Abstract： African Americans， having been brutalized over a long time in a variety of manners， including perverted literary portrayals， have the right to have an equal voice in commenting upon literature that typifies them. Racism， sexism， ageism， no matter how elegantly or grippingly espoused， are still destructive to humanity. However， ethical criticism played a vital role in re-discovery of African American literary tradition. In the 1970s， ethical criticism helped re-claim Phillis Wheatley for the revolutionary African American literary tradition by showing how the seemingly capitulating Wheatley manipulates a mask from behind which she protests her treatment. In the perspective of ethical criticism， the choices of genre， style， and mode by many African American writers can be seen as ethical decisions. The best way to reach the people with ethical art and ethical criticism is the strategy for which Langston Hughes has been criticized in both his more radical work of the 1940s and the entire of his oeuvre. His surface simplicity flies in the face of the predominant modernist approach of the 20th century， yet reaches more people ethically， at the levels at which they understand his literature， and with an ethical humanistic goal at its core.
　　Key words： ethical criticism； African American literature； humanity； literary tradition
　　Author： Steven Carl Tracy is Distinguished Professor of Afro-American Studies and literature at University of Massachusetts Amherst， USA， and Distinguished Overseas Professor at Central China Normal University， China， sponsored by the Distinguished Overseas Professors Project of Chinese Ministry of Education. He is author of several monographs such as Langston Hughes and the Blues （1988）， Chicago Bound： Black Writers of the Chicago Renaissance （2011）， and Hot Music， Ragmentation， and the Bluing of American Literature （2014）， as well as scores of academic articles. E-mail： sctracy@afroam.umass.edu
　　标题：“吃饱比天大”：伦理批评与美国非裔文学
　　内容摘要：美国非裔长期以来受到各种各样的非人对待，在文学作品中常常被刻画为变态的形象，因此，对于那些把他们类型化的文学作品，他们完全有理由运用平等的声音来加以评价。种族主义、性别主义、年龄主义，无论人们多么优雅或多么专一地支持，它们对人性都具有破坏性。然而，伦理批评在重新发现美国非裔文学传统起到了关键作用。例如，20世纪70年代，伦理批评为重新确立菲莉丝?惠特利对于具有革命性的美国非裔文学传统的地位作出了贡献，突显了表面顺从的惠特利如何操纵面具而行抗议之实。在伦理批评的视角下，美国非裔作家在文学样式、风格、模式上的选择都可视为伦理抉择。而将伦理艺术和伦理批评呈现给民众的最有效方法则是兰斯顿?休斯在20世纪40年代的激进作品乃至他的所有作品中运用的却又饱受批评的策略。他的风格表面简朴，与20世纪占主导地位的現代主义路径不相兼容，却能以其伦理力量直达人心，原因就是他的作品易于理解，且深藏人文主义的伦理目标。
　　关键词：伦理批评；美国非裔文学；人性；文学传统
　　作者简介：史蒂文?特雷西是美国马萨诸塞大学阿默斯特分校杰出教授、华中师范大学“教育部海外名师计划”特聘教授，主要研究美国非裔文学与文化，主要论著包括《兰斯顿·休斯与布鲁斯》《芝加哥文艺复兴黑人作家论》《热火音乐、拉格泰姆心理与美国文学的布鲁斯化》等。 　　First， immersion in literature does not make us better citizens or better people. One might be able to pick out some works of literature that would have such an effect because of the information they convey or the emotional state they induce， but they would constitute a skewed sample of literary works. Second， we should not be put off by morally offensive views encountered in literature even when the author appears to share them. A work of literature is not to be considered maimed or even marred by expressing unacceptable moral views； by the same token， a mediocre work of literature is not redeemed by expressing moral views of which we approve. The proper criteria for evaluating literature are aesthetic rather than ethical. Third， authors’ moral qualities or opinions should not affect our valuations of their works.
　　— Richard A. Posner， “Against Ethical Criticism，” 2
　　Bellies are basic.
