We’re used to time-bending drives in Southern California, watching our ETAs get longer instead of shorter as traffic jams grow. So I was resigned but not surprised when my 66-mile drive from Ventura to Elysian Park stretched from 86 minutes to 100 minutes Thursday afternoon.

What I didn’t expect was hail. On the first day of August. Around 2:25 p.m. After driving through nearly 100 degrees in the San Fernando Valley.

Now you know why I have seven sweatshirts and jackets in my car. At all times.

More weirdly, my trip started with temperatures in the low 70s in Ventura, where the spring and a good chunk of the summer have been cool and overcast. We’ve had some lovely blue-sky days in late July with temperatures in the low 80s, but Thursday, the clouds were back for a good part of the day.

When I took my walk that morning the temperature was in the low 60s, chilly enough to warrant a sweatshirt. But by 12:45 p.m., when I headed into L.A., it was around 70 degrees. I expected it to be a good 10 degrees hotter, so I wore shorts and a sleeveless shirt for my walk through Elysian Park while reporting on a story.

As expected, by the time I climbed the Conejo Pass on the 101 Freeway heading east, the temperature climbed quickly.

I couldn’t tell this inside my car of course, thanks to air conditioning, but my temperature sensor began climbing to the high 80s in Thousand Oaks and by the time I drove through Tarzana, the gauge read 99 degrees, just 45 miles from where I’d started.

I expected the temperature to stay in the 90s as I headed east, but instead the skies clouded up and the temperature began dropping, down to the low 80s.

And about 2:25 p.m. as I passed Forest Lawn Cemetery in the Hollywood Hills on the 134 Freeway, tiny white balls began pelting my wildshield. They were smaller than the smallest peas, but hard enough to make staccato tap-tap-taps as they struck my windshield and melted into tiny droplets of water.

By the time I reached the West Loop Trailhead in Elysian Park 20 minutes later, the skies were broken clouds, so I grabbed my sweatshirt, ensuring, of course, that the sun would break out a short time later.

The drive home around 5:30 p.m. was predictably slow but relatively uneventful weather-wise.

Meanwhile a prolonged heat wave is sweeping through inland areas of the state. My one weird weather day isn’t indicative of a wider trend — the National Weather Service noted a “seemingly never-ending heat wave” in July — but is exemplary of the microclimates we experience in Southern California. It may be triple digits in one spot, hailing momentarily in another.

One nice thing about driving west, however, is a front row seat to spectacular sunsets. There were still clouds, but so wispy they had an iridescent sheen like spun sugar.

And the sunset — bits of clouds turned deep salmon pink and plum — did not disappoint.

James Baldwin would have celebrated his 100th birthday Friday — on Aug. 2. On NPR and elsewhere, you can find deep examinations of his legacy – as everything from an orator, a fashion icon, to civil rights activist. But he was, of course, a writer first and foremost.

So, we thought: Why not spend a moment breaking down a few of his sentences to figure out what made his writing so affecting, so indelible, so good that it’s still worth reading today?

We’ve chosen a few lines from two of his most well-known books — his essay collection The Fire Next Time and his novel Go Tell It on the Mountain. In many ways, these books are in conversation with each other. The opening essay to The Fire Next Time is Baldwin’s letter to his 14-year-old nephew describing the faulty institutions that make up his life — his family, his faith, and his country. And the second essay opens like this: “I underwent, during the summer that I became fourteen, a prolonged religious crisis.” In Go Tell it on the Mountain, Baldwin writes a bit of fiction drawn from his own life, about a 14-year-old boy who is finding out those very same faults, as well as figuring out his own sexuality. And it opens on a very similar day of crisis.

For each book, we’ve enlisted the help of an expert to talk about what they find interesting about Baldwin’s writing style, and what legacy each work leaves. The interviews, which follow below, have been edited for length and clarity.

