In 1946, the French philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre wrote the preface to Léopold Sedar Senghor's "Anthology of New Negro and Malagasy Poetry", which he titled "Orphée Noir" ("Black Orpheus"). I suggest you read these excerpts, and that those who know how to hear hear. I remind you that this text dates from 1946 and was written by one of the greatest French thinkers of the 20th century.
“What did you hope for when you took off the gag that closed those black mouths? That they would sing your praises? Those heads that our fathers had bent down to the ground by force, did you think, when they rose again, to read adoration in their eyes? Here are Black men standing looking at us and I wish you to feel like me the thrill of being seen. For the White man has enjoyed for three thousand years the privilege of seeing without being seen; he was pure gaze, the light of his eyes drew everything from the native shadow, the whiteness of his skin was still a gaze, condensed light. The White man, white because he was a man, white as day, white as truth, White as virtue, illuminated creation like a torch, revealed the secret and white essence of beings. Today these Black men look at us and our gaze goes into our eyes; black torches, in turn, light up the world and our white heads are no more than little lanterns swaying in the wind. A Black poet, without even caring about us, whispers to the woman he loves:
« naked woman, Black woman
Dressed in your color which is life...
Naked woman, obscure woman,
Ripe fruit with firm flesh, dark ecstasies of black wine. »
And our whiteness seems to us a strange pale varnish which prevents our skin from breathing, a white jersey, worn at the elbows and knees, under which, if we could remove it, we would find the real human flesh, the flesh the color of dark wine.
We believed ourselves essential to the world, the suns of its harvests, the moons of its tides: we are no longer anything but beasts of its fauna. Not even beasts...
“Listen to the white world
Horribly tired of his immense effort
His rebellious joints crack under the hard stars, his stiffness of blue steel piercing the mystical flesh, listen to his prosperous victories deceive his defeats, listen to the grandiose alibis of his poor stumble. Pity our omniscient and naive conquerors. »
Here we are finished, our victories, belly in the air, reveal their entrails, our secret defeat. If we want to crack this finitude that imprisons us, we can no longer count on the privileges of our race, our color, our techniques: we will only be able to rejoin this totality from which these Black eyes exile us ripping off our shirts just to try to be men. »
In 1946 there were just a handful of Black poets trying to light up the world with their dark eyes. Today there are millions of Black gazes that pierce the world, that do not seek to bend any head, but simply to be able to straighten theirs.
By Venance Konan
*This article has been translated from French into English by Marcus Boni Teiga
