Resolutely Black

Conversations with Francoise Verges

Aimé Césaire, Matthew Smith

• Publisher: Polity
• Year: 2020
• Print ISBN: 9781509537150
• eBook ISBN: 9781509537167
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literary Criticism Theory
• Index: Literature

Aimé Césaire's work is foundational for decolonial and postcolonial thought. His Discourse on Colonialism, first published in 1955, influenced generations of scholars and activists at the forefront of liberation struggles in Africa, Latin America, and the Caribbean and it remains a classic of anticolonial thought.

This unique volume takes the form of a series of interviews with Césaire that were conducted by Françoise Vergès in 2004, shortly before his death. Césaire's responses to Vergès' questions cover a wide range of topics, including the origins of his political activism, the legacies of slavery and colonialism, the question of reparation for slavery and the problems of marrying literature to politics. The book includes a substantial postface by Vergès in which she situates Césaire's work in its intellectual and political context.

This timely book brings Césaire back into the present-day conversation on race, slavery and the legacy of colonialism. His penetrating insights on these matters should appeal to scholars and students throughout the humanities and social sciences as well as to the general public.

Conversations

FRANÇOISE VERGÈS: You’ve often talked about how happy you were to leave Martinique as a young man. What provoked that feeling?

AIMÉ CÉSAIRE: You’re from Réunion, so it will be easy for you to understand. I’m from Martinique. I went to elementary school in a town called Basse-Pointe. After primary school, I enrolled in the Lycée Schoelcher where I completed my secondary education. It was at that time that I started to hate – and I’m not using the word lightly – the Martinican society I grew up in, which was made up of the black petite bourgeoisie. I can still see those people, and, at a young age, I was shocked by their deep-seated need to imitate Europeans. They had the same prejudices as them, practiced the same type of superficial elitism, which upset me greatly. Being shy, and even a bit of a recluse, I decided to get away. That world wasn’t for me.

My dear sister attended an all-girls high school called the “Colonial Boarding School.” She entertained her friends on Saturdays and Sundays in the “downstairs room,” which is what we called the living room. I’m sure you’re familiar with the layout of colonial homes: on the ground floor was the living room and dining room divided by a hallway and a stairway leading up to the second floor. My sister and her friends were all very nice. Still, their social gatherings downstairs weren’t my thing; they made me extremely uncomfortable. I’d seek refuge upstairs.

I found the men from Martinique mild-mannered, superficial, a little snobbish, harboring all the prejudices that “distinguished” black men had at that time. I didn’t care at all for that, and I have to say I was thrilled to go to France. Deep down I told myself: “They can’t bother me there. I’ll be free and I’ll read whatever I want.”

Going to France offered the promise of freedom, of opportunities, of hope and self-discovery. That’s to say, unlike a lot of friends of my generation, I had the constant feeling of being stuck in a small and narrow world, a colonial world. That feeling was with me from the start. I didn’t like that Martinique. And once I could leave, I did so without thinking twice. The only thing I had to say was “So long!” On the boat I was horrified by the idea of socializing with the sort of Martinicans whose sole concern was to dress up and rehearse the rites of their social world on board: Saturday balls, music, nightclubs, all the fashionable activities which made me terribly uncomfortable. Back then the trip lasted between 15 and 20 days. There were balls, entertainment, in many respects a salon culture; once again I’d take refuge down in the hold, in a tiny cabin, with a buddy who was leaving to study at a vocational school. I only went out for dinner, then would go back and lock myself in my cabin.

I was really very excited when I got to Le Havre. Once there my friend asked me: “Where are you going to live?” “I don’t know,” I said, “I’ll see. What about you?” “I have my school.” The school in question was the École Eyrolles, whose main building is located on Boulevard Saint-Germain. It’s still around. My buddy had found a room at a hotel in Cachan. I told him, “I’ll come with you. Reserve a room for me.” And there I was in Cachan. The following day I took the tramway, which left me at Porte d’Orléans, then I took the metro to Boulevard Saint-Michel before heading to the Lycée Louis-le-Grand on the Rue Saint-Jacques.

