Jessie Redmon Fauset Bio

Jessie Redmon Fauset

Biography:

Jessie Redmon Fauset was born April 27, 1882 in Camden, New Jersey.
Her parents were Redmon Fauset, an African Methodist Episcopal minister, and Annie Seamon Fauset.
Fauset studied classical languages at Cornell University and was elected to the honor society, Phi Beta Kappa. In 1919, sociologist and political activist W.E.B. DuBois asked Fauset to move to New York City and to work as an editor of the magazine, Crisis. Fauset received a Masters of Arts Degree from the University of Pennsylvania in 1929 and a certificate from the Sorbonne in Paris, France.

Fauset is noted for her work at the Crisis, the official publication of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP). As an editor, Fauset published the works of Harlem Renaissance writers, such as Countee Cullen, Langston Hughes, and George Schuyler. Fauset also contributed some of her own essays, poetry, and short stories to the magazine.

Fauset also published four novels during her career as a writer. The first novel, There is Confusion, was published in 1924 and was created as a response to what Fauset believed to be an inaccurate portrayal of black life in fiction. The second novel, Plum Bun, is the story of a woman trying to make people believe she is white, and the novel is Fauset's most acclaimed piece of work. Her final two novels, The Chinaberry Tree and Comedy, American Style, did not receive as much attention as her first two works. Unfrtunately, Jessie Fauset only received a small amount of recognition and honor during her life and career as a writer. Some believe her modesty and selflessness kept her from becoming a greater figure in literature. Although she did not receive awards for her work, she is now remembered for her success in writing, editing, translating, and teaching.

Jessie Redmon Fauset died April 30, 1961 in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania due to hypertensive heart disease.

Dead Fires

Alexander Anderson

Dead Fires


If this is peace, this dead and leaden thing,

Then better far the hateful fret, the sting.

Better the wound forever seeking balm

Than this gray calm!

Is this pain's surcease? Better far the ache,

The long-drawn dreary day, the night's white wake,

Better the choking sigh, the sobbing breath

Than passion's death!



This poem, “Dead Fires” by Jessie Redmon Fauset has the speaker portrayed as a human rights activist, not just an African American rights activist. The poem is more or less dedicated to expressing the lesson that even when situations look bleak and hopeless, it’s better to suffer than give up the cause fought for, as expressed by the end phrase “Better the choking sigh, the sobbing breath / Than passion's death!”.

In essence, this poem seems to hold multiple meanings to not only African American rights, but also to rights of those of different cultures and ethnicities who were oppressed during that time, or before the Renaissance as the introduction makes no attempt to clarify this; “If this is peace, this dead and leaden thing, / Then better far the hateful fret, the sting”. It may simply be a misinterpretation but it seems to be encouraging all sides in disadvantageous civil positions to rise and fight for what they want. By all sides, this includes those who may not have been as well depicted in history as they should have been; the Confederation of the U.S.A and the Japanese Kamikaze fighters being prime examples of this. Another point in question, about comparing peace, albeit a shaky one, to “this dead and leaden thing,”is something that most would attempt to express either in more complicated terms, so as to interpret it differently if ever faced with unforeseen consequences, or not to write it at all. By understanding the abnormality of such a bold statement from a colored woman, it can be assumed that she was either naturally rebellious or witnessed something that prompted her to break the norm.

Words! Words!

Words! Words!
How did it happen that we quarreled?
We two who loved each other so!
Only the moment before we were one,
Using the language that lovers know.
And then of a sudden, a word, a phrase
That struck at the heart like a poignard's blow.
And you went berserk, and I saw red,
And love lay between us, bleeding and dead!
Dead! When we'd loved each other so!
How could it happen that we quarreled!
Think of the things we used to say!
"What does it matter, dear, what you do?
Love such as ours has to last for aye!"
--"Try me! I long to endure your test!"
--"Love, we shall always love, come what may!"
What are the words the apostle saith?
"In the power of the tongue are Life and Death!"
Think of the things we used to say!




My reactions toward the poem, “Words! Words!” By Jessie Redmon Fauset is that I really enjoyed reading it. It’s about two couples that are going through a tough situation how things can start off by going great but then just a simple word can ruin the adulation of the relationship. When Jessie Redmon wrote “And then of a sudden, a word, a phrase. That struck at the heart like a poignard's blow. And you went berserk, and I saw red, and love lay between us, bleeding and dead!” it explains how a word, a phase created a feeling of bleeding and dead to their love. We can see that’s she also in a lot of pain because she tells the reader that her heart felt like a poignard’s blow. At first, I didn’t understand the ending at all. It states, “"What does it matter, dear, what you do? Love such as ours has to last for aye!" --"Try me! I long to endure your test!"--"Love, we shall always love, come what may!" What are the words the apostle saith? "In the power of the tongue are Life and Death!" Think of the things we used to say!” What first came to my mind was that I think Jessie was trying to tell us is that the love was too strong to be driven apart, and that she’s trying to remind her partner that they had many strong memories that are not worth being forgotten just because of some little argument or rapacious words. When she meant life and death, it seems like she telling us that the stronger the words hurts, it confuses her whether she wants its something worth life or death. She seems to be warning or saying to be careful about the words he wishes to speak. It damages her feeling inside creating someone she doesn’t want to be.

