Sunday, December 04, 2005
Sula
by Toni Morrison
Last weekend before I went to South Station to meet Jennifer and Gregor I looked over the various titles in our living room bookshelf and there it was: Sula. A light maroon paperbook just up and to the right of the Smith typewriter.
A few years ago, when I only had one incisor, a girl asked me what book I was reading. It was a few years ago as I said, and I don't remember what I was reading at that time, in that place. We were riding on of the Chapel Hill buses that go out of town, toward Durham. She was pretty, in a bookish kind of way, skinny and black and spectacled. After I explained what I liked about the book - I think I explained both its pros and cons and may well have referred to another writer, another book, to describe it. I may very well have said that the book was written in the style of an Italo Calvino, if Italo Calvino were an American.
She said that she liked Toni Morrison, and that she had read most of her books. I didn't know who Toni Morrison was, and so when got to my destination, one of my three dentists, I wrote down the name on my bookmark for later reference. I thought that maybe this girl liked vampire books or mystery novels so I tentatively concluded that I would not like Toni Morrison, whoever he was.
I found that actually Toni Morrison wrote a number of novels, none of which fit into any of the categories of book that I considered at that time to be forms of "comfort food" found in the supermarket check-out lane. She had won the Nobel; much more serious than I had expected. I read Tar Baby. It was dense, and sad. But lovely. I wish I had seen that girl on that bus again, so that I could thank her.
So on our train ride into Manhattan last weekend I started on Sula. Like the previous Toni Morrison I'd read it was quite a pleasurable read. She has this great way of describing places so that they feel like personalities, and people something physical and far away, mythic.
Last weekend before I went to South Station to meet Jennifer and Gregor I looked over the various titles in our living room bookshelf and there it was: Sula. A light maroon paperbook just up and to the right of the Smith typewriter.
A few years ago, when I only had one incisor, a girl asked me what book I was reading. It was a few years ago as I said, and I don't remember what I was reading at that time, in that place. We were riding on of the Chapel Hill buses that go out of town, toward Durham. She was pretty, in a bookish kind of way, skinny and black and spectacled. After I explained what I liked about the book - I think I explained both its pros and cons and may well have referred to another writer, another book, to describe it. I may very well have said that the book was written in the style of an Italo Calvino, if Italo Calvino were an American.
She said that she liked Toni Morrison, and that she had read most of her books. I didn't know who Toni Morrison was, and so when got to my destination, one of my three dentists, I wrote down the name on my bookmark for later reference. I thought that maybe this girl liked vampire books or mystery novels so I tentatively concluded that I would not like Toni Morrison, whoever he was.
I found that actually Toni Morrison wrote a number of novels, none of which fit into any of the categories of book that I considered at that time to be forms of "comfort food" found in the supermarket check-out lane. She had won the Nobel; much more serious than I had expected. I read Tar Baby. It was dense, and sad. But lovely. I wish I had seen that girl on that bus again, so that I could thank her.
So on our train ride into Manhattan last weekend I started on Sula. Like the previous Toni Morrison I'd read it was quite a pleasurable read. She has this great way of describing places so that they feel like personalities, and people something physical and far away, mythic.
# posted by Unknown @ 7:10 PM 
