Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass

For a multitude of reasons, I feel obliged to sing nothing but praises for Frederick Douglass, author of the autobiography Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass. First of all, I’m white, and honestly, I don’t feel comfortable criticizing this man who barely escaped the clutches of my race. I don’t want to be insensitive; I don’t want to trivialize his pain; I don’t want to seem defensive. But then I think that if my goal is to be unbiased, I should be equally critical of every writer, no matter what the circumstances.
Either way, I’d like to begin by expressing how much respect I have for Douglass. He was an amazing man, and deserves to be immensely proud for what he has accomplished: surviving slavery, educating himself, and escaping into freedom. He was Henry Thoreau’s ideal: civilly disobedient, fighting for justice. Douglass broke “any law that degrades human personality,” as Martin Luther King, Jr. described an unjust law. Letter From a Birmingham Jail could easily have been written by Douglass. In the letter, King even mentions how the early Christians were civilly disobedient, implying something about modern Christians that Douglass’ book states much more explicitly. “The slave prison and the church stand near each other,” Douglass writes. Hypocrisy and self-righteousness in religion is a much written-about issue, but what struck me about Douglass was the way he dealt with it. He was proud and courageous in an environment where every one was telling him to feel shame simply for who he was, for the color of his skin. That said, “a great man” is not interchangeable with “a great writer”. Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass was a drudgery. The meanings of the words in that ridiculously tiny typeface managed to slide off somewhere in the margins, leaving me straining to recall what it was I read from one page to the next. It was a combination of the font, which of course was not Douglass’ fault, and is probably corrected in other editions, and the sheer redundancy of Douglass’ writing. One would not expect a memoir of 126 pages, encompassing years of brutal slavery, a few attempted escapes, and climactic freedom to be a slow read. But Frederick Douglass needs to reread his work and remember which things he has already ranted about before he repeats them. At first, I loved the rants; they are well-written and encompass some sort of mood in the fact that they go on and on. Also, I understand the importance of converying his opinions at the time compared to today as well as the vehemence with which he felt his perfectly justifiable anger. But by the time I reached the Appendix, I just didn’t care any more. Douglass likes to cover all the bases, and I understand why, but when he says things like, “I find, after reading over the foregoing Narrative, that I have, in several instances, spoken in such a manner as may possibly lead [the reader to misapprehension]. To remove the liability, I deem it proper to append with the following explanation...” that is when some one needs to tell him that though perhaps it is a possibility that one could be led to misapprehension, the reader who would misunderstand Douglass’ opinions before the appendix will be no better informed after the appendix. Perhaps Douglass did, in several instances, speak a misleading phrase. But each phrase was explained and justified meticulously directly afterward. I feel as if Douglass came up with some well-articulated phrases concerning his opinions, and could not restrain himself from tacking them on in the appendix, despite their redundancy. As a writer, I understand the seduction; as a reader, there is no excuse. I feel as if everyone who has ever remarked on Douglass’ “eloquency” or “profundity,” were in the same predicament I was in, respecting Douglass’ circumstance and the idea of who he was and what he accomplished to such a degree that they had no choice but to compliment him. That to criticize him would be to trivialize his experience. It wouldn’t have mattered what Douglass said; he would be applauded nonetheless.
So I applaud Frederick Douglass. But I wish I hadn’t read his book.