　　— Langston Hughes， Langston Hughes and the Chicago Defender， 35
　　Although the two quotes just offered were written some fifty years apart， and the one from Langston Hughes was the earlier one， they are indeed in conversation with each other， the long， detached， formal one quite undercut by Hughes’s terse， gastro-intestinal metaphor. There is not one among us who has not felt the supreme aesthetic delight of a soliloquy by Shakespeare， a poem by Poe， a moral story by de Maupassant， a novel by Nabokov. The ability of literature to transport us with marvelous tropes， distinctive， rich， and transformative language， and new sounds and forms and structures is indeed an almost other-worldly blessing， the raptures of which we miss to our own impoverishment. But there may well be among us those who have not felt the pangs of an empty stomach. For those who have， their impoverishment is not of the mind， however much some commentators might suggest the mental inferiority of the masses. Included among the bounty of the masses are not the fruits of their labors， nor the means to purchase them. The apples of discord sown by political and social inequality are indeed a bitter fruit， plucked from a forbidden tree and flung into this world to bear witness to the inability of human beings to do right， to do good， as Benjamin Franklin would say through his comic character Silence Dogood， whose lack of silence spoke well to the ethical impulse of an American founding father. Consider a central question posed in Judaeo-Christian mythology： Cain’s deceptive and shameful avoidance of God and responsibility—“Am I my brother’s keeper？” Indeed， the question’s meaning may cut two ways： “am I the enslaver of my brother？” or “must I take care of my brother？” Though there is a vast world between those two poles， there should be no doubt about the proximity to which pole we should desire. 　　Indeed， those in power have the leisure and pleasure to put aside the abundant world that waits in their coffers， and imagine aesthetic wonderlands where veal and fireplaces and palaces are commonplace， and the rice flows like waterfalls into the gullets of their guests. They think not of the acidic waste lands of the workers， the rumble beneath the belts， one notch tighter， one more notch tighter， like a lynching noose on the neck of a “nigger.” As one contemporary credit card advertisement notes， membership has its privileges. Non-members need not apply.
　　The long tradition of African American literature has always recognized such condescending values as part of American culture； it has also recognized the drawbacks of exclusion， as well as the need to modify the mainstream upon an invited “membership.” While some majority critics could from a social-cultural and political distance reconcile and accept portrayals and characterizations of others that were harmful， hurtful， and hateful， African Americans were frequently termed “overly sensitive，” “paranoid，” or “shrill” when they responded to harsh stereotypical liberties claimed by canonical authors. This is especially true of nineteenth and early twentieth century portrayals， where any modicum of sensitivity—as in Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin or Lydia Maria Child’s Hobomok—has been contemporarily trumpeted as authorial magnanimity “advanced” for its time. Meanwhile， other controversial depictions like Margaret Mitchell’s Gone With the Wind and William Styron’s Confessions of Nat Turner reach the status of classics regardless of their deleterious social and political effects. The pejorative term “protest literature，” the adjective damning the noun to second-class status， was reserved for socially responsible literature dealing with the vicissitudes of minority status.
　　Having been kidnapped， enslaved， brutalized， Jim Crowed， and patronized， do not African Americans have the right to have an equal voice in commenting upon literature that typifies them？ And to champion literature that takes an immoral stand in an immoral land？ When Richard Posner argues that “we should not be put off by morally offensive views encountered in literature even when the author appears to share them” （1）， perhaps the “we” about which he is talking has the advantage of being an exclusive group not subject to the same type of discrimination experienced by the targets of racist actions and language. Racism， classism， sexism， ageism， no matter how elegantly or grippingly espoused， are still destructive to humanity. As with D.W. Griffith’s Birth of a Nation， art in the service of vicious falsehood is scandalous anti-humanism and， if the film is a classic， it is a hateful classic. Even if we can appreciate the craft， its crafty manipulations and lies undercut its success. “All art is and ever must be propaganda，” proclaimed ethical critic W.E.B. DuBois， and he did not give “a damn” about art that wasn’t （328）. Ethical criticism provides the opportunity for African American critics to classify， justify， and affirm concepts of right and wrong conduct in the context of the slavery that subordinated and subordinates them in the American system. When blues singer Tom Dickson sang， in “Labor Blues，” 　　I don’t mind workin， cap’m， from sun to sun
　　I don’t mind workin， cap’m， from sun to sun
　　But I want my money， cap’m， when pay day comes （Frank Stokes’ Dream， LP）
　　his central placement of the word cap’m as the fulcrum of his sentence that balanced his fortunes concretized the hierarchy of power politics in his lyric. The “cap’m” can tip his fortunes either way. And his artistry is inextricably bound to his autonomy.
