Hi, friends.
I read Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison, and loved it, and drew my copy:
When we moved into this house a few years ago, I did a ruthless purge of my bookshelves, inspired by Marie Kondo and the thought of having to pack 500 pounds of literature anthologies. What, I need to keep books even though I’ll never read most of them again? Display them? Like trophies? If I didn’t think I’d read a book again, I sold or donated it. We had an enormous book sale in the front yard, let people pay what they wanted. My books fled the front yard in strangers’ arms, into their new lives, where they could be devoured, appreciated, loved anew.
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Anyway, it’s 2021 and I’m back to ignoring the emotional needs of objects. I’ve bought a ton of books in the last year. I buy them spontaneously—read an author interview and take a chance—but not thoughtlessly. I can tell the difference between a book I might read on my phone and enjoy just fine, and a book I want to keep, touch, write in, refer back to, loan to my loved ones, close every seven to ten minutes while reading and stare at with hearts in my eyes, perhaps draw by hand. And I’m really loath to identify as a “the smell of books” person, but sometimes when I return to a room where I’ve been reading and drinking coffee, it smells exactly like a Barnes and Noble in 1999, and time is a pleasantly flat circle.
My 1978 trade paperback of Song of Solomon was $1.41 + $3.45 for shipping. It was listed in Very Good condition, which eBay defines as “a book that does not look new and has been read but is in excellent condition,” one with no highlighting or writing inside.
So it surprised (but for $1.41, did not shock) me to see some solemn words carefully written in bubble letters throughout the first few chapters. Suicide, solemnly inscribed next to an obvious reference to it on page one. Ruth is white, a note to self. (Ruth isn’t white.) I assume the writer was a student, assigned to read the book for class. Ruth and Macon lost touch 🖤, a soft interpretation of a cruel and loveless marriage.
The earnestness of the notes charmed me, reminded me of being twenty and asserting myself and my tiny life all over classic literature, sometimes making a soulmate of it that way, owning a book by dog-earing it and stuffing it with neon Post-It flags, adding blue ink notes that bled through the page.
Then the notes really charmed me when they disappeared after the first 20 pages or so, both because I preferred to read in peace and because yea, as a former student, that also tracks.
Our girlhood was spent like a found nickel on you. When you slept, we were quiet; when you were hungry, we cooked; when you wanted to play, we entertained you; and when you got grown enough to know the difference between a woman and a two-toned Ford, everything in this house stopped for you. You have yet to wash your own underwear, spread a bed, wipe the ring from your tub, or move a fleck of your dirt from one place to another. And to this day, you have never asked one of us if we were tired, or sad, or wanted a cup of coffee. You’ve never picked up anything heavier than your own feet, or solved a problem harder than fourth-grade arithmetic. Where do you get the right to decide our lives?
Song of Solomon was the Read a Book! with Kara pick for February but didn’t arrive until March, at which point I read it in three days, with coffee and before bed, with plenty of doe-eyed gazing at the cover. It’s incredible that we got to be alive at the same time as Toni Morrison.
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<3 The best. Always a balm and always a joy.
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