Passing

by Larsen, Nella; Davis, Thadious M.

• ISBN13: 9780142437278
• ISBN10: 0142437271
• eBook ISBN(s): 9781633844582
• Additional ISBN(s): 9780141180250, 9780991052332
• Format: Paperback
• Copyright: 2003-02-04
• Publisher: Penguin Classics
• More Book Details

About This Book

Passing (Penguin Classics)

ISBN: 9780142437278

About This Book

"Passing" by Nella Larsen is a powerful and thought-provoking novel that continues to resonate today. This classic tale explores the fluidity of racial identity, delving into themes of loyalty, longing, respect, risk-taking, and identity. Published in 1929, during a time when "separate but equal" was the law of the land in the US, this book offers a candid exploration of shifting racial and sexual boundaries.

Who Uses It?

Primarily, "Passing" is used by students and educators in courses focused on American literature, particularly those examining the Harlem Renaissance and its impact on racial identity. It is also a valuable resource for anyone interested in understanding the historical context of racial identity and the personal costs associated with social categorization.

History and Editions

The first edition of "Passing" was published in 1929. The Penguin Classics edition, which includes an introduction by Thadious M. Davis, was published in 2003. This edition has been widely praised for its insightful commentary on the novel's enduring themes.

Author and Other Works

Nella Larsen was a prominent figure in the Harlem Renaissance, known for her poignant and thought-provoking works. Her other notable books include "Quicksand" and "Thirteenth Child." Larsen's writing style is characterized by its depth and nuance, making her works essential reading for anyone interested in American literature.

Key Features

• Historical Significance: "Passing" offers a unique glimpse into the racial dynamics of the early 20th century, making it a crucial text for understanding historical context.
• Cultural Relevance: The novel's exploration of racial identity continues to resonate today, making it a relevant and timely read.
• Literary Merit: The book's complex characters and layered themes have made it a classic of American literature.

Detailed Information

ISBNs and Formats

• Penguin Classics Edition: ISBN-13: 9780142437278
• Other Editions:
• Penguin Classics Edition with Introduction by Thadious M. Davis: ISBN-13: 9780142437278
• Used Copies:
• Good condition: Available from Zoom Books Company (Seller Inventory # ZBV.0142437271.G)
• Acceptable condition: Available from Goodwill of Colorado (Seller Inventory # 466OE30042NR)
• Very Good condition: Available from Goodwill, Brooklyn Park, MN (Seller Inventory # 2Y6U1A000TFG_ns)

Publication Details

• Publisher: Penguin Books
• Publication Date: 2003 (Penguin Classics Edition)
• Number of Pages: 160 pages
• Language: English
• Item Weight: Not specified
• Dimensions: Not specified

Other Editions and Formats

While there are no other ISBNs for different formats of "Passing" that are widely recognized, the book is available in various used conditions from different sellers. The provided ISBNs are specific to the Penguin Classics edition and its various used copies.

This detailed information section provides a quick reference for all the available formats and sources for "Passing," making it easier to find and access the book in the preferred format.

Author Biography

Nella Larsen (1891-1964) was the author of two novels and several short stories. She received a Guggenheim fellowship to write a third novel in 1930 but, unable to find a publisher for it, she disappeared from the literary scene and worked as a nurse.

Thadious M. Davis is G. C. Vanderbilt Professor of English at Vanderbilt University, the author of an acclaimed biography of Nella Larsen, and the editor of Larsen's Quicksand for Penguin Classics.

Table of Contents

Introduction	vii
Suggestions for Further Reading	xxxiii
A Note on the Text	xxxv
Passing
Encounter	7	(42)
Re-Encounter	49	(34)
Finale	83	(32)
Explanatory Notes	115

Excerpts

It was the last letter in Irene Redfield's little pile of morning mail. After her other ordinary and clearly directed letters the long envelope of thin Italian paper with its almost illegible scrawl seemed out of place and alien. And there was, too, something mysterious and slightly furtive about it. A thin sly thing which bore no return address to betray the sender. Not that she hadn't immediately known who its sender was. Some two years ago she had one very like it in outward appearance. Furtive, but yet in some peculiar, determined way a little flaunting. Purple ink. Foreign paper of extraordinary size.

It had been, Irene noted, postmarked in New York the day before. Her brows came together in a tiny frown. The frown, however, was more from perplexity than from annoyance; though there was in her thoughts an element of both. She was wholly unable to comprehend such an attitude towards danger as she was sure the letter's contents would reveal; and she disliked the idea of opening and reading it.

This, she reflected, was of a piece with all that she knew of Clare Kendry. Stepping always on the edge of danger. Always aware, but not drawing back or turning aside. Certainly not because of any alarms or feeling of outrage on the part of others.

And for a swift moment Irene Redfield seemed to see a pale small girl sitting on a ragged blue sofa, sewing pieces of bright red cloth together, while her drunken father, a tall, powerfully built man, raged threateningly up and down the shabby room, bellowing curses and making spasmodic lunges at her which were not the less frightening because they were, for the most part, ineffectual. Sometimes he did manage to reach her. Butonly the fact that the child had edged herself and her poor sewing over to the farthermost corner of the sofa suggested that she was in any way perturbed by this menace to herself and her work.

Clare had known well enough that it was unsafe to take a portion of the dollar that was her weekly wage for the doing of many errands for the dressmaker who lived on the top floor of the building of which Bob Kendry was janitor. But that knowledge had not deterred her. She wanted to go to her Sunday school's picnic, and she had made up her mind to wear a new dress. So, in spite of certain unpleasantness and possible danger, she had taken the money to buy the material for that pathetic little red frock.

There had been, even in those days, nothing sacrificial in Clare Kendry's idea of life, no allegiance beyond her own immediate desire. She was selfish, and cold, and hard. And yet she had, too, a strange capacity of transforming warmth and passion, verging sometimes almost on theatrical heroics.

Irene, who was a year or more older than Clare, remembered the day that Bob Kendry had been brought home dead, killed in a silly saloon-fight. Clare, who was at that time a scant fifteen years old, had just stood there with her lips pressed together, her thin arms folded across her narrow chest, staring down at the familiar pasty-white face of her parent with a sort of disdain in her slanting black eyes. For a very long time she had stood like that, silent and staring. Then, quite suddenly, she had given way to a torrent of weeping, swaying her thin body, tearing at her bright hair, and stamping her small feet. The outburst had ceased as suddenly as it had begun. She glanced quickly about the bare room, taking everyone in, even the two policemen, in a sharp look of flashing scorn. And, in the next instant, she had turned and vanished through the door.

Seen across the long stretch of years, the thing had more the appearance of an outpouring of pent-up fury than of an overflow of grief for her dead father; though she had been, Irene admitted, fond enough of him in her own rather catlike way.

Catlike. Certainly that was the word which best described Clare Kendry, if any single word could describe her. Sometimes she was hard and apparently without feeling at all; sometimes she was affectionate and rashly impulsive. And there was about her an amazing soft malice, hidden well away until provoked. Then she was capable of scratching, and very effectively too. Or, driven to anger, she would fight with a ferocity and impetuousness that disregarded or forgot any danger; superior strength, numbers, or other unfavorable circumstances. How savagely she had clawed those boys the day they had hooted her parent and sung a derisive rhyme, of their own composing, which pointed out certain eccentricities in his careening gait! And how deliberately she had—Irene brought her thoughts back to the present, to the letter from Clare Kendry that she still held unopened in her hand. With a little feeling of apprehension, she very slowly cut the envelope, drew out the folded sheets, spread them, and began to read.