The Fire Next Time

The two essays in The Fire Next Time were published in the 1960s. But they still sounded new in the early 2000s when Jesmyn Ward first read them. Ward is the author of a number of books including Sing, Unburied Sing and her memoir The Men We Reaped. We called her up for this book in particular because she edited a 2016 collection of political essays and poetry titled The Fire This Time, as a nod to Baldwin. “I wanted to let him know, wherever he may be, that there are those of us who look up to him and who are attempting to do the same work that he did with the same honesty and same fearlessness” said Ward. The first essay, titled “My Dungeon Shook: Letter to my Nephew on the One Hundredth Anniversary of the Emancipation,” starts like this:

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Dear James: 

I have begun this letter five times and torn it up five times. I keep seeing your face, which is also the face of your father and my brother. Like him, you are tough, dark, vulnerable, moody – with a very definite tendency to sound truculent because you want no one to think you are soft.

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What tone is he setting here?

JW: That first sentence in the first sentence – “I’ve begun this letter five times and turn it up five times.” Right there, he’s signaling to his nephew, we’re about to talk about something that’s very difficult. But softens that with the next line, “I keep seeing your face.” Following up with such a careful, close sort of observation about his nephew’s characteristics in the way that they sort of echo his father and his grandfather. That’s love, right? Because I love you enough to see you clearly.

You were born where you were born and face the future that you faced because you were black and for no other reason. The limits of your ambition were, thus, expected to be set forever. You were born into a society which spelled out with brutal clarity, and in as many ways as possible, that you were a worthless human being.

This is another example of his straightforward honesty with his nephew. But what did you make of it?

JW: It’s all still true. That’s one of the things that is so genius about specifically this letter. There are these moments in the texts where he doesn’t use his nephew’s name and he just uses you. And in those moments, especially in moments like this, when he is so straightforward about what he sees in America. And where he is so straightforward about how the world has been constructed to jail, or to confine in some ways. And it feels like he’s speaking to me. It feels like this wise, older wise person is sitting with me and they’re telling me something about my life and about the circumstances of my life that I dimly understood, but was not able to articulate.

This entire country has been constructed in a way that it is very easy to be terrified and bewildered and to sink into despair and hatred. And so I think that often when we return to Baldwin, what we want is we want someone to acknowledge our emotions. But then also just to say at the same time, you feel this way because this place has been constructed in this way and it is all predicated on this false understanding of your not being human. And in this section, he just makes room for your emotions. For you to feel what you feel. But then also gives you something of a gift that you can take out into the outside world and use it to help you navigate this really difficult reality.

In the next essay, titled “Down at the Cross: Letter from a Region in My Mind,” he goes to interview Elijah Muhammad, the head of the Nation of Islam, and has this dinner. And it’s rare to read something where Baldwin is not the big dog in the room. What do you make of James Baldwin the reporter being packaged inside Baldwin the essayist? 

JW: I felt for Baldwin at that moment. There are so many levels of awareness that he’s sort of struggling with. He’s not the most important person in the room and in the minds of the people around him. He’s not the most erudite person in the room. And he’s also aware of the fact that the Honorable Elijah Muhammad is courting him. [Muhammad] wants [Baldwin] to buy into his philosophy. And Baldwin is aware of the fact that he can’t.

A couple of times throughout the essay he talks about the fact that, after this dinner, he’s going to meet up with some white friends and he’s going to have drinks. And these are people who he cares about and who he loves and who are part of his social circle. And who he can’t just relegate to the category of white devil. It’s very interesting to me how Baldwin is juggling all these different awarenesses and how, at the same time, there are things about the Black Muslims philosophy that he understands.

And I looked around the table. I certainly had no evidence to give them that would outweigh Elijah’s authority or the evidence o f their own lives or the reality of the streets outside.

He’s a writer. So he sees the human. He observes the human. He understands. He’s able to look at each of these people that he’s interacting with and he’s able to understand something of what they are struggling with and something of what they brought to this moment. All of that is what makes him the great writer who he is.