　　Consider young Phillis Wheatley， sold into slavery at age 7 or 8， interrogated in court by no less than signer of the Declaration of Independence John Hancock as to her ability to write the poetry she had written. Indeed， Hancock’s name is a synonym for “signature” in American parlance， and his skepticism and arrogance concerning African American intelligence is a signature element of American history. Wheatley stands at the head of the African American literary tradition， a young girl captured from her homeland and set down in an alien environment of supposedly kind and affectionate hosts， untouched by the harsher elements of African American slave existence in the fields， with its back-breaking labor， scant food， whippings， and clothing and dwelling deprivation. Still Wheatley felt it necessary to wear a mask， as so many African American writers who followed her would， as expressed so startlingly in Dunbar’s poem “We Wear the Mask” and Langston Hughes’s poem “Minstrel Man.” Should we not look at the context of Wheatley’s poems to consider how the still-enslaved woman， despite the “benefits” of American servitude and education， and because of the hierarchical limitations imposed upon her， addressed from behind the mask the mixed shortcomings and benefits of the white Christian social values that ruled her life？ How would Wheatley have felt to have to be vetted as a human being， and an intelligent one at that， and a woman even further， by the “respectable” white Christian males of the community？ And how would she have expressed her feelings， carefully negotiating the intersections of her inferior status， her “privileged” working conditions， and her inculcation to some degree of Christian social and moral values and European aesthetic strictures from the neoclassicism of Pope and the poetic example of Milton？ Indeed， Wheatley’s social and political situation—a distinctively African American situation—practically demands an ethical reading， and it is the range of such nuanced difficulties experienced by African Americans that， portrayed by the ethical critic， can “show how [the works] of literary art may exert an ethical influence on its readers” （Gregory， Web）. 　　One of Wheatley’s justifiably most famous poems deals with Wheatley’s response to her brutal kidnapping from her native land and subordination to Christian values in a religiously-hypocritical land. The questionable ethics of her “hosts” come in for a slyly-concealed scrutiny in the poem “On Being Brought from Africa to America”：
　　’Twas mercy brought me from my Pagan land，
　　Taught my benighted soul to understand
　　That there’s a God， that there’s a Saviour， too.
　　Once I redemption neither sought nor knew.
　　Some view our sable race with scornful eye，
　　“There color is a diabolic die.”
　　Remember， Christians， Negros， black as Cain，
　　May be refin’d and join th’angelic train. （219）
　　Posner asserts that an exception to the separation of the moral from the aesthetic is what he terms “didactic literature，” but this begs the question， since we can consider all literature to be in some way didactic. And so we find that， in the first line， Wheatley incredibly praising her appropriation from her native land as a “mercy，” as seriously from one point of view， but from behind a trickster’s mask on the other. Stylistically， the staid and serious heroic couplets set up a “reasonable” edifice from behind which the author describes suggestively the slings and arrows of her outrageous （mis）fortune. To be a white European Christian， an American， a Western writer， an object， or not to be： that is the question. Wheatley was thankful to be exposed to Christianity； to be exposed to many of those Christians who practiced it was sometimes another matter altogether. But in the 5th line， “Some view our sable race with scornful eye，” Wheatley， by using “Some，” presses sharply with a rhythmic violation of meter， hissing out the adjective while suppressing the noun. What is she not saying？ “Christians，” of course， but with a hint of something more hateful， more critical， unspoken but not absent. After all， she does mention them later， when the idea of Christian salvation for all is broached and the hidden negative implications are slightly dissipated. And then there is that artful ambiguity， a battery of commas that drives deliberately divergent viewpoints： “Remember， Christians， Negroes black as Cain” （line 7）. Is Wheatley addressing Christians here about the state of African American souls？ Certainly the trope of African Americans as the descendants of Cain suggests it. But perhaps the commas allow Wheatley to leave out an offending extra syllable in the word “and，” and she is saying that Christians and negroes， who may both be metaphorically “black as Cain，” may both also be refined and gain entrée to heaven. This is tantamount to characterizing some white Christians as defiled and defiling sinners. Even more， she associates these Christians with fratricide， a charge common in anti-slavery literature from the time of Samuel Sewall’s “The Selling of Joseph” through the bloody end of the Civil War： “Am I my brother’s keeper”—enslaver， killer？ （Genesis 4：9） 　　Ethical criticism， in fact， helped re-claim Wheatley for the revolutionary African American literary tradition. Black Arts-era criticism of Wheatley took her to task as a sell-out， a traitor， a favored house negro willfully subordinated to white culture. But ethical criticism， sensitive to the strategies of minorities in the ethical struggle for freedom， spurred readers to “look beneath the surface，” as Ralph Ellison’s vet would advise the protagonist in Invisible Man （151）， and find in Wheatley’s poetry， in her use of Christian mythology， contemporary racism， and stylistic craft， Dunbar’s “mask that grins and lies” （71） in first generation African American literature.
