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Poor old Jenny had passed so much of her life in the family with "the white folks," that all her sympathies went with them and on the state of their spiritual atmosphere depended all her cheerfulness and comfort; and now the cool, distant, sorrowful condition of the members of the little family circle "ebery single mudder's son and darter ob 'em, superamblated off to derself like pris'ners in a jailhouse" as she said depressed her spirits very much.
She supposed that she might be able to stand in front of Cornell University with placards advocating that human beings go back to being the hunters and gatherers from whence they came. She could stand there like a madwoman denouncing the past 7000-10,000 years. Nothing would come out of it but 12 hours of sitting in a jailhouse and then paying a fine.
And another, more general: "Along come the jailer About 'leven o'clock, Bunch o' keys in his right hand, The jailhouse do'h was locked.... 'Cheer up, you pris'ners, I heard that jailer say, 'You got to go to the cane-brakes Foh ninety yeahs to stay!" As you can guess, most of these jail songs and ballads of the underworld could only be printed in asterisks.
Early into his career, he halfway believed that in his studies of the dejected Patpong whores, petrous automatons of suburbia, desperate homeless mendicants blowing bird whistles at pedestrians near the Chao Phraya river pier, and himself, an outsider inside the travail, the torture, the jailhouse of this unjust world, that he would somehow redeem all.
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