Go Tell It on the Mountain

When it comes to Baldwin’s fiction work, there are plenty of books worthy of examination. But there’s something special about Go Tell It on the Mountain. “He describes this as the book he had to write if he was ever going to write anything else,” says McKinley Melton, associate professor and chair of Africana studies at Rhodes College. “I often think of it as a revisitation of his childhood with a narrative perspective that knows and understands all of the things a young Baldwin wishes he had known and understood when he was 14.”

The novel follows a boy named John undergoing that same crisis of faith Baldwin described in The Fire Next Time. But he opens it a little differently in fiction.

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Everyone had always said that John would be a preacher when he grew up, just like his father. It had been said so often that John, without ever thinking about it, had come to believe it himself. Not until the morning of his fourteenth birthday did he really begin to think about it, and by then it was already too late. 

That last clause kind of reads like a horror story.

MM: There’s something deeply ominous about the way that that opening paragraph closes. You open with this idea of, oh, this is just an introduction to a young man who’s stepping into a role that the father has laid out. You come into it feeling kind of hopeful and optimistic and, oh, what a beautiful thing that everybody’s envisioning this future for this young man. And we think about everything that it means when people say, oh, that kid’s going to be a preacher. We see him as an orator, we see him as an intellectual, we’ll see him as charming, we see him as engaging. We see a leader when we look at this kid. And so there’s something very optimistic about that opening that then turns by the end of the novel into. But that was actually the source of his doom.

I want to jump ahead a few pages. There’s this guy named Elijah. He’s a couple years older, and he teaches Sunday school. 

John stared at Elisha all during the lesson, admiring the timbre of Elisha’s voice, much deeper and manlier than his own, admiring the leanness, and grace, and strength, and darkness of Elisha in his Sunday suit, wondering if he would ever be holy as Elisha was holy.

MM: This is another sentence that I often will pause with students to kind of think about and say, what’s going on here? And then they just say, “Oh, my God, he has a crush.” Yeah, he has a crush. Absolutely. But then we look at it and, I look at this passage and, because of all of the ways that the different clauses bounce off of one another throughout the sentence, you’re kind of leaving this saying, well, does John have the hots for Elisha? Because John is learning that he’s probably gay. Or is John admiring Elisha because he is all of the things that John has been told he’s supposed to be in terms of this kind of striving toward being a preacher when he grows up and the kind of idea of being saved in the idea of being holy, in the idea of looking good in a Sunday suit.  

The middle chunk of the book goes into the lives of his aunt, his mother, and his step father. And I want to focus on his step father, Gabriel. And if you grew up in the church you know that the people who are sinners and then find God are often the most vociferously faithful. And Gabriel definitely fits that mold. There’s a bit where he has an affair with a woman named Esther, and he gets Esther pregnant.

Near the end of that summer he went out again into the field. He could not stand his home, his job, the town itself – he could not endure, day in, day out, facing the scenes and the people he had known all his life. They seemed suddenly to mock him, to stand in judgement on him; he saw guilt in everybody’s eyes. 

John is scared of hell and eternal damnation. Gabriel seems more scared of other people, and very earthly judgements, right? 

MM: I often think about the unfolding of this novel. We start with John in this moment of chaos and a lack of understanding. And then the novel takes us back through each of these characters who we come to understand better. We come to understand John better. He’s struggling with sin in a space that feels deeply private, deeply unspoken. Gabriel is differently positioned because he’s already in that position of prominence. He’s standing at the pulpit. He’s you know, they’re both afraid of judgment. Right. But John is afraid of revelation. And Gabriel fears that everybody already knows. Gabriel is afraid of the judgment that comes based on the fact that, like, oh, they already know who I’ve always been.

But ultimately, both of them are struggling with this sense of judgment and condemnation and the fear of being, quote unquote, discovered for being less than the holy men that they have aspired to be. But I think what Baldwin is saying is: I’m not just critiquing the church, or the Black church, or the fundamentalist church. I’m asking us to think about what damage does it do to us when we are so deeply, deeply wedded to certain beliefs that don’t allow us the fullness of our humanity? And if you’re going to be sympathetic for John, you have to figure out a way to be sympathetic for Gabriel, even if his actions don’t invite sympathy in the same way.