The Quest of the Silver Fleece: A Novel
After publishing "The Souls of Black Folk in 1903, W.E.B. Du Bois turned to fiction to continue his vital message on race in America. In 1911 he published this well -written social protest novel. In "The Quest of the Silver Fleece," Du Bois artfully weaves themes of racial equality and understanding with the stark realities of prejudice and bias. In addition to having an engaging storyline, the novel addresses the fact that, despite the legal emancipation of African Americans, the instruments of oppression, in both the economy and government, were still at work. The novel is a stark portrait of racial prejudice in America at the turn of the twentieth century.
What people are saying - Write a review
We haven't found any reviews in the usual places.
Other editions - View all
Alwyn answered arms asked beautiful began believe better Bles called child Colonel Cresswell colored coming cotton course cried dark dollars don't door dream dropped Easterly eyes face father fear felt Fleece friends girl glanced Grey half hands Harry head heard heart hesitated interest John Taylor knew land laughed light lips listened living looked Mary matter mean mind Miss Smith Miss Taylor Miss Wynn morning moved Negro never niggers night once opened passed paused perhaps pointed returned rose seemed Senator silent Silver slowly smiled soul South Southern started Stillings stood strange suddenly sure swamp talk tell things thought thousand took town turned Vanderpool voice waiting walked watched woman wonder young Zora
Page 11 - He who would tell a tale must look toward three ideals: to tell it well, to tell it beautifully, and to tell the truth. The first is the Gift of God, the second is the Vision of Genius, but the third is the Reward of Honesty. In The Quest of the Silver Fleece there is little, I ween, divine or ingenious; but, at least, I have been honest. In no fact or picture have I consciously set down aught the counterpart of which I have not seen or known...
Page 14 - An old chimney leaned drunkenly against it, raging with fire and smoke, while through the chinks winked red gleams of warmth and wild cheer. With a revel of shouting and noise, the music suddenly ceased. Hoarse staccato cries and peals of laughter shook the old hut, and as the boy stood there peering through the black trees, abruptly the door flew open and a flood of light illumined the wood. Amid this mighty halo, as on clouds of flame, a girl was dancing. She was black, and lithe, and tall, and...
Page 46 - No, no. They don't really rule; they just thinks they rule. They just got things, — heavy, dead things. We black folks is got the spirit. We'se lighter and cunninger ; we fly right through them ; we go and come again just as we wants to. Black folks is wonderful.
Page 15 - Her arms twirled and flickered, and body and soul seemed quivering and whirring in the poetry of her motion. As she danced she sang. He heard her voice as before, fluttering like a bird's in the full sweetness of her utter music. It was no tune nor melody, it was just formless, boundless music. The boy forgot himself and all the world besides. All his darkness was sudden light; dazzled he crept forward, bewildered, fascinated, until with one last wild whirl the elf-girl paused. The crimson light...
Page 15 - It was no tune nor melody, it was just formless, boundless music. The boy forgot himself and all the world besides. All his darkness was sudden light; dazzled he crept forward, bewildered, fascinated, until with one last wild whir the elf-girl paused. The crimson light fell full upon the warm and velvet bronze of her face— her midnight eyes were aglow, her full purple lips apart, her half hid bosom panting, and all the music dead. Involuntarily the boy gave a gasping cry and awoke to swamp and...
Page 271 - Behold the Lamb of God that taketh away sin. Behold the Supreme Sacrifice that makes us clean. Give up your pleasures ; give up your wants ; give up all to the weak and wretched of our people. Go down to Pharaoh and smite him in God's name. Go down to the South where we writhe. Strive — work — build — hew — lead — inspire ! God calls. Will you hear ? Come to Jesus. The harvest is waiting. Who will cry :
Page 245 - ... Hour after hour, day after day, she lay buried, deaf and dumb to all else. Her heart cried, up on the World's four corners of the Way, and to it came the Vision Splendid. She gossiped with old Herodotus across the earth to the black and blameless Ethiopians; she saw the sculptured glories of Phidias amid the splendor of the swamp; she listened to Demosthenes and walked the Appian Way with Cornelia - while all New York streamed beneath her window.
Page 14 - It was human music, but of a wildness and a weirdness that startled the boy as it fluttered and danced across the dull red waters of the swamp.
Page 17 - She clapped her hands in glee. " Is there any water near ? " he asked. Without a word, she bounded up and flitted off like a brown bird, gleaming dull-golden in the sun, glancing in and out among the trees, till she paused above a tiny black pool, and then came tripping and swaying back with hands held cupwise and dripping with cool water.
Page 348 - She herself had been brought up almost without religion save some few mystic remnants of a halfforgotten heathen cult. The little she had seen of religious observance had not moved her greatly, save once yonder in Washington. There she found God after a searching that had seared her soul; but He had simply pointed the Way, and the way was human.