"After the Egyptian and the Indian, the Greek and Roman, the Teuton and Mongolian, the Negro is a sort of seventh son, born with a veil, and gifted with second-sight in this American world,— a world which yields him no true self-consciousness, but only lets him see himself through the revelation of the other world. It is a peculiar sensation, this double-consciousness, this sense of always looking at one's self through the eyes of others, of measuring one's soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity. One ever feels his two-ness,—an American, a Negro; two souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings; two warring ideals in one dark body, whose dogged strength alone keeps it from being torn asunder."

If you're going to write the intellectual manifesto for the black American, why not start with a super bold statement? Du Bois more or less begins the first chapter of his book with this main problem and primary gift of every black American: the ability to understand two points of view simultaneously. That is, to understand what it means to be both American and black at the same time.

In case you can't tell, this passage reinvented the concept of duality for the black American. If all those repeated "two"s don't drive the idea home, there's always the term "double-consciousness" to do it for you (which DuBois really did invent, by the way).

Duality doesn't just mean having two personalities, though. What's really key to understanding DuBois's notion of duality is "second-sight." Being split between "two warring ideals"—one "American," another "Negro"—isn't fun. It means seeing yourself the way a typical white American might see you (and back then, not too many white folks had generous perceptions of free black men and women).

This second-sight is also a gift, however. Why? Because who else can say they know and understand so much? And so deeply?

Think of it this way: all that suffering—slavery, bigotry, being hated for the color of your skin—amounts to a depth of character that no typical white American can ever understand.

In other words, second-sight helped some black Americans learn to be proud of their battle scars.

You know you're in the midst of some serious rhetorical mastery when words are repeated and you don't go, "Ew, this is redundant." In fact, all of the repetition here—"two" this, "two" that—actually highlights the passage's main themes.

Take the whole idea of "double-consciousness." Sure, the repeating "two"s underscore the idea of doubling, but what's really key about this repetition is how the "two"s lead straight into opposing or "warring ideals." They give you a sense of how it feels to be torn apart by oppositional forces.

The repetition also gives the passage a persistent rhythm. It can feel just a bit like that "dogged strength" the black man needs in order to make it through all that suffering, no?

We know, we know: you're probably rolling your eyes. But DuBois isn't the only one who's ever tried to use rhythm to lure you into his meaning. And he's definitely not the only Harlem Renaissance artist to do this.

If you ask us, we don't think it's a coincidence that DuBois's writing has some of the same musical swing that defined jazz.