A mistake had been made, the
authorities admitted, and proper apologies were tendered. But they
released him with looks and gestures in which an abashed bewilderment
struggled with a growing irritation.
That is a typical Native Son story.
If you are an Easterner and meet the Native Son first in New York (and
the only criticism to be brought against him is that he sometimes
chooses - think of that - chooses to live outside his native State!) you
wonder at the clear-eyed composure, the calm-visioned unexcitability
with which he views the metropolis. There is a story of a San Francisco
newspaper man who landed for the first time in New York early in the
morning. Before night he had explored the city, written a scathing
philippic on it and sold it to a leading newspaper. New York had not
daunted him. It had only annoyed him. He was quite impervious to its
hydra-headed appeal. But you don't get the answer to that imperviousness
until you visit the California which has produced the Native Son. Then
you understand.
Yes, Reader, your worst fears are justified; I'm going to talk about
scenery. But don't say that I didn't warn you! However, as it's got to
be done sometime, why not now? I'll be perfectly fair, though; so -
For the Native Son has come from a State whose back yard is two hundred
thousand square miles (more or less) of American continent and whose
front yard is five hundred thousand square miles (less or more) or
Pacific Ocean, whose back fence is ten thousand miles (or thereabouts)
of bristling snow-capped mountains and whose front hedge is ten thousand
miles (or approximately) of golden foam-topped combers; a State that
looks up one clear and unimpeded waterway to the evasive North Pole, and
down another clear and unimpeded waterway to the elusive South Pole and
across a third clear and unimpeded water way straight to the magical,
mystical, mysterious Orient.
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