　　Wheatley demonstrates her method of concealment in another of her poems， “To the Right Honorable William， Earl of Dartmouth” （221）， which itself questions America’s commitment to its own principles. In this poem， Wheatley’s ethical advocacy for “Fair Freedom” here necessarily involves veiled reference to its absence in her post-kidnapping life. Wheatley implicitly criticizes her own kidnapping， calling it “cruel，” and using it to contextualize her feelings about the freedom for which her “adoptive” country stands. Yet Wheatley writes the poem from her position as a slave in a country that wishes to trumpet freedom as a central value. When Wheatley writes of the New England “race” that it no longer “mourns” because it has achieved freedom， and that each bosom “burns” with passion for freedom， she makes use of poetic craft to achieve her point. Africans were considered to be a separate “race” from whites， so the use of that noun recalls not only the American “race， but the position of blacks in America as well. The final word of the phrase “no longer mourns” and “burns” do not quite rhyme， causing the reader to question the absence of mourning in the slave community， whose creations later known as the “sorrow songs” imply a deep sense of mourning. The burning itself refers not only to a constructive （for white Americans） but a destructive （for claves） force， rendering ambiguous the seemingly positive meaning of such burning. Under such circumstances， her reference to “hated faction” and “chains，” even from a slave who experienced a somewhat ameliorated existence as a slave such as Wheatley did， brings American hypocrisy to the fore in a clever manner. And all this comes without a single explicit reference to chattel slavery. The irony should not be lost on either contemporary or current audiences. 　　In fact， the choices of genre， style， and mode can be seen as ethical decisions. Nineteenth century poet James Monroe Whitfield， in his poem “How Long，” appropriates typological Biblical language referring to the calls of the children of Israel for their God to end their suffering and rain punishment upon their oppressors for a largely secular poem about political liberty. Langston Hughes， in his story “The Blues I’m Playing，” goes even further. Hughes uses the traditional blues lyric popularized by Leroy Carr， “How Long， How Long Blues，” itself again drawing upon the Biblical language for a secular message of lost love， to comment upon an unhappy instance of the financial patronage by a wealthy white woman whose master morality （88）， as Nietzsche would say， has gone horribly wrong. Actually， the terms sacred and secular are， in context， misleading here： in West African culture， the differentiation between sacred and secular are blurred so that， even within a syncretized sacred tradition， the resonance of the Biblical archetype， as well as the African American anti-type， inform a seemingly simple use of a blues lyric at the end of the story. Hughes’s choice of a blues aesthetic， like a harmonica player’s choice of an African American derived blues style over an Anglo-American one， creates a stylistic embodiment of ethical concerns of African Americans. A rendition of even a song like the theme to “Sesame Street” rendered in slow blues style thoroughly transforms the mood from bouncy and innocent to a sad day on Sesame Street for Elmo.
　　Further， the mode of production， for example， of those harmonica sounds， represents a fundamentally different approach to the instrument and its sounds， the choice of which selects a racial solidarity and unity the meaning of which can be lost without an ethical critical approach. Quite simply， the political and aesthetic go hand in hand， but， as always， bellies are basic.
