I want to give this five stars for his writing, but Hughes’ persistence in referring to liaisons with women as ‘getting some girls’ suggests a blind spot in his awareness of human commoditization beyond race. No, I can’t write that off to history and the times.

Also reading Obama’s “Becoming” and noting some parallels about their discussions of race, visits to Africa, framing of opportunities and expectations altered by culture and bias.

Langston Hughes ends his 1940 autobiography The Big Sea by writing “Literature is a big sea full of many fish. I let down my nets and pulled. I’m still pulling.”

Similar to ...
Arlo Guthrie said, "Songwriting is like fishing in a stream; you put in your line and hope you catch something. And I don't think anyone downstream from Bob Dylan ever caught anything."

Conclusion: men love to fish.

Much to like about both biographies, Hughes’ and Obamas’. But finishing Michelle Obama’s Becoming, I would rather recommend Hughes’ The Big Sea. Better writing, fuller insight, more honest appraisal of himself and the world—in his 40s. She in her 50s is holding back, relies too much on adjectives where a better noun would do.

Hughes’ biography is better because he is a bona fide writer-artist. And perhaps because he saw more of a grittier world in his 20s as an unknown, than she in her rise through Princeton, Chicago politics and Washington. He really put himself out there, as unattached men may and are prone to do. He is not trying to be a role model.

The devastating moment in this book was when he was summarily cast away by a wealthy patron he adored and thought did in return—for asserting, however graciously and gratefully, creative and intellectual independence. False, fickle affections in pursuit of finding rare, previously unknown, native talent, is the big game sport of the ridiculously endowed. And the worst kind of tribute to the arts. Can’t we fund the arts like roads so that our culture doesn’t depend on the frivolity of entitled billionaires?

He a fitting laureate, she a President. If only....! ( )

Born in 1902, Langston Hughes came of age early in the 1920s. In this book he recounts those memorable years in the two great playgrounds of the decade -- Harlem and Paris. In Paris he was a cook and waiter in nightclubs. He knew the musicians and dancers, the drunks and dope fiends. In Harlem he was a rising young poet -- at the center of the Harlem Renaissance.

Langston Hughes kinda kicked ass ( )

It seems rather odd for a writer to end his autobiography with the declaration that he has decided to become a writer. Of course for a 28 year old to write his autobiography is also not a usual occurrence. Since very little about Langston Hughes could be described as usual, his story in no way seemed out of place.

I came to Langston Hughes via William Styron and James Baldwin, and their interest and stories were enough for me to read on. I’m not much of a poetry man, as poetry does not usually contain the thread of plot that keeps my interest and understanding in tow, but I did enjoy those that were a part of his journey.

To hear Hughes tell of his adventures, you would not know that he was a part of the “Negro” renaissance of the 1920’s that took place in Paris, and Harlem. I look forward to reading more of his work in the future. ( )

A readable, unpretentious, quickly paced autobiography, with great scenes from the Harlem Renaissance. ( )