The Man Who Lived Underground: A Novel

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A major literary event: an explosive, previously unpublished novel about race and police violence by the legendary author of Native Son and Black Boy

Fred Daniels, a Black man, is picked up by the police after a brutal double murder and tortured until he confesses to a crime he did not commit. After signing a confession, he escapes from custody and flees into the city s sewer system.

This is the devastating premise of this scorching novel, a masterpiece that Richard Wright was unable to publish in his lifetime. Written between his landmark books Native Son (1940) and Black Boy (1945), at the height of his creative powers, it would eventually see publication only in drastically condensed and truncated form in the posthumous collection Eight Men (1961).

Now, for the first time, by special arrangement with the author's estate, the full text of this incendiary novel about race and violence in America, the work that meant more to Wright than any other ( I have never written anything in my life that stemmed more from sheer inspiration ), is published in the form that he intended, complete with his companion essay, Memories of My Grandmother. Malcolm Wright, the author s grandson, contributes an afterword.

Leseprobe:

The door of the police car swung open quickly and the man behind the steering wheel stepped out; immediately, as though following in a prearranged signal, the other two policemen stepped out and the three of them advanced and confronted him. They patted his clothing from his head to his feet.
What s your name? asked the policeman who had been called Lawson.
Fred Daniels, sir.
Ever been in trouble before, boy? Lawson said.
No, sir.
Where you think you re going now?
I m going home.
Where you live?
On East Canal, sir.
Who you live with?
My wife.
Lawson turned to the policeman who stood at his right. We d better drag im in, Johnson.
But, Mister! he protested in a high whine. I ain t done nothing . . .
All right, now, Lawson said. Don t get excited.
My wife s having a baby . . .
They all say that. Come on, said the red-headed man who had been called Johnson.
A spasm of outrage surged in him and he snatched backward, hurling himself away from them. Their fingers tightened about his wrists, biting into his flesh; they pushed him toward the car.
Want to get tough, hunh?
No, sir, he said quickly.
Then get in the car, Goddammit!
He stepped into the car and they shoved him into the seat; two of the policemen sat at either side of him and hooked their arms in his. Lawson got behind the steering wheel. But, strangely, the car did not start. He waited, alert but ready to obey.
Well, boy, Lawson began in a slow, almost friendly tone, looks like you re in for it, hunh?
Lawson s enigmatical voice made hope rise in him.
Mister, I ain t done nothing, he said. You can ask Mrs. Wooten back there. She just paid me off and I was on my way home . . . His words sounded futile and he tried another approach. Look, Mister, I m a member of the White Rock Baptist Church. If you don t believe me, call up Reverend Davis . . .
Got it all figu red out, ain t you, boy?
No, sir, he said, shaking his head emphatically. I m telling the truth . . .
A series of questions made him hopeful again.
What s your wife s name?
Rachel, sir.
When is this baby going to be born?
Any minute now, sir.
Who s with your wife?
My cousin, Ruby.
Uh huh, Lawson said, with slow thoughtfulness.
I think he ll do, Lawson, said the tall, raw-boned policeman who had not spoken before.
Lawson laughed and started the motor.