Phoebe Farrell-Sherman

This book was nearly lost to history: It was burned with other papers of Hurston’s after her death, and only rescued, remarkably, by a friend of hers (Patrick Duval), who passed by the fire and was quick enough with a garden hose to save the manuscript. How, from there, did The Life of Herod the Great come to be in your hands? What condition was the manuscript in when you first read it?

From there, Hurston’s friend and neighbor Marjorie Silver deposited the manuscript, along with other items, at the University of Florida in Gainesville in 1961. The “Life of Herod the Great” manuscript was placed in the George A. Smathers Special Collections library. Over the last several years, the Zora Neale Hurston Trust has worked to publish Hurston’s unpublished materials. Once the trust was ready to go forward with the publication of the Herod manuscript, I submitted a proposal to edit it for publication.

Overall, given that the manuscript had been pulled from a fire, I’d say that the manuscript was in surprisingly good condition. Yes, sections of several concluding chapters were lost or missing or, likely, simply burned. And a good many pages were singed or burned around the edges. But a major portion of the manuscript was intact. The several hundred pages that survived were a combination of typescript and longhand drafts.

As an editor, how did you approach what was missing in the manuscript, either because of damage or because it was a work in progress?

In instances where a page was singed or burned around the edges, and a word, a part of a word or a phrase was missing, the remaining letters of a word, the remaining words of a phrase, or the context of a sentence or paragraph indicated how I should complete the word, phrase or sentence. This, I would do only if Hurston’s intention was clear.

When I could not discern Hurston’s intentionality, I used ellipses to indicate missing words. One thing I did not want to do was to insert my thoughts or ideas into her work. I wanted only Hurston’s voice to speak, throughout. Whenever extensive passages or sections of a chapter were missing, asterisks indicate missing text or pages. This was the case mainly with the concluding chapters, which are shorter by comparison.

The last chapter, which would have told of the nature and circumstances of Herod’s death, did not survive. However, Hurston wrote about Herod’s death in various letters to her editor and to friends. So I extracted the events of his death from Hurston’s letters and edited them in the epilogue. This way, the readers would have the satisfaction that comes with a clearly stated ending. And Hurston’s interpretation of the events of Herod’s death would be preserved, in her own voice.

Like his life, the fact of Herod’s death had been buried under centuries-old untruths. Hurston found that historical accounts, which echoed the account documented by Flavius Josephus, were unfounded. As she wanted to set the record straight in relation to the biblical account of Herod’s reign, she also wanted to restore his dignity in death. In the absence of her narrative rendering of Herod’s death, Hurston’s letters give us insight into Hurston’s thoughts about the end of Herod’s life, and we can then imagine what she might have written.

“Reading Hurston’s The Life of Herod the Great can contribute to . . . our capacity to become conscious creators of the world we want.”

You’ve spent a great deal of time with Hurston’s writing, as the editor of Hurston’s posthumously released Barracoon (2018), and the author of several books about her (Zora Neale Hurston: A Biography of the Spirit, Every Tub Must Sit on Its Own Bottom). I’m curious how your relationship with her work began. How did you decide to make such a deep study of her?

My relationship with Hurston’s work began when I browsed the bookshelves in the Shrine of the Black Madonna Bookstore in Atlanta one day and glimpsed a cover that caught my eye. The green leaves and yellow pears of a tree in the foreground and a shack of a house in the background was the cover art that graced Hurston’s novel, Their Eyes Were Watching God. I skimmed a few lines and was compelled to purchase the book.

I had never seen myself, my community, my culture captured so perfectly. I had never read the sounds we make when we talk and joke and pray and fuss rendered so true in written language before. Reading Their Eyes was like looking in a mirror. I was in grad school at Atlanta University, then. I hadn’t known about her, but she seemed to know so much about me. It was uncanny, to me, that she knew me so well. I thought the least I could do was to learn something about her. The Shrine happened to also have a copy of [Hurston’s memoir] Dust Tracks on a Road. I found in her life story so many incidents and events that accorded with my own. My interest in Dr. Hurston and her work would only intensify when I discovered that to study Hurston was to study myself, my culture, American society, the nature of humankind and Creation, Itself.

What would you say to those who might wonder how relevant Herod’s story is to contemporary readers?

