Which comes first: self-hatred or being a hateful person? Does one feed (or feed on) the other? And how does shame act as a catalyst in this toxic reaction?

Beautifully written, infuriating, moving, heartbreaking. The narrator is so loathsome (in a Gatsbyesque way) that I found myself in awe at Baldwin's sensitivity: to write someone like that, to take us in his self-justifying head and culture and era, to draw us in despite our dislike -- that takes skill. It was an unusual experience and has lingered with me for some days.

I first thought this was a period piece, that our world has progressed since then... halfway through I realized my mistake. These characters are timeless: their fears, desires, insecurities, self-absorption; their pettiness and inability to communicate with or listen to one another; and yes, the oppressive mantle of shame inherited from our culture -- I don't think we've outgrown those yet.