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A review by e1ektra
Beloved by Toni Morrison
4.0
I’ve really struggled to write this review because it feels like more than just a book. Not just because of the Pulitzer Prize (though that tells you something), but because this story is bigger. It’s important and it’s been recognised as such, for good reason.
I didn’t read the foreword or Toni Morrison’s own introduction until after I finished. I don’t like spoilers, and I wanted to come at it fresh. I’d never read Morrison before. From the back of the book, I thought I was getting into some kind of murder mystery. Knowing, of course, that she’s known for her social justice lens and for centring Black stories. But I wasn’t expecting this. I wasn’t ready for the ghost story, the horror, the way the writing would sweep me off balance.
Her style in Beloved took me a minute to settle into. I can’t speak for her whole body of work, this is my first, but Beloved opens with chaos. In its first location and in its writing. Flashbacks will drop mid-sentence, characters’ pasts will surface without warning, and you’re constantly on unstable ground, piecing it all together as you go. It is disorienting at first but I got into it. Morris is masterful at dialogue, absolutely impeccable, it feels like you’re eavesdropping. And then there's the actual ghost. Unambiguous, unnerving, unlike any ghost I've read before.
Morrison makes you work for it. The narrative isn’t clear-cut or linear. It doesn’t lead you by the hand. I grew up on Stephen King, who’s masterful at guiding you into the story: here’s a character, here’s some backstory, now let’s get creepy. Morrison doesn’t do that. Reading Beloved feels like walking into a reality TV show three and a half seasons in, with no recap. You just have to watch and piece it together.
What I found most disturbing wasn’t the ghost story itself, but the slow, creeping horror of racism. The way it seeps through the characters’ histories. It’s rarely in the “present moment” of the narrative; instead, it emerges in backstories, in the little flashes of where these people have been, who they’ve loved, what they’ve survived. And though the story isn’t linear, it somehow feels like the racism gets worse and worse the deeper you go.
As an English person, I’m very aware of our colonial history and the hideous shit we exported to the rest of the world. We like to remind ourselves that the Dutch and Spanish were in on it too, but Britain was particularly efficient. The transatlantic slave trade enriched this country for generations, and even though the physical trade wasn’t centred here, the profits were. And we still benefit from that. I’m very aware of the horror and the injustice of it intellectually, but books like Beloved make it crawl beneath your skin and fester.
This isn’t a sterile, factual retelling of slavery from a textbook. This isn’t a story about slavery or racism like 12 Years a Slave or Mississippi Burning. Morrison ties history to personal stories, to individual psyches, traumas, and lives. The characters aren’t enslaved in the present timeline (most have escaped or been freed), but their entire existence is shaped by that past. You see not just what happened, but how it echoes through their lives, their relationships, their sense of self. That’s a different kind of horror. Not better or worse, just different, more insidious.
Certain moments in this book were claustrophobic, terrifying even. This is billed as a murder mystery, but make no mistake, it is a ghost story. A brilliantly crafted, deeply unsettling horror.
Reading this as a white person, especially as an English person, still part of a system built on blood soaked foundations, it’s uncomfortable. And it should be. No one involved in the realities Morrison describes got to opt out, so why should I? The comfort of my read doesn’t matter.
It doesn’t give you the “in-your-face” brutality that a lot of films or books about slavery do. Instead, it unravels slowly. It’s about a family. But that family’s entire existence is entangled with the legacy of slavery. It’s there in every shadow. And Morrison shows you how that past shapes their present. It’s not trauma porn. It’s not designed to shock, instead, It makes you feel.
I’ve read critiques that some of the scenes in Beloved are too grotesque, too hard to stomach. I get that. But I also think this is one of those books that should be read, regardless of how ready you feel for it. The people who lived these stories didn’t have a choice. They didn’t get to opt out. And as much as I’d love to think we all now know there’s no difference between black or white people now in 2025, it's increasingly evident there are still people who believe the racist propaganda today.
I’ve struggled with films like 12 Years a Slave, yes same awful guilt and misery because of the content, but also because of the dynamics behind the scenes. Who’s directing? Who’s funding it? Who’s acting these parts? What’s their connection to the story? And why does Black history so often get reduced to slavery? There’s so much more to Black history than pain, than subjugation. So many stories we haven’t told. Morrison, I think, balances this. There is Black joy here. Black love. Black culture. There’s a wholeness to it that includes the horrors of slavery but doesn’t stop there.
The way she explores Black motherhood has been especially difficult to put into words. Especially the experience of enslaved women knowing their children would also be enslaved. It shook me. There was some glimpses, just a line or two here and there that will haunt me forever.
I’ve always said 'I can't imagine', because I can't. My imagination is bloody brilliant, but the layers and depths of reality and feelings and emotions that go with the carrying and birthing of a child and then trying to force yourself not to love it because it's too painful when their 'destiny' comes calling... it's too much. I shut down. No thank you. Same with being a mum in Palestine right now. I can't imagine. My brain is willfull and protective and just says no. But Toni brought me as close to understanding as I hope to ever get. Her turn of phrase is so deft, so light, so matter of fact, it's like a stealth attack. I can't imagine, but she made me almost.
