Downstairs the dog is barking at snowplows on the road. Upstairs Malcolm X is glowering at me. In terms of "author attitude to reader," he is even meaner than Charlotte Bronte. I can see exactly how an essay about the Autobiography would fit into the rest of my reading memoir. But writing it will be torture. No doubt, like Charlotte, that's exactly what he'd prefer.

I do know I should make some attempt to write about my urge to reread unpleasant books, and certainly the Autobiography is an exemplar. I accept unpleasantness as Malcolm's point, and also as punishment for being who I am . . . except that he's not always as right as he thinks he is, particularly about women. In fact, he's shockingly obnoxious about women. Nonetheless, his argument, from beginning to end, is designed to convince white readers, no matter who we are, that we deserve what we get from him. In large part, his argument works on me: yes, I'm humiliated by the crimes of my race. Yet what do I do with a sentence such as "All women, by their nature, are fragile and weak"? Or "while a man must at all times respect his woman, at the same time he needs to understand that he must control her if he expects to get her respect." Such blank-faced statements are woven throughout this book, and they are starting to appall me. How can a man so sensitive to the injuries inflicted by history be so ignorant of the injuries inflicted by history?