By : Annie Huang

Writing Prompt

Enigma



There is no peace with you,

Nor any rest!

Your presence is a torture to the brain.

Your words are barbed arrows to the breast,

And one but greets To wish you sped again.

Frustrate you make desire

And action vain.

There is no peace with you .

No peace . . .

Nor any rest.

Yet in your absence

Longing springs anew,

And hopefulness besets the baffled brain.

"If only you were you and yet not you!"

If you such joy could give as you give pain!

Then what an unguent for the burning breast!

And for the harassed heart

What rapture true!

"If only you were you and yet not you!"

There is no peace with you

Nor ever any rest!



Write a reply to this poem from the point of view of the enigma Fauset described.


Note: An enigma is a variable that cannot be accounted for, you cannot control it, nor understand it.

By: Alexander Anderson

Works of the Harlem Renaissance

Created by Alexander Anderson

Ode to the Dark Rebirth

Blazing brilliance,
The Light side of the dark Sun,
The burnt clay of god was dancing, singing, laughing,
All as they were reborn, as the black angels out sang the platinum saints.
Beauty was civilized,
But beauty was also black.
Music was everywhere,
But Music was also sung by darks
Poetry caused tears to be shed,
But it was white people who cried.
And all throughout the Black Rebirth,
Their spirit was soaring,
Spreading its clipped wings and encompassing all that surrounded it,
Men wept,
Children smiled,
Artists celebrated
And throughout He clapped his hands and cried laughing tears over his abused children, both white and black, as they learned not to coexist, but to love one another as Brothers of the same world.

By:
Alexander Anderson

Emulation of "Enigma"

There is no peace with you,

Nor any rest!

Your prescence is a torture to the brain.

Your words ae barbed arrows to the breast,

And one but greets To wish you sped again.

Frustrate you make desire

And action vain.

There is no peace with you.

No peace...

Nor any rest.

Yet in your abscence

Longing springs anew,

And hopefullness besets the baffled brain.

"If only you were you and yet not you!"

If you such joy could give as you give pain!

Then what an unguent for the burning breast!

And for the harassed heart

What rapture true!

"If only you were you and yet not you!"

There is no peace with you

Nor ever any rest!



Emulation

There is no rest with you,

Neither is there peace!

Your prescence is a migrain.

Your mouth a poisonous Cobra.

Everyone wishes to send you off.

Irritated you make me pray

And be powerless.

There is no rest with you.

No sleep...

Nor any peace.

Yet with your leave

Lonliness rises like bile,

And craving attacks the throbbing brain.

"If only you were not you, yet still the same!"

If you could be as benevlolent as you are cruel!

Then what a balm for the burning desire!

And for the twisted heart

What blessings would become!

"If only you were not you, yet still the same!"

There is no rest with you

Nor ever any peace!

By:
Alexander Anderson

Reaction to "Oblivion"

I hope when I am dead that I shall lie

In some deserted grave-- I cannot tell you why,

But I should like to sleep in some neglected spot,

Unknown to everyone, by everyone forgot.



There lying I should taste with my dead breath

The utter lack of life, the fullest sense of death;

And I should nover hear the note of jealousy or hate,

The tribute paid by passers-- by to tombs of state.

To me would never penetrate the prayers and tears

That futility bring torture to dead and dying ears;

There I should lie annihilate and my dead heart would bless

Oblivion--the shroud and envelope of happiness.

Reaction:

I hope when I am dead,

That all shall cry over my bed.

That I myself, will not be as frail,

As the vessel, that shall soon fail.


Yet on the ground I lay,

Walking the thin veil through shadow and pain

I will not fall,

Nor shall I stumble.


For that is the will,

That only a dead man can grasp.

By: Alexander Anderson

Jessie Redmon Fauset Work

Dead Fires

If this is peace, this dead and leaden thing,

Then better far the hateful fret, the sting.

Better the wound forever seeking balm

Than this gray calm!

Is this pain's surcease?

Better far the ache,

The long-drawn dreary day, the night's white wake,

Better the choking sigh, the sobbing breath

Than passion's death!


