I love Toni Morrison (and other random thoughts)
Epiphany of the day: the parts of my job that I enjoy the most are the ones that take me out of the library. Does this make me a bad librarian?
I've been stuck at my desk for extended periods of time this week (and at odd times because I've had to alter my schedule to cover the shifts left open by Indiana Princess's departure). It's also the third-to-last week of the semester, and the students are rapidly descending into finals-induced psychosis. Between the two things, I've been having a "I'm in the wrong profession and I hate my job" kind of week.
Today I had a two-hour reprieve because book club meets during the student lunch hour, which is immediately followed by my lunch hour. It was our last meeting of the semester, so we had a modestly good turnout and a spirited discussion about what books to read in the spring (we're kicking it off with The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, followed by House of Leaves). So even though I had to return to my desk for a couple hours of citation questions and printer problems and needy faculty members, I left in a much better mood than I have lately. This could have had something to do with the fact that it was still light outside when I left.
It may have also had something to do with the fact that between my lunch hour and the train ride home I finished reading Toni Morrison's latest novel (finally, the title of the post explained!). Her writing puts me in a happy place. Not because it's such cheery subject matter (this one is set in Colonial America and is narrated primarily by slaves, both African and Native American, so it's understandably not very uplifting). But her use of language always takes my breath away, and this book was no exception. It's not even that certain phrases stand out--I don't think of her as quotable like many of my other favorite writers. But almost every word choice is perfect.
Reading her work also takes me back to English major days. I discovered her in my very first official English class, the aptly titled Reading Novels. I think it was structured chronologically, so one of the very last things we read was Jazz. Especially after Jane Austen and Evelyn Waugh, the book just stunned me--I don't think I even realized that words could be used in that way. Luckily for me, this epiphany fell during registration for the following semester, and an "Authors" course (another of our requirements) on Morrison and James Baldwin was being offered. I never fell for Baldwin, but we read the entire Morrison oeuvre (except, oddly enough, for Beloved, the book that won her the Nobel), and I was completely hooked. That was also my first class with the English professor whose courses I ended up taking throughout my major and who nominated me for a department scholarship my junior year. If I ever return to school for that elusive PhD, especially if it's in literature with a concentration on African American women's literature, it will be because of both of them.
I've been stuck at my desk for extended periods of time this week (and at odd times because I've had to alter my schedule to cover the shifts left open by Indiana Princess's departure). It's also the third-to-last week of the semester, and the students are rapidly descending into finals-induced psychosis. Between the two things, I've been having a "I'm in the wrong profession and I hate my job" kind of week.
Today I had a two-hour reprieve because book club meets during the student lunch hour, which is immediately followed by my lunch hour. It was our last meeting of the semester, so we had a modestly good turnout and a spirited discussion about what books to read in the spring (we're kicking it off with The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, followed by House of Leaves). So even though I had to return to my desk for a couple hours of citation questions and printer problems and needy faculty members, I left in a much better mood than I have lately. This could have had something to do with the fact that it was still light outside when I left.
It may have also had something to do with the fact that between my lunch hour and the train ride home I finished reading Toni Morrison's latest novel (finally, the title of the post explained!). Her writing puts me in a happy place. Not because it's such cheery subject matter (this one is set in Colonial America and is narrated primarily by slaves, both African and Native American, so it's understandably not very uplifting). But her use of language always takes my breath away, and this book was no exception. It's not even that certain phrases stand out--I don't think of her as quotable like many of my other favorite writers. But almost every word choice is perfect.
Reading her work also takes me back to English major days. I discovered her in my very first official English class, the aptly titled Reading Novels. I think it was structured chronologically, so one of the very last things we read was Jazz. Especially after Jane Austen and Evelyn Waugh, the book just stunned me--I don't think I even realized that words could be used in that way. Luckily for me, this epiphany fell during registration for the following semester, and an "Authors" course (another of our requirements) on Morrison and James Baldwin was being offered. I never fell for Baldwin, but we read the entire Morrison oeuvre (except, oddly enough, for Beloved, the book that won her the Nobel), and I was completely hooked. That was also my first class with the English professor whose courses I ended up taking throughout my major and who nominated me for a department scholarship my junior year. If I ever return to school for that elusive PhD, especially if it's in literature with a concentration on African American women's literature, it will be because of both of them.
posted by Madame Defarge at 4:28 PM
2 Comments:
I'm sad to say I've never read anything by her. I'll have to add it to my list.
I also have to add Choke and The Road apparently after talking with some colleaugues. The sheer shock on their faces as they discussed them made me intrigued.
I haven't read either one. I've always meant to read McCarthy just because I feel like it's a gap in my literary education, but the bleak subject matter scares me a little. And I still haven't gotten over hearing Palahniuk read "Guts" at Printer's Row one year and crow about how many people have passed out during the reading; I think one did that day as well. (If you want to hear it for yourself, it seems to be on YouTube; don't say I didn't warn you.) I think he's an ass.
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