. I am thinking also of that patch of pre-historic cypresses in
Monterey. These differ from the straight, symmetrical classic redwoods
as Rodin's "Thinker" differs from the Apollo. Monstrous, contorted
shapes - those Monterey cypresses look like creatures born
underground, who, at the price of almost unbearable torture, have torn
through the earth's crust, thrusting and twisting themselves airward. I
refer even to that astonishing detail in the general Californian
sulphitism, the seals which frequent beach rocks close to the shore, a
short car ride from the heart of a city as big as San Francisco.
- and this -
California, because of rich gold deposits, and a richer golden, sunshine,
its golden spring poppy and its golden summer verdure, seems both
literally and figuratively, a golden land golden and gay. It is a land full
of contradictions however. For those amazing memorials from a
prehistoric past give it in places a strange air of tragedy. I challenge this
grey old earth to produce a strip of country more beautiful, also more
poignant and catastrophic in natural connotation, than the one which
includes these cypresses of Monterey. Yet this same mordant area holds
Point Lobos, a headland which displays in moss and lichens all the
minute delicacy of a gleeful, elfin world. I challenge the earth to
produce a region more beautiful, yet also more gay and debonair in
natural connotation, than the one which enfolds San Francisco. For here
the water presents gorgeous, plastic color, alternating blue and gold.
Here Mount Tamalpais lifts its long straight slopes out of the sea and

thrusts them high in the sky. Here Marin County offers contours of
dimpled velvet bursting with a gay irridescence of wildflowers. Yet
that same gracious area frames the grim cliff-cup which holds San
Francisco bay - a spot of Dantesque sheerness and bareness.
- and this.
This is what nature has done. But man has added his deepening touch
in one direction and his enlivening touch in another. The early fathers -
Spanish - erected Missions from one end of the State to the other.
These are time-mellowed, mediaeval structures with bell-towers,
cloisters and gardens, sunbaked, shadow-colored; and in spots they
make California as old and sad as Spain. Later emigrants - French -
have built in the vicinity of San Francisco many tiny roadside inns
where one can drink the soft wines of the country. Framed in hills that
are garlanded with vineyards, these inns are often mere rose-hidden
bowers. They make California seem as gay as France. I can best put it
by saying that I know of no place so "haunted" in every poetic and
plaintive sense as California; yet I know of no place so perfectly suited
to carnival and festival.
All of this is part of the reason why you can't surprise a Californian.
This looks like respite, but there's no real relief in sight Easterners.
Keep right on reading, Californiacs!
Yes, California is beautiful.
Once upon a time, a Native Son lay dying. He did not know that he was
going to die. His physician had to break the news to him. He told the
Californian that the process would not be long or painful. He would go
to sleep presently and when he woke up, the great journey would have
been accomplished. His words fulfilled themselves. Soon the Native
Son fell into a coma. When he opened his eyes he was in Paradise. He
raised himself up, gave one look about and exclaimed, "What a boob
that doctor was! Whad'da he mean - Paradise! Here I am still in
California."

Man has of course, here as elsewhere, chained nature; set her to toil for
him. She is a willing worker everywhere, but in California she puts no
stay nor stint on her productive efforts. California produces - Now up
to this moment I have held myself in. Looking back on my copy I see
only such meager words as "beauty", "glory", "splendor", such pale,
inadequate phrases as "super-mundane fertility" and "super-solar
fecundity". What use are words and phrases when one speaks of
California. It is
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