Two things:

1. Many contemporary readers still subscribe to the story of Herod as told in the New Testament. As Hurston points out in her preface to the novel, there is much that Herod’s story has to teach about the 1st century B.C.E. which is especially important to understand, given that our culture was influenced by the ideas that were born then, and we’re still embodying and living those ideas now.

2. The sociopolitical dynamics at play in Herod’s day are being played out as we “speak.” Hurston’s work dramatizes the efforts of the West in the domination and control of the peoples of the East. In Herod’s day, we’re talking about Rome’s domination of Persia and Syria and Judea, among others. And today, the conflicts in the Middle East are continuing these ancient wars of domination and resistance to domination. It’s like the names—of the people and the nations—have changed, but the insatiable energy of war has continued throughout the centuries. Hurston bemoaned that history—of war, and death and destruction—continues to repeat itself. But history doesn’t so much repeat itself as it simply continues—until there is a conscious intervention and a commitment to create what we prefer. Reading Hurston’s The Life of Herod the Great can contribute to our knowledge about the world that we inhabit and the worlds that inhabit us, our capacity to become conscious creators of the world we want, and our courage to live in the world authentically.

Where will your work take you next? Will you be working with more of Hurston’s writing, or could we expect another book of your own, like 2024’s Of Greed and Glory?

Well, we’ll see about “more of Hurston’s writing.” I don’t know whether there are more writings, but there is more to say about what we do have. And I know that whatever is next, even a book of my own, it will be inspired by the same ideals that I find compelling in Hurston’s work—a love of freedom, a respect for political and personal sovereignty, the evolution of humanity, and justice.

Read our review of The Life of Herod the Great.

Deborah G. Plant author photo by Gloria Plant-Gilbert.

In a novel never published in her lifetime, Zora Neale Hurston presented a new vision of the biblical King Herod. Scholar Deborah G. Plant reveals how the masterwork was saved after Hurston’s death, and what we can learn from these precious pages.

It is well known that much of Sylvia Plath’s work comes to us altered by her husband, Ted Hughes. Everything published after her death bears his heavy-handed revision and redaction, from her most famous book of poems, Ariel, to her journals. The extent of Hughes’ influence, however, stretches beyond his management of her literary estate to even the basic facts we’re willing to believe about his relationship with Plath.

In 2017, newly surfaced letters from Plath to her longtime psychiatrist, Ruth Beuscher, made headlines. Plath wrote that Hughes’ physical violence had caused her to miscarry, and that Hughes had told her he wished she was dead. The Guardian called the letters “shocking,” and added an addendum from Hughes’ widow, Carol Hughes, that the “suggest[ion]” of abuse was “absurd . . . to anyone who knew Ted well.” Yet though the letters were new to the public, there were long-published existing accounts of Hughes’ abuse of Plath.

Stockton University professor and Fulbright recipient Emily Van Duyne wrote as much in an op-ed for Literary Hub that went viral, “Why Are We So Unwilling to Take Sylvia Plath at Her Word?Loving Sylvia Plath is Van Duyne’s longer answer to that question, a deeply researched analysis of how the popular myth of Plath’s life, one that depicts her as an unreliable narrator and subordinates her poetry to her depression and her suicide, was constructed by Hughes and maintained by critics from the time of her death in 1963 to the present. The book examines how evidence of Hughes’ emotional and physical abuse has been repeatedly minimized, erased and outright dismissed by critics and scholars alike.

Van Duyne’s scope includes the cultural context in which Hughes’ narrative has thrived, bringing in philosophy of intimate partner violence, as well as reflecting on her own personal experiences with an abusive ex. A chapter is devoted to Assia Wevill, a translator of poet Yehuda Amichai and the woman Hughes left Plath for. Hughes didn’t just control Wevill’s story; he completely suppressed it after her death by suicide. Van Duyne also follows the writers who first endeavored to tell Plath’s story, particularly Harriet Rosenstein, who held on to Plath’s letters for almost half a century before trying to sell them in 2017.

Loving Sylvia Plath concludes with a note of caution about distorting Plath’s memory in a different way through the temptation to “restore” her from Hughes’ interference. That warning’s well-taken—for all the scholarship about her, we can’t expect to know Plath. But we can know her work, which is extraordinary. And, where it remains unaltered, we can take her at her word.

Unearthed letters from Sylvia Plath may have shocked the world in 2017, but Loving Sylvia Plath shows we’ve long had all the evidence we needed to condemn her abuser, poet Ted Hughes.

