The Chester Himes files III: A couple of lesser works

Like Twain, he had some flops.

Editor’s note: This is a guest post by Tom Ricks. One way you can tell it isn’t by the usual proprietor is that Timothy Noah ranks “Pudd’nhead Wilson” among Twain’s greatest works and believes “The Gilded Age,” though flawed, to offer a historically illuminating snapshot of Washington during its golden age of corruption. Or perhaps I should say its previous golden age of corruption. Ricks is right that “A Connecticut Yankee” is tedious and probably right about “Prince and the Pauper” but I haven’t read that since I was a kid, or possibly I just saw the movie with the Mauch twins.

All writers have failures. Reading these is not as enjoyable as reading their successful works, but it can be instructive to watch a great writer fall short. All the same skills are there, but for some reason they aren’t clicking. Even Willie Mays struck out sometimes. Seeing writers flail, we can better appreciate their writings that really work. The misfires can illuminate the better books.

I mention this because I’ve just read two of Chester Himes’ lesser works: The Crazy Kill and Pinktoes.

The former is a “Harlem Detectives” novel, but a minor one. Given that I see strong parallels between Himes and Mark Twain, I would call Crazy Kill a kind of Pudd’nhead Wilson of his. That is, it is not terrible, but it is not up there with his very best.

Even weak novels by strong writers have their moments, of course. This is Himes’ Twain-ish rendition in Crazy Kill of a funeral oration gone haywire:

“Fornication!” Reverend Short screamed. . . .

Men and women wrestled and rolled. Benches were splintered. The church rocked. The coffin shook. A big stink of sweating bodies arose. “Fornication . . . fornication . . . ” the religious, mad people screamed.

“I’m getting out of here,” Dulcy said, getting to her feet.

“Sit down,” Johnny said. “These religious folks are dangerous.” (386-387)

Likewise, this is from Pinktoes:

“Every drink of whiskey is a nail in your coffin,” the first perfect stranger said.

By the time Lou arrived everyone’s coffin was well-nailed.

Both Twain and Himes go off the tracks when their bilious satire isn’t softened with a bit of generosity and humor. This happened to Twain with The Gilded Age, which I have tried to read twice, unsuccessfully. That book takes place primarily in Washington, D.C. I think that the further Twain wanders from the Mississippi Valley, the less I trust his eye and ear. See, for example, A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, or The Prince and the Pauper, stinkers both.

Yes, Pinktoes takes place in Himes’ equivalent of the Mississippi, in the home ground he calls “Harlem, USA.” But this novel feels similarly out of place to those Twain tales. It is a social story, not a crime novel. The police are absent. Most of Himes’ usual Harlem ingredients are there, but this time the stew never sets.

I love most of Himes’s writing. But as with The Gilded Age, I found much of Pinktoes unreadable. It felt like riding in a boat without a rudder.