Enigma



There is no peace with you,

Nor any rest!

Your presence is a torture to the brain.

Your words are barbed arrows to the breast,

And one but greets To wish you sped again.

Frustrate you make desire

And action vain.

There is no peace with you .

No peace . . .

Nor any rest.

Yet in your absence

Longing springs anew,

And hopefulness besets the baffled brain.

"If only you were you and yet not you!"

If you such joy could give as you give pain!

Then what an unguent for the burning breast!

And for the harassed heart

What rapture true!

"If only you were you and yet not you!"

There is no peace with you

Nor ever any rest!


Oblivion



I hope when I am dead that I shall lie

In some deserted grave--I cannot tell you why,

But I should like to sleep in some neglected spot,

Unknown to every one, by every one forgot.



There lying I should taste with my dead breath

The utter lack of life, the fullest sense of death;

And I should never hear the note of jealousy or hate,

The tribute paid by passers-by to tombs of state.



To me would never penetrate the prayers and tears

That futilely bring torture to dead and dying ears;

There I should lie annihilate and my dead heart would bless

Oblivion--the shroud and envelope of happiness.


Words! Words!



How did it happen that we quarreled?

We two who loved each other so!

Only the moment before we were one,

Using the language that lovers know.

And then of a sudden, a word, a phrase

That struck at the heart like a poignard's blow.

And you went berserk, and I saw red,

And love lay between us, bleeding and dead!

Dead! When we'd loved each other so!

How could it happen that we quarreled!

Think of the things we used to say!

"What does it matter, dear, what you do?

Love such as ours has to last for aye!"

--"Try me! I long to endure your test!"

--"Love, we shall always love, come what may!"

What are the words the apostle saith?

"In the power of the tongue are Life and Death!"

Think of the things we used to say!



Noblesse Oblige



Lolotte, who attires my hair,

Lost her lover. Lolotte weeps;

Trails her hand before her eyes;

Hangs her head and mopes and sighs,

Mutters of the pangs of hell.

Fills the circumambient air

With her plaints and her despair.

Looks at me:

"May you never know, Mam'selle,

Love's harsh cruelty."

Love's dart lurks in my heart too,--

None may know the smart

Throbbing underneath my smile.

Burning, pricking all the while

That I dance and sing and spar,

Juggling words and making quips

To hide the trembling of my lips.

I must laugh

What time I moan to moon and star

To help me stand the gaff.



What a silly thing is pride!

Lolotte bares her heart.

Heedless that each runner reads

All her thoughts and all her needs.

What I hide with my soul's life

Lolotte tells with tear and cry.

Blurs her pain with sob and sigh

Happy Lolotte, she!

I must jest while sorrow's knife

Stabs in ecstasy.



"If I live, I shall outlive."

Meanwhile I am barred

From expression of my pain.

Let my heart be torn in twain,

Only I may know the truth.

Happy Lolotte, blessed she

Who may tell her agony!

On me a seal is set.

Love is lost, and--bitter ruth--

Pride is with me yet!

La Vie C'est la Vie



On summer afternoons I sit

Quiescent by you in the park,

And idly watch the sunbeams gld

And tint the ash-trees' bark.

Or else I watch the squirrels frisk

And chaffer in the grassy lane;

And all the while I mark your voice

Breaking with love and pain.



I know a woman who would give

Her chance of heaven to take my place;

To see the love-light in your eyes,

The love-glow on your face!



And there's a man whose lightest word

Can set my chilly blood afire;

Fulfillment of his least behest

Defines my life's desire.



But he will none of me, nor I

Of you. Nor you of her. 'Tis said

The world is full of jests like these--

I wish that I were dead.


Touche


Dear, when we sit in that high, placid room,

'Loving' and 'doving' as all lovers do,

Laughing and leaning so close in the gloom,--



What is the change that creeps sharp over you?

Just as you raise your fine hand to my hair

Bringing that glance of mixed wonder and rue?



'Black hair,' you murmur, 'so lustrous and rare,

Beautiful too, like a raven's smooth wing;

Surely no gold locks were ever more fair.'



Why do you say every night that same thing?

Turning your mind to some old constant theme,

Half meditating and half murmuring?



Tell me, that girl of your young manhood's dream,

Her you loved first in that dim long ago--

Had she blue eyes? Did her hair goldly gleam?



Does she come back to you softly and slow,

Stepping wraith-wise from the depths of the past?

Quickened and fired by the warmth of our glow?



There I've divined it! My wit holds you fast.

Nay, no excuses; 'tis little I care.

I knew a lad in my own girlhood's past,--

Blue eyes he had and such waving gold hair!