Each of the poems in Victoria Chang’s seventh collection responds to a painting with the same title by abstract artist Agnes Martin (1912-2004). If you aren’t familiar with Martin’s work, or typically feel unmoved by minimalist paintings, this conceit could seem like a barrier. But turn to the first poem in With My Back to the World and the magnetism of Chang’s language will convince you of the power of her project. “I learned that . . . emptiness still swarms without the / world,” Chang writes, “The best thing about emptiness is if you close your / eyes in a field, you’ll open your eyes in a field.” Should you be suddenly filled with a desire to see that emptiness swarm on a canvas, you can find the titular painting online.

Many of the poems directly reference their painting’s shape, color and structure. Martin was known for painting grids, and Chang’s accompanying illustrations evoke this: scraps of poem arranged in a grid, or obscured by ink drawings. To organize a book of poems so tightly around a concept and a form isn’t new for Chang. In her 2020 National Book Award-longlisted Obit, written after the death of her mother, each poem took the form of an obituary. Chang’s father has since passed as well, and the middle section of With My Back to the World is a guttingly specific grief sequence.

As the collection unfolds, Chang lets us in on the intense relationship an artist can form with another through their work. Some poems deliberate on Martin’s dictates about solitude, while simultaneously longing for attention, connection and an audience. Other poems describe the risk of violence that comes with being visible for women, especially Asian women. “On a Clear Day, 1973” responds to the 2021 murder of eight people, six of them Asian American women, by Robert Aaron Long in Atlanta.

Like Martin, Chang etches meaning into her chosen structure down to the smallest detail. Again and again, there’s the moment of recognition that readers come to poetry for: Here is a feeling you know well, but have never been able to witness outside of yourself. Isn’t it liberating to put these words to it? Don’t you feel less alone in your loneliness?

From the first poem in With My Back to the World, the magnetism of Victoria Chang’s language will draw you in: “I learned that . . . emptiness still swarms without the / world.”

In the Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region, the area of China where most Uyghur people and other Muslim ethnic minorities live, state campaigns ostensibly against terrorism and religious extremism have expanded surveillance into every aspect of life. Tahir Hamut Izgil’s beautifully written memoir, Waiting to Be Arrested at Night, describes how he carved out a life writing, making films and participating in a remarkable community of Uyghur poets and intellectuals while enduring systematic repression, as well as the circumstances that led to his family’s flight from China in 2017.

Waiting to Be Arrested at Night is one of the only firsthand accounts available of the ongoing genocide of Uyghur people by the Chinese government. In clear and relentless detail, Izgil recounts how state suppression of Uyghur religious and cultural practices escalated from lists of banned names, to Qurans collected by the government and burned, to police checkpoints on every corner and boarded-up shops abandoned by the disappeared.

In one of the book’s most profoundly terrifying scenes, Izgil and his wife, Marhaba, receive a call asking them to report to the police station to get their fingerprints taken. At the station, they are directed into the basement where, in a hallway across from blood-stained interrogation chambers, they form a line with hundreds of other Uyghurs from their neighborhood. One by one, they are required to give not only their fingerprints but also blood samples, recordings of their voices and elaborate facial scans, all of which will presumably be added to a vast surveillance database. Well-founded rumors suggested that the selection of who would be arrested and disappeared next was performed by an algorithm using this database.

Izgil’s writing is vivid, made even more so by the inclusion of a few of his haunting, startling poems, each expanding on a moment from the previous chapter. Although the level of detail in the narrative sections can be disorienting, that disorientation effectively conveys the difficulty of navigating constantly changing laws and contradictory bureaucratic processes. Readers can also rely on translator Joshua L. Freeman’s introduction to provide context both for Izgil’s life and for the situation of Uyghur people in China.

Throughout the memoir, Izgil’s stories about his friends, family and community are suffused with love. This palpable love makes it beyond heartbreaking how little could be communicated about his plans to leave China with Marhaba and his daughters without putting those he would leave behind in danger. Although he would almost certainly never see them again, he left without saying goodbye even to his parents.

That is the violence of disappearance and displacement: millions of people removed from their communities, families abruptly and permanently broken apart. Knowing that there are so many stories we will not ever hear, it feels essential to pay attention to the words of those like Izgil who manage to make it out.

 

Tahir Hamut Izgil’s beautifully written memoir is one of the only firsthand accounts available of the ongoing genocide of Uyghur people by the Chinese government.

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