In 1936, a writer and a photographer walked into the sweltering heat of Hale County, Alabama. They weren't there for a vacation. James Agee and Walker Evans were on assignment for Fortune magazine to document the lives of white sharecroppers during the Great Depression. What they brought back wasn't just a report. It was Let Us Now Praise Famous Men, a book so dense, so angry, and so strangely beautiful that it basically redefined what long-form journalism could be. Honestly, it's a miracle it ever got published.
Most people today know the photos. You’ve seen them. The hollow-eyed women, the dirt floors, the stark wooden porches. Walker Evans’ photography is legendary for its "documentary style"—cold, unblinking, and weirdly respectful. But the text? That’s where things get complicated. James Agee didn't just write about the families; he agonized over the ethics of even being there. He felt like a spy. He felt like he was "prying" into the souls of people who had nothing left but their privacy.
The Book That Almost Didn't Happen
Fortune hated it. They rejected the original manuscript because it was too long, too weird, and frankly, too critical of the very idea of journalism. Agee didn't want to give the readers a "moving story" they could feel good about and then forget. He wanted to rub their faces in the reality of poverty. He spent years obsessively rewriting it, turning a magazine assignment into a 400-page sprawling masterpiece of prose poetry and sociological fury.
When it finally hit shelves in 1941, it bombed. Hard. It sold maybe 600 copies. People were looking toward World War II, not backward at the dust of the 1930s. It wasn't until the 1960s—when the Civil Rights Movement and a new interest in American poverty took hold—that Let Us Now Praise Famous Men was rediscovered as a classic.
Why James Agee’s Guilt Matters Today
We live in an age of "trauma porn." You see it on social media every day—creators filming themselves giving money to unhoused people or news crews sticking microphones in the faces of grieving families. Agee saw this coming. He hated the word "documentary." To him, it implied a sort of scientific distance that stripped the subjects of their humanity.
He wrote about the three families—the Gudgers, the Woods, and the Ricketts (pseudonyms he used, though their real names were the Burroughses, the Tengles, and the Fields)—with a level of detail that is almost suffocating. He describes the smell of their houses. He describes the texture of their clothes. He even lists the items in their drawers. Some critics think he went too far. Is it "praising" them to list their meager possessions, or is it just another form of theft?
The book is basically a 500-page confession. He’s constantly asking: Who am I to be here? This self-awareness is what makes the book feel modern. It isn't a "savior" narrative. It’s a messy, uncomfortable look at the power dynamic between the observer and the observed.
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Walker Evans and the Power of the Unposed
While Agee was wrestling with his soul, Walker Evans was looking through a viewfinder. His contribution to Let Us Now Praise Famous Men is equally vital but totally different in tone. Evans didn't use flashy lighting. He didn't ask people to smile or look "extra poor" for the camera. He just stood there.
His photos are grouped at the very beginning of the book, before the title page even starts. No captions. No explanations. This was a radical move. He wanted the reader to look these people in the eye before they read a single word of Agee’s dense prose.
One of the most famous images is of Allie Mae Burroughs. Her face is a map of exhaustion and resilience. It’s become an icon of the Depression, but for her family, it was just their life. Years later, descendants of the families expressed mixed feelings about the book. They were immortalized, sure, but they were also frozen in their lowest moments for the consumption of the middle class. It's a heavy legacy to carry.
The "Famous Men" Irony
The title itself is a bit of a middle finger. It comes from the Apocrypha—Ecclesiasticus 44:1—which usually refers to kings, prophets, and heroes. By applying it to sharecroppers who couldn't read or write, Agee was making a massive theological and political point. He was saying that the lives of these "nobodies" were just as sacred, just as complex, and just as worthy of "praise" as any world leader.
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He wasn't romanticizing them, though. He shows the grit. He shows the flies. He shows the ignorance born of a broken education system. He didn't think they were saints; he just thought they were human.
Why You Should Actually Read It (And How)
Let’s be real: this is a hard book to read. Agee's sentences are long. Really long. Sometimes a single sentence lasts for an entire page. He uses words that will send you to the dictionary every five minutes. But if you stick with it, the rhythm starts to make sense. It’s like listening to a symphony or reading a long prayer.
If you're going to dive in, don't try to power through it in one sitting. Treat it like an art gallery. Read a few pages, look at the photos, and then walk away. Think about the ethical questions he’s raising. Ask yourself how we treat the "famous men" of our own era versus the people who actually keep the world running.
Practical Lessons from Hale County
Despite being nearly a century old, Let Us Now Praise Famous Men offers some pretty sharp insights for anyone who creates content, does journalism, or just cares about social justice:
- Avoid the "poverty gaze." When documenting others, ask if you're highlighting their dignity or just using their struggle for "likes" or "engagement."
- Context is everything. You can't understand a person's life without understanding the systems (like sharecropping) that put them there.
- Transparency is better than "objectivity." Agee was honest about his biases and his discomfort. That honesty makes the work more trustworthy than a "balanced" news report that ignores the human element.
- The small stuff matters. Sometimes a description of a kitchen table tells us more about a family than a list of their income and expenses ever could.
The impact of this work is still felt in modern sociology and documentary photography. It taught us that the camera is never neutral. It taught us that the pen is a heavy tool. Most importantly, it reminds us that every person we pass on the street—no matter how "un-famous"—is the protagonist of a story that is just as deep and terrifying and beautiful as our own.
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To really understand the American identity, you have to look at the parts we tried to hide. Agee and Evans didn't let us hide. They forced the world to look at the people who were literally building the foundation of the country while starving in the process. It's not a comfortable book, but the best ones rarely are.
If you want to explore this further, start by looking at the original Library of Congress archives of Walker Evans’ work. Seeing the "outtakes" from the Hale County trip reveals even more about the relationship between the artists and the families. Then, pick up the book, skip the introduction, and start with the photos. Let them sit with you before you let Agee’s words take over. It’s an experience that stays with you long after you put the book back on the shelf.