In 167 pages, Toni Morrison tells the wild and sad and most unpredictable story of a family (of sorts) seeking to build a life out of their respective ruins in colonial America. Morrison's combination of simple yet powerful verbs and sentence structures demonstrate a powerful mastery of the written word, and I closed the book feeling sort of just honored to even read it.
It's about the harshly unstable life in colonial America and it's about New World religion in the 1680s and it's about slavery and it's about love and it's about the feral nature of humanity.
It's about a mercy extended from a man who didn't feel so merciful.
It's about a mercy received by an unwilling child who in turn spent her life wildly resentful.
It's about the wearing down slavery imposed upon the minds and hearts of human beings.
I've never read anything like it, most assuredly not in 167 tiny pages. I spent as much time appreciating Morrison's word choice as I did noting her command of utilizing the embodiment of each character to tell not only their own stories but also to reveal the deepest, darkest secrets of the others. Absolute literary genius.
Ladies and gentlemen, I may have found myself a new favorite author.
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