Roark Bradford and John Henry

Roark Bradford was not a great writer; this much is fact. He did write some quaint things, some quaintly funny things, and even several first-rate things. But he never approached greatness, primarily because his characters circumscribed him. Their appeal ebbed too, obviously; few seem interested in old-time southern blacks these days. Bradford wrote ninety-six percent of his fiction about old-time southern blacks. It is therefore not surprising that few people seem interested in him either. The academic and literary communities have ignored Bradford with dedication. Five previous Master of Arts theses have been written about him, as well as the usual number of current reviews accorded any publishing author. There are some reminiscences about him in The Saturday Review, and there are a few brief obituaries. That is about all. In critical works there is precious little, and in scholarly journals there is nothing. This is unfortunate, because Bradford happened to be a very good writer. He was limited in scope, but he was quite impressive in other ways. He was even a bit important if the truth be known