Great art speaks to the soul

The case for adding Zora Neale Hurston's "Their Eyes Were Watching God" to the Hope Library

This essay is a response to

Tara Penry

’s invitation to write about a book that gave me hope. She’s building a Hope Library over on her Substack.¹ I could hardly pass on the opportunity, since I’ve been obsessed for years with the whole idea of cultivating hope.

Invoking hope these days feels a bit like a Zen koan. Appealing but baffling. The inevitable questions arise. . . Is hope a luxury? Is it irresponsible? Should we even HAVE hope?

In 2023, I produced a podcast called “Building Hope,” to feature five our school’s recent alumni, whose environmentally visionary thesis projects filled me with hope. I wanted to explore them, go deeper into the projects and their authors. Most of my essays here from the first months of that year reflect on different facets of hope. Like this one, “Hope is how we give ourselves to the future.”²

The effort and discipline to create anything, let alone a masterpiece, requires a measure of hope. Zora Neale Hurston’s 1937 novel, Their Eyes Were Watching God, is one of those rare works of art that wears its virtuosity lightly. Hurston understood that hope is anything but passive. Real hope requires clear-eyed action and engagement.

“To be hopeful in bad times is not just foolishly romantic. It is based on the fact that human history is a history not only of cruelty but also of compassion, sacrifice, courage, kindness. What we choose to emphasize in this complex history will determine our lives.” ~ Howard Zinn, You Can’t Be Neutral on a Moving Train

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I loved this book when I first read it in 2000 and I love it still. The opening paragraphs are gorgeous, one of the best in fiction:

Ships at a distance have every man's wish on board. For some they come in with the tide. For others they sail forever on the horizon, never out of sight, never landing until the Watcher turns his eyes away in resignation, his dreams mocked to death by Time. That is the life of men.

Now, women forget all those things they don't want to remember, and remember everything they don't want to forget. The dream is the truth. Then they act and do things accordingly.

So the beginning of this was a woman and she had come back from burying the dead. Not the dead of sick and ailing with friends at the pillow and the feet. She had come back form the sodden and the bloated; the sudden dead, their eyes flung wide open in judgment.

Not only is this story well plotted, the language is poetic and lush without being fussy or distracting. The characters are vivid, unique and interesting. Hurston serves up messages on racism, gender roles, economics, culture, history, weather, what constitutes the good life, love, heartbreak, power, the lack of it, food, family, ceremonies, traditions, tall tales, community, myth, origin stories, and the justice system. All in a plot that moves along at the perfect pace and through the eyes of a protagonist who is strong, humble, likable, and feisty. And has, apparently, really great hair.

I am in awe of how Hurston is able to thread mythic narratives with the most earthy dialect and goings-on. It’s artful and seamless, not in the least jarring or distracting. I learned that she studied mythology and/or folklore at university, and had been down in the south to collect myths and tales from the African American community there. Her choice to blend academic knowledge with entertaining storytelling was groundbreaking, maybe even controversial, at the time.

The point of view of this story is close with the protagonist, Janie, but Hurston sometimes switches to a lyrical passage, maybe about Death or this gem of a creation myth:

When God had made The Man, he made him out of stuff that sung all the time and glittered all over. then after that some angels got jealous and chopped him into millions of pieces, but still he glittered and hummed. So they beat him down to nothing but sparks but each little spark had a shine and a song. So they covered each one over with mud. and the lonesomeness in the sparks make them hunt for one another, but the mud is deaf and dumb. Like all the other tumbling mud-balls, Janie had tried to show her shine.

Zora Neale Hurston studied at Howard University, Barnard College, and Columbia University. She was an active participant in the Harlem Renaissance. In addition to writing, she was an anthropologist, folklorist, and documentary filmmaker. She lived a full, creative life, and despite facing many obstacles and tragic struggles, left a rich body of work. Though this novel surely stands on its own two feet, reading about Hurston’s life only adds to my admiration.

I’ve been trying to put my finger on the ways this book gives me hope. It’s in Janie’s story itself—her dogged determination, her own hope for the future. Hope is also stirred by Hurston’s artful craft. And awakened by her fortitude to keep working through unimaginable difficulties and to believe in her vision. Hope resides in her generosity to do whatever it took to finish this book and give it to the world. When I think of Hurston’s genius, her unique talents, and her persistence, I am reminded that great art will always find a way to speak to the soul. And what could be more hopeful than that?

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For more additions to Tara’s Hope Library, head over to Tara’s Penry’s Hallelujah Book & Hope Letter.

1. The Hallelujah Book & Hope Letter

2. Read it here