A Matter of Pryority : IF I STOP I’LL DIE: The Comedy and Tragedy of Richard Pryor, <i> By John A. Williams and Dennis A. Williams (Thunder’s Mouth Press: $19.95; 226 pp.)</i>

Throughout that gray, ominous decade of the ‘70s, the most trenchant observations on the directions, meanings and underlying, unutterable frustrations of many American lives could be gathered most accurately from selected books of the New Testament and the piercing monology of Richard Pryor.

That Pryor was a stand-up comic-- the comedian, the authors of “If I Stop I’ll Die” would have you know--wasn’t beside the point. Only with humor can the hammer of repression and the anvil of guilt and misunderstanding be put down. Not everyone is susceptible to reason, but most people know how to laugh. This is so for many Americans, notably those with noses for the truth.

The authors have not missed the telling point. Veteran biographer John A. Williams and his son Dennis, a former Newsweek correspondent, in Pryor’s argot, “booked the numbers, didn’t need paper nor pencil.” Their generations bracket Pryor’s. Their sensitivities counterbalance their scholarship. They are aware, and sound as clearly as two bells. These are the best compliments a writer can get.

We find Pryor’s legacy being wrought from mind-boggling stand-up routines, recorded best in his 1975 album, “Is It Something I Said?” (The authors note that this album’s cover art depicts Pryor about to be burned at the stake and relate that to his later immolation in real life.)

The Williamses have picked out some of his best lines and put them in the context of his existence, only to see the lines lie flat. This is because the old Pryor didn’t just deliver jokes. The material was unalterably his. No one else could render the material in the same dimensions, not even Eddie Murphy, who nonetheless admits, “Without (Pryor), I couldn’t have become Eddie Murphy.”

Pryor’s own mentor was Lenny Bruce, whose finest humor came from a forthright honesty that won him many enemies. The authors also acknowledge Dick Gregory and Bill Cosby as Pryor’s early comic influences, though he aspired more toward their success than their style.

The authors point out that Pryor did not become a seminal cultural phenomenon until he became himself: a storyteller, mimic and social commentator of incomprehensible prescience. It was Pryor who long ago joked of a choke hold (“Oops, he broke. Does it say you can break a nigger?”) used in parts of town where you wouldn’t want to brave the police (“You in jail in Long Beach? Well shit, we ain’t comin’ down there to get yo ass.”).

In relating the memorable characterizations of Pryor’s oeuvre-- the Wino, the Junkie, the Preacher, the Father, the Grandmother, Macho Man, Cock-Eyed Junior, Miz Rudolph--the Williamses slip only twice. They continually refer to his most vivid persona, a wizened old man, as “Mudbones.” His name was Mudbone. I was surprised how bothered I was over this small error, perhaps more than a cinephile might be by the misspelling of Charles Foster Kane.

To prove Mudbone’s wit, the authors refer to a monologue in which Mudbone says he is from Tupelo, Miss. The Williamses have this as “Toogaloo.” When a voice in the crowd asks, “Where’s that?” Mudbone answers, “Near One-pelo.” The Williamses have this as “Near Woomaloo.” Tch.

The true merit of this book lies in its study of Pryor’s personal crucibles--his use of cocaine and his work in film--which the authors put in the context of an industry that for years excluded black people from the creative process and manipulated their images in the final product. Pryor appeared in 41 films, the majority bad by acclamation. The authors point to a history of racist Hollywood screeds as reasons for this failure. But Pryor, in essence, made racism his tool, and undoubtedly would have done so in film had he had the knack for it. To put the master monologuist in a collective endeavor like feature film making was like asking Twain to collaborate on books. What really did you expect?

Pryor did have signature moments on film. His first two concert films were knockouts. The authors divine 1978’s “Blue Collar” and 1977’s “Which Way Is Up?” as Pryor’s keepers among features and explain why his pairing with Gene Wilder in 1976’s “Silver Streak” was so dynamic.

“Blue Collar” was about auto workers, corrupt unions, the pitting of poor black against poor white, and is Pryor’s penultimate dramatic turn. His sly performance in “Which Way Is Up?” is stunning, explosively funny. He piled three roles, a Mudbone spinoff, a Preacher spinoff, and the vulnerable Pryor as a farm worker attempting to scale classes. Some of the most hilarious lines, expressions and improvisations on record are within this B picture. Chaplin would recognize it.

The worth of any artist is how many sons he leaves ready to kill him, to outperform him. For Murphy and Robin Williams, Pryor was an incalculable boon, a model, and only slightly less so to others such as Sam Kinison, Elaine Boosler, Sandra Bernhardt, Marsha Warfield, Robert Townsend, Arsenio Hall, Damon Wayans. Other renowed comics, usually from troupes like Saturday Night Live and Second City, owe him less, but with the exception of Bill Murray and very occasionally Dan Aykroyd, none is anywhere near as funny as Pryor was in the ‘70s. Jay Leno and David Letterman are staid by comparison.

The latent genius of Pryor is that he didn’t need a writer to be funny and he didn’t need anybody’s permission to tell the truth as he saw it. This is what he was once. The authors have seen, heard, understood and translated.

Indeed, Richard Pryor himself might now learn something of value about his life from this minor-key masterpiece.