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Expression toward his steadfast hatred of the white man and segregation, as well as emphasizing his love of the city itself despite its associations with its overwhelming "whiteness.”

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My eyes grew dim, and I could no more gaze; A wave of longing through my body swept, and, hungry for the old, familiar ways, I turned aside and bowed my head and wept.

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"And when the fields and streets are covered white. . . Like me you'll long for home, where birds' glad song, means flowering lanes and leas and spaces dry"

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Wind created by trains that run through “the city's great gaunt gut” and the tropical breeze that McKay knows from home. This imagery draws a parallel back to the crowds by the subway that are hopelessly alienated from the city.

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McKay is observing a snow storm when his mind wanders to lover moving in the night to him.

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As in a dream I stand and gaze, At Broadway, shining Broadway, only

my heart, my heart is lonely.

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Published within the Harlem Renaissance and antilynching movements with intent to disclose the truly abhorrent nature of lynching's, and their effect on the posterity of the United States.

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McKay refuses to make his fiction “decorous and decorative” in order to paint a flattering portrait of black life, opting instead for what he admitted could be a “crude realism.”

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"A mere drudge! but what can one do? A man that’s a man cannot weep! Suicide? A quitter? Oh, no! But a slave should never grow tired, whom the masters have kindly hired."

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"Like men we’ll face the murderous, cowardly pack, pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!"

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"Tis ten years since you died, mother, just ten dark years of pain, and oh, I only wish that I

could weep just once again."

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Some day, when trees have shed their leaves

and against the morning’s white, the shivering birds beneath the eaves have sheltered for the night, we’ll turn our faces southward, love, toward the summer isle where bamboos spire the shafted grove and wide-mouthed orchids smile.

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"While happy winds go laughing by, wasting the golden hours indoors,

washing windows and scrubbing floors."

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Astutely sensitive to the extraordinary vitality and diversity of Black culture, and drawing on the author's experiences in the WWI and the extreme Left of the socialist movement, Harlem Glory reveals Claude McKay at his very best.

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McKay draws on his personal experiences living in France to depict dockworkers and drifters in the port town of Marseilles. The novel follows one group of “beach boys,” combining semi-autobiographical accounts of their pleasure-seeking lifestyle with their conversations about race relations and race politics, in France and abroad.

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Depicts an overlooked time in African American history when communism and black nationalism found themselves entangled.

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It was the first time I had ever come face to face with such manifest, implacable hate of my race, and my feelings were indescribable.

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The volume concludes with a comprehensive anthology of the early poems together with a comic sketch about Jamaican peasant life by McKay and an autobiographical essay on his experiences in the Kingston police force.

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. . . Sonnets and songs by a negro poet practically unknown to the public, who seems to have a greater and more simple and strong gift of poetry than any other of his race has had.

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McKay argues for the rejection of colonial cultural ideology; Most notably, Christianity and the return to folk roots as a route to autonomy for Afro-Jamaican peasants.

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With sensual, often brutal accuracy, Claude McKay traces the parallel paths of two very different young men struggling to find their way through the suspicion and prejudice of American society.

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McKay explains what it means to be a black "rebel sojourner" and presents one of the first unflattering, yet informative, exposés of the Harlem Renaissance.

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"Ah, stern harsh world, that in the wretched way of poverty, dishonor and disgrace,

Has pushed the timid little feet of clay,

The sacred brown feet of my fallen race!"

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By Claude McKay -
Although she feeds me bread of bitterness, and sinks into my throat her tiger's tooth, stealing my breath of life, I will confess, I love this cultured hell that tests my youth! Her vigor flows like tides into my blood, giving me strength erect against her hate. Her bigness sweeps my being like a flood. Yet as a rebel fronts a king in state, I stand within her walls with not a shred, of terror, malice, not a word of jeer. Darkly I gaze into the days ahead,
And see her might and
granite wonders there,
Beneath the touch of Time's unerring hand,
Like priceless treasures sinking in the sand.