The Coal Shoveller by Keith Fort
"The Coal Shoveller" by Keith Fort is a reflective short story that delves into the complexities of creativity, race, and self-examination. The narrative unfolds as the writer observes an African American coal shoveller working outside his window, which sparks a series of failed attempts at storytelling. Throughout his struggles, the writer grapples with various literary styles and characters, drawing inspiration from iconic authors like James Joyce and William Faulkner, yet he finds himself unable to fully embrace their techniques.
As he attempts to craft different narratives, including a visceral tale featuring a young white coal shoveller and a satirical vignette aimed at critiquing white liberal intellectuals, he becomes increasingly frustrated with his own limitations and the societal norms surrounding art and literature. The story raises questions about the authenticity of voice and the ethics of representation, particularly concerning the writer's grappling with his own privileged position. Ultimately, the writer finds himself stymied by the encroaching darkness, leaving him both literally and metaphorically unable to continue his creative endeavors. This exploration invites readers to reflect on the challenges of writing within a complex social landscape and the struggles of finding genuine expression.
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The Coal Shoveller by Keith Fort
First published: 1969
Type of plot: Antistory
Time of work: The 1960's
Locale: Washington, D.C.
Principal Characters:
The narrator , an author and professorMichael , his alter egoMargaret , Michael's wifeAmelia , Michael's small daughterReginald Cowpersmith , another alter egoAn African American coal shoveller
The Story
A writer tries to create a short story while looking through his window at an African American man shoveling coal into a basement across the street. He experiments with various stylistic approaches and characters but repeatedly gives up. After his first abortive attempt, he writes: "To ask words to make fiction into photographic realism is to demand a performance which they are totally incapable of giving."
He begins a personal story. His six-year-old daughter enters his study and breaks his concentration, so he takes her outside into the snow. He is only imagining this scenario, however, as he is actually still writing. Once again he stops. He now is beginning to sound like James Joyce in "The Dead" (1914)—a story that ends with a typical Joycean epiphany. He writes: "I am inclined to agree with those who say that literature (no matter how negative the theme) which reinforces the habit of extracting ideas from reality panders to the self-interest of the middle class."
Still determined to persevere, the narrator next begins a story involving an old woman telling her grandson about Washington, D.C., of the past. Now his sentences sound like the convoluted, hypnotic prose of William Faulkner. He does not like to imitate but candidly admits: "I wish I could honestly see the fall of the Old South as tragic in the way that Faulkner did."
Increasingly frustrated, the narrator indulges in self-recrimination, blaming himself for being emotionally bankrupt, nihilistic, arrogant, and narrow-minded. He now decides to try writing a visceral, action-packed story and invents a young white coal shoveller named Reginald Cowpersmith, who uses his status as a building employee to get into a young woman's apartment in order to rape her. After getting well into a convincing yarn, he breaks off and exclaims: "God, but I hate bastards who write stories like that."
Finally, he tries to write a satirical vignette in which an anonymous writer befriends the black coal shoveller in a bar frequented by middle-class whites vaguely associated with the arts. He wants to expose the hypocrisy of white liberal intellectuals by introducing a real lower-class black into their midst. His imaginary coal shoveller gets along well with his imaginary white liberals but fails to understand his creator's complaints, such as his complaint that "art has been dehumanized so that no man can honestly write on anything but the problem of writing." The mystified but compassionate coal shoveller quite reasonably asks his creator why he keeps trying to write if he finds it so frustrating. The writer replies, "in my business it's publish or . . . ," stopping before saying "perish." Instead, he releases a smokescreen of hyperintellectual verbiage. He obviously covets his privileged position as an intellectual and professor even though he questions the value of any literature that people like himself produce.
Like its predecessors, his new story fizzles out and the narrator finds himself back at his window, watching the man shoveling coal. He states that he does not want to turn on the light because it will prevent him from seeing out the window but that he cannot continue writing because it is now too dark.