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Optimism is dead—it died of vanity. The thought runs refrain-like through the pages of Richard Wright's “Native Son.” The eternal frustrations of Bigger Thomas, which nevertheless keep on stimulating him to ever new attempts and activities, point to an optimism naive and warm, but which toward the end burns furiously. The returns are getting smaller, as of the law of diminishing returns. He must, therefore, bring explosive energy to bear, if he is to find some measure of satisfaction, at least. Yet strangely enough, whilst optimism burns, a new optimism is summoned to point to the goal that is tomorrow. Now the optimism that seeks satisfaction in immediate contingencies is often criminal and therefore uneconomical and ineffectual. What is the reason?
In a society where we have an increasing mastery of the environment, but limited potentialities for development of all in general, and of the Negro in particular, we must yield more and more to the more immediate contingencies, or, in preparing to live, subject ourselves to conditions of continuously thwarted anticipations. This latter calls for superhuman ingenuity in meeting obstacles, since the first fruits of our labor must give some immediate satisfaction.
Do I hear anyone say that the Negro is superhuman? The industrial revolution freed the Negro—in theory. Perhaps it was never intended that a bounding enthusiasm should be bound thereby. Nevertheless it is true that he has been expected to supply a pragmatic example of the long awaited reconciliation between mechanical