I was excited and thought to myself: “I’m finally in Paris. I’m fed up with Martinique! Finally I can be myself!” My history teacher, Eugène Revert, the author of a beautiful book on Martinique and cultural encounters, recommended me to the Lycée. He was a very kind and caring man. He had asked me: “Aimé Césaire, what do you want to do after high school?” He wore a full beard, on which I focused my attention while responding, “I want to do what you do, Monsieur le Professeur.” “That’s great. If you want to be like me, attend the Lycée Louis-le-Grand so that you can prepare for the entrance exam for the École Normale. I think you’ll do quite well.” The principal at the Lycée Louis-le-Grand gave me a warm welcome. I signed up for hypokhâgne¹ and, leaving the main office, I encountered a rather short man of average stature wearing a gray coat. Right away I knew he was a boarder. He had a string tied around his waist that held an inkwell, an empty inkwell. He came up to me and said: “Hey, newbie, what’s your name, where are you from and what are you doing here?” “My name is Aimé Césaire. I’m from Martinique and I just signed up for hypokhâgne. You?” “My name is Léopold Sedar Senghor. I’m from Senegal and I’m in khâgne.” “Newbie,” he embraced me, “you’ll be my newbie.” All this on my first day at the Lycée Louis-le-Grand! We remained close friends, he in khâgne and me in hypokhâgne. We saw and talked to each other every day. In his first year Georges Pompidou was in his class and they had become friends – I also met him myself at the time.

Senghor and I would have lively discussions about Africa, the Antilles, colonialism, different civilizations. He loved to talk about Roman and Greek civilizations. He was an impressive Hellenist. In short, we learned a lot from each over time, until one day a fundamental question began to preoccupy us: “Who am I? Who are we? What are we in this white world?” It was a hell of a problem. Then came an ethical question: “What should I do?” This was followed by a metaphysical one: “What can we expect?” We spent a lot of time thinking about these three questions. These discussions had a major impact on the both of us.

We’d talk about the news. This was during the Ethiopian War. We discussed European imperialism and, a little later, the rise of fascism and racism. We quickly took a position, which shaped who we were becoming. These were our principal concerns at the time. Then came the war. I went back to Fort-de-France and was granted a position at the Lycée Schoelcher. Senghor took a job at a lycée in France. Back in Paris after the war, and whom do I see? A short man wearing a sort of toga: Senghor was there as a deputy of Senegal just as I was of Martinique. Once again our paths crossed. Our friendship was as strong as ever in spite of our different personalities. He was African and I was Caribbean; he was Catholic, and politically closely aligned with the Mouvement Républicain Populaire.² At that time, I was more of a communist or a “communist sympathizer.” We never argued, because we had tremendous respect for one another, and we really learned a lot from each other.

FV: Let’s go back to those early years and to that new sense of freedom you were talking about. What were you reading at the time?

AC: We read the required works, but each of us also had his own particular tastes. Of course, we read the classics – Lamartine, Victor Hugo, or Alfred de Vigny – but they didn’t always respond to our concerns. Rimbaud was a major figure for us with his: “Je suis un nègre.” We were also reading Claudel and the Surrealists. And, even if we didn’t have a lot of money, we’d buy books by contemporary writers.

Two sisters from Martinique, the Nardal sisters, kept a popular salon. Senghor went often. I didn’t care much for salons, but I didn’t have anything against them either. I only went once or twice and didn’t stay for long. I met a lot of black American writers [écrivains nègres américains], Langston Hughes, Claude McKay. These black Americans [nègres américains] were a revelation to us. It was no longer enough to read Homer, Virgil, Corneille, Racine, etc. It was much more important for us to seek out another modern civilization, a proud black culture aware of its history and cultural belonging. They were the first to affirm their identity, whereas in France assimilation was the tendency, the goal even, of many. With Black Americans, though, they were proud to belong to something unique. We constituted our own world. I had a lot of respect for the teachers at the Lycée, but Senghor and I had our own interests as readers.

I also had a friend from Yugoslavia, Petar Guberina, who invited me to Croatia one summer. I remember thinking it looked like the Caribbean coast, and so I asked him one day: “What’s the name of this island?” He’d only speak French with me, and he said it was the equivalent of “Martin” in Croatian. So I thought to m...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Contents
• Series title
• Title page
• Copyright page
• Note on the Translation
• Preface by Françoise Vergès
• Conversations
• Postface by Françoise Vergès
• Works by Aimé Césaire in English
• End User License Agreement