Love, by Toni Morrison
Love, A novel by Toni Morrison, Alfred A. Knopf, New York . Toronto, 2003
Răsfoind zilele trecute romanul, am dat peste niște pasaje subliniate, care au fost suficiente ca să-mi stârnească pofta de a-l reciti. Astăzi, am văzut recenzia de pe Cafea cu taifas și m-am hotărât să le postez aici, poate se mai lasă și alții convinși.
My nature is a quiet one, anyway. As a child I was considered respectful; as a young woman I was called discreet. Later on I was thought to have the wisdom maturity brings. Nowadays, silence is looked on as odd and most of my race has forgotten the beauty of meaning much by saying little.
… she began to watch for the face behind the face; and to listen for the words hiding behind talk.
Like friendship, hatred needed more than physical intimacy; it wanted creativity and hard work to sustain itself.
So the one who had attended private school kept house, while the one who could barely read ruled it. The one who had been sold by a man battled the one who had been bought by one.
She was as lonely as a twelve-year-old watching waves suck away her sand castle.
The eyes of each are enslaved by the other’s. Opening pangs of guilt, rage, fatigue, despair are replaced by a hatred so pure, so solemn, it feels beautiful, almost holy.
You could call him a good bad man, or a bad good man. Depends on what you hold dear – the what or the why. […] He was an ordinary man ripped, like the rest of us, by wrath and love.