　　Of course， such points are not limited to ethical criticism of African American literature. Critic Brian Swann comments in relation to Native American Indian literature that for majority Americans， “History can be taken for granted， in the way of the conqueror， because things worked out the way they were supposed to” for those in power （175）. The same can be said of literature. When Simon Ortiz insists that the continued use of the oral tradition “is evidence that the resistance is on-going” （122）， it is clear that ethical concerns are inherent in expression， and should be a vital concern in the critical approach to literature. 　　Ethical critic Marshall Gregory affirms the great value of ethical criticism：
　　The ethical critic who can show how this or that work of literary art may exert an ethical influence on its readers does a real service to those of us who want to know not only why works of literary art are interesting， but why they might be important. What’s at stake for human beings in ethical criticism is a better， clearer understanding of the ethotic influences that help us eventually become the persons that we turn out to be. （Web）
　　And what is the best way to reach the people with ethical art and ethical criticism？ That for which Langston Hughes has been criticized in his both his more radical work of the 1940s and the entire of his oeuvre： simplicity. However， it can be very difficult to write simply， and very artful as well. First， one must run against the grain of mainstream political thinkers and “high art” critics， which is not something that many artists are brave enough to do. And then one must be direct and honest， not haughty and difficult， yet memorable. “Bellies are basic.” Five syllables， matching two plus one plus two； common two syllable words， one vernacular in relation to humans， emphasizing their animal existence， balanced on the fulcrum of being； alliterative –b’s uniting the two-syllable words even further， each with the consonant sound –s included for additional sonic identification between the two words and ideas. The words and ideas—and values—are thus irrevocably united. It is artful simplicity from Hughes’s work largely unrecognized by a scholarly world that sees Hughes’s humanistic， politically-responsible work as jingoistically facile or reductively didactic. It is ironic that this material is seen as reductive： it is actually ethically expansive， and it teaches us that ethics are basic， communication is basic， simplicity is basic. They are bottom line in a world where， for those like Hughes， the bottom is the top， the low is the high， as he writes in “Jazz， Jive and Jam.” Critics should not miss that in the body of Hughes’s work， or in any author’s. One must always be willing to interrogate class divisions and rankings to determine just what or who meets and creates the highest ethical standards.
　　It is as clear as the biological human need for food to survive. It is as basic as bellies.
　　Works Cited
　　De Santis， Christopher， ed. Langston Hughes and the Chicago Defender. Urbana： U of Illinois P， 2005.
　　Dickson， Tom. “Labor Blues.” Frank Stokes’ Dream： The Memphis Blues （1927-1931）. New York： Yazoo L-1008， n.d. （LP） 　　Du Bois， W.E.B. The Oxford W.E.B. DuBois Reader. Oxford： Oxford UP， 1996.
　　Dunbar， Paul Laurence. “We Wear the Mask.” The Collected Poetry of Paul Laurence Dunbar. Charlottesville： UP of Virginia， 1993. 71.
　　Ellison， Ralph. Invisible Man. New York： Vintage， 1982.
　　Gates， Henry Louis， Jr， et al， eds. The Norton Anthology of African American Literature. New York： W. W. Norton， 2004.
　　Gregory， Marshall W. “Redefining Ethical Criticism. The Old vs. the New.” Journal of Literary Theory 4/2 （2010）， 273-301. Dec 1， 2013 .
　　Nietzsche， Friedrich. Beyond Good and Evil. New York： Create Space， 2018.
　　Ortiz， Simon. “Towards a National Indian Literature.” Nothing but the Truth： An Anthology of Native American Literature. Upper Saddle River， New Jersey： Pearson， 2001： 120-25.
　　Posner， Richard A. “Against Ethical Criticism.” Philosophy and Literature 21.1（April， 1997）： 1-27.
　　Swann， Brian. “Introduction.” In Nothing But the Truth： An Anthology of Native American Literature. Upper Saddle River， New Jersey： Pearson， 2001： 172-89.
　　Wheatley， Phillis. “On Being Brought from Africa to America.” Gates， et al， eds， Norton Anthology 219.
　　---. “To the Right Honorable William， Earl of Dartmouth.” Gates， et al， eds， Norton Anthology 221.
　　責任编辑：罗良功