And I’m glad I read it now, I think if I’d read it when I was younger, I wouldn’t have been ready. This isn’t an enjoyable read. But it’s a necessary one. I don't think I'll forget it.
I didn’t read the foreword or Toni Morrison’s own introduction until after I finished. I don’t like spoilers, and I wanted to come at it fresh. I’d never read Morrison before. From the back of the book, I thought I was getting into some kind of murder mystery. Knowing, of course, that she’s known for her social justice lens and for centring Black stories. But I wasn’t expecting this. I wasn’t ready for the ghost story, the horror, the way the writing would sweep me off balance.
Her style in Beloved took me a minute to settle into. I can’t speak for her whole body of work, this is my first, but Beloved opens with chaos. In its first location and in its writing. Flashbacks will drop mid-sentence, characters’ pasts will surface without warning, and you’re constantly on unstable ground, piecing it all together as you go. It is disorienting at first but I got into it. Morris is masterful at dialogue, absolutely impeccable, it feels like you’re eavesdropping. And then there's the actual ghost. Unambiguous, unnerving, unlike any ghost I've read before.
Morrison makes you work for it. The narrative isn’t clear-cut or linear. It doesn’t lead you by the hand. I grew up on Stephen King, who’s masterful at guiding you into the story: here’s a character, here’s some backstory, now let’s get creepy. Morrison doesn’t do that. Reading Beloved feels like walking into a reality TV show three and a half seasons in, with no recap. You just have to watch and piece it together.
What I found most disturbing wasn’t the ghost story itself, but the slow, creeping horror of racism. The way it seeps through the characters’ histories. It’s rarely in the “present moment” of the narrative; instead, it emerges in backstories, in the little flashes of where these people have been, who they’ve loved, what they’ve survived. And though the story isn’t linear, it somehow feels like the racism gets worse and worse the deeper you go.
As an English person, I’m very aware of our colonial history and the hideous shit we exported to the rest of the world. We like to remind ourselves that the Dutch and Spanish were in on it too, but Britain was particularly efficient. The transatlantic slave trade enriched this country for generations, and even though the physical trade wasn’t centred here, the profits were. And we still benefit from that. I’m very aware of the horror and the injustice of it intellectually, but books like Beloved make it crawl beneath your skin and fester.
This isn’t a sterile, factual retelling of slavery from a textbook. This isn’t a story about slavery or racism like 12 Years a Slave or Mississippi Burning. Morrison ties history to personal stories, to individual psyches, traumas, and lives. The characters aren’t enslaved in the present timeline (most have escaped or been freed), but their entire existence is shaped by that past. You see not just what happened, but how it echoes through their lives, their relationships, their sense of self. That’s a different kind of horror. Not better or worse, just different, more insidious.
Certain moments in this book were claustrophobic, terrifying even. This is billed as a murder mystery, but make no mistake, it is a ghost story. A brilliantly crafted, deeply unsettling horror.
Reading this as a white person, especially as an English person, still part of a system built on blood soaked foundations, it’s uncomfortable. And it should be. No one involved in the realities Morrison describes got to opt out, so why should I? The comfort of my read doesn’t matter.
It doesn’t give you the “in-your-face” brutality that a lot of films or books about slavery do. Instead, it unravels slowly. It’s about a family. But that family’s entire existence is entangled with the legacy of slavery. It’s there in every shadow. And Morrison shows you how that past shapes their present. It’s not trauma porn. It’s not designed to shock, instead, It makes you feel.
I’ve read critiques that some of the scenes in Beloved are too grotesque, too hard to stomach. I get that. But I also think this is one of those books that should be read, regardless of how ready you feel for it. The people who lived these stories didn’t have a choice. They didn’t get to opt out. And as much as I’d love to think we all now know there’s no difference between black or white people now in 2025, it's increasingly evident there are still people who believe the racist propaganda today.
I’ve struggled with films like 12 Years a Slave, yes same awful guilt and misery because of the content, but also because of the dynamics behind the scenes. Who’s directing? Who’s funding it? Who’s acting these parts? What’s their connection to the story? And why does Black history so often get reduced to slavery? There’s so much more to Black history than pain, than subjugation. So many stories we haven’t told. Morrison, I think, balances this. There is Black joy here. Black love. Black culture. There’s a wholeness to it that includes the horrors of slavery but doesn’t stop there.
The way she explores Black motherhood has been especially difficult to put into words. Especially the experience of enslaved women knowing their children would also be enslaved. It shook me. There was some glimpses, just a line or two here and there that will haunt me forever.
I’ve always said 'I can't imagine', because I can't. My imagination is bloody brilliant, but the layers and depths of reality and feelings and emotions that go with the carrying and birthing of a child and then trying to force yourself not to love it because it's too painful when their 'destiny' comes calling... it's too much. I shut down. No thank you. Same with being a mum in Palestine right now. I can't imagine. My brain is willfull and protective and just says no. But Toni brought me as close to understanding as I hope to ever get. Her turn of phrase is so deft, so light, so matter of fact, it's like a stealth attack. I can't imagine, but she made me almost.
And I’m glad I read it now, I think if I’d read it when I was younger, I wouldn’t have been ready. This isn’t an enjoyable read. But it’s a necessary one. I don't think I'll forget it.