I've just finished "Beloved" by Toni Morrison, which I'm ashamed to say I've been meaning to read for years and hadn't yet. What a masterpiece it is, though so hard to read in many places, with its hideous stories of slavery. But the force of the writing! Here's a quote:
In Ohio, seasons are theatrical. Each one enters like a prima donna, convinced its performance is the reason the world has people in it. When Paul D had been forced out of 124 into a shed behind it, summer had been hooted offstage and autumn with its bottles of blood and gold had everybody's attention. Even at night, when there should have been a restful intermission, there was none because the voices of a dying landscape were insistent and loud.
Wow.
This is from the last page:
His hands are limp between his knees. There are too many things to feel about this woman. His head hurts. Suddenly he remembers Sixo trying to describe what he felt about the Thirty-Mile Woman. "She is a friend of my mind. She gather me, man. The pieces I am, she gather them and give them back to me in all the right order. It's good, you know, when you got a woman who is a friend of your mind."
I thought of all of you. According to GoogleAnalytics, there are over 300 people who read this blog at least four times a month. I guess more than 300 people are with me on my little jaunt. You are all friends of my mind, and I hope I am of yours.
Out into the Prague sunshine,
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