Toni Morrison, I Hate You

Last summer, I read The Bluest Eye.  Now I’m reading Beloved.  Never in my life have I read more depressing books–somehow Morrison’s words wiggle past my brain and brand themselves onto my soul.  They make me hate my country, my past, even myself at times.  The worst thing about them, though, is that I can’t bring myself to hate them.  Even while describing people treating other people as animals, describing the most foul and terrible things a human being can do to another human being, her words are so beautiful that I never want them to end.  I want to have Toni Morrison’s words in my eyes and brain forever and for always.  I never want to write another word again, because on my best day my best words will never be nearly as amazing as the worst thing she’s ever written on her worst day.  She writes about sadness and despair with such poetry that I would rather read the most depressing parts of her words than the happiest part of someone else’s work.  It’s my most fervent wish that one day I become a quarter of the writer Morrison is.

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