The Soul of Stories:

Have you ever read a historical document, for real? I’m not talking about a reprint either.  I mean a true historical document, written in messy cursive, and dated from over a century ago? If not, no reason to sweat—I hadn't either. That is, not until the Taught By Literature project led me to Alice Dunbar Nelson’s draft for a short story titled “The Grievances of the Books.” 

Written in 1897 though never published, “Grievances” is at first glance a puzzling document. The manuscript looks like a letter, or perhaps a diary entry. The pages are small, the cursive is at times untidy, and the numerous scribbles and edits give the document an atmosphere of intimacy. Big paragraphs lead into dialogue which then unfolds into stanzas of poetry. Even the title is unclear, going from “Some of our Poets” to "The Grievances of The Books.” It appears Dunbar-Nelson crossed out the former in favor of the latter. In other words, this document is perplexing on the surface: Is it a story, a poem, an essay, or a speech? Why was it never published? And even more pressing, what is this document even about? 

My Experience: 

Before my first reading, I hoped these questions would be answered, even if the text looked intimidating. I hadn’t written cursive in years, let alone read a cursive-only document. It was like reading another language. Some words stuck out while others were indiscernible to my untrained eye. Regardless, I kept reading, trying bit by bit to string together the narrative, and honestly, I didn’t feel like a reader at all—I felt like a detective, retracing my steps, rereading a sentence, and spending minutes trying to make out a word or two.  

Much like it takes time to familiarize yourself with someone new, reading literature is really no different. Authors typically have distinct styles that characterize their writing, or as I like to put it, a literary personality. For example, Shakespeare’s literary personality is much different than John Steinbeck’s. It requires a different mindset to appreciate the brilliance of both. Thus, I had to change my approach and focus on the story rather than the cursive. Even if I missed a word or two, I valued understanding the narrative over understanding a particular sentence. Eventually, I started to get the hang of it, though admittedly, only slightly. While the cursive became more legible (not just in that I skipped a word here and there), it was the story that became puzzling. It wasn’t like anything I’ve read. Physical copies of books, newspaper clippings, and volumes of poetry came alive. No really, the books spoke, argued, and listened. They acted human but they weren't human at all. Rather, they were living beings with the ability to speak. And so I let them. I was all ears. 

“The Grievances of the Books” 

The story begins with an unnamed narrator wondering why the Black speakers they have heard only quote white poets, never putting “the remarks of poets of our race in their mouths." Tired from studying, the narrator eventually falls asleep, dreaming that these neglected poems and books hold a convention to address this issue. In this dream, these texts come alive, begin speaking, and hilariously condemn the narrator for snoring. Anxious to help after this blunder, the narrator is appointed as the “Chairman of the Committee on Grievance,” tasked with moderating complaints and suggesting potential resolutions. As the dream continues, the Grievances convention begins, featuring an assortment of Black-authored poetry in America. For instance, the poems of Phillis Wheatley, written in the late 18th century, have the unique capability of talking to a poetry pamphlet of Frances Ellen Walkins Harper, written nearly a century later. Despite differences in “age,” the grievances of the poems and books reflect the narrator’s initial thought: how and why are they being so ignored? 

As the convention continues, conflict arises. While the books and newspaper clippings debate and quote their own lines of poetry, tensions arise, causing the narrator to interject with calls for order. The books, being “so indignant at the undignified behavior of the clippings… refused to say more” (?). Despite the narrator’s efforts to continue the convention, they awake from their dream, ending the story by saying that “the Grievances were never finished.” 

Reflections: Are the Grievances still unfinished? 

My appreciation for “Grievances” is perhaps unusual, if not a little nerdy. That’s not to say I don’t enjoy the humor or the writing, but more so that I find Dunbar-Nelson’s literary criticisms remarkable. For one, imagining the books as living beings does more than just entertain. It shows that while these talking books are biologically dead, in spirit, form, and content, they are living, conversational, and expressive, always ready to tell us their story and  teach us something new. But as Dunbar-Nelson writes in "Grievances," what happens when books don’t have anyone to tell their story to: Do they die? Do they give up? Do they hold a “Grievances” convention? 

To these three questions, the answer is no—a big resounding no. Firstly, books cannot die. They are spiritually immortal, hence why we continue to read Shakespeare and Chaucer despite a half-millennium of time separating us from their authors. Secondly, books cannot give up, cannot hide their pages and erase their stories. Literally, they are an open book (pun intended). With the third question, Dunbar-Nelson places the ball in our court, the readerly court, so to speak. While books cannot hold an actual grievances convention, even if they could, I reckon it would look something like Dunbar-Nelson imagined: contentious and impassioned. It is up to the reader, then, to be the voice for these books. After all, “We do not teach literature. We are taught by literature” — Alice Dunbar-Nelson.

Illustration by Miles Williams

BEN MARCOULIER (he/him) is a junior at Villanova University majoring in English and Criminology. He serves on the executive board for the Outdoors Club, plays the drums in the University Jazz Band, and is a member of the Ellipsis Literary Art Magazine. As a Research Fellow for "Taught By Literature: Recentering Black Women Writers," Ben has researched the textual history of Dunbar-Nelson's short stories and proofed a transcription of an unpublished manuscript handwritten in cursive. Ben finds joy in literature, and as the work of Dunbar-Nelson makes its way into the public eye, he notes how that joy only continues to blossom.