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A review by torishams
The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison
4.0
My first full-length Toni Morrison novel - can't wait to read more!!
* love is never any better than the lover. wicked people love wickedly, violent people love violently, weak people love weakly, stupid people love stupidly, but the love of a free man is never safe. there is no gift for the beloved. the lover alone possesses his gift of love. the loved one is shorn, neutralized, frozen in the glare of the lover’s inward eye. (206)
* all of our waste which we dumped on her and which she absorbed. and all of our beauty, which was hers first and which she gave to us. all of us—all who knew her—felt so wholesome after we cleaned ourselves on her. we were so beautiful when we stood astride her ugliness. her simplicity decorated us, her guilt sanctified us, her pain made us glow with health, her awkwardness made us think we had a sense of humor. her inarticulateness made us believe we were eloquent. her poverty kept us generous. even her waking dreams we used—to silence our own nightmares. and she let us, and thereby deserved our contempt. we honed our egos on her, padded our characters with her frailty, and yawned in the fantasy of our strength. (205)
* love is never any better than the lover. wicked people love wickedly, violent people love violently, weak people love weakly, stupid people love stupidly, but the love of a free man is never safe. there is no gift for the beloved. the lover alone possesses his gift of love. the loved one is shorn, neutralized, frozen in the glare of the lover’s inward eye. (206)
* all of our waste which we dumped on her and which she absorbed. and all of our beauty, which was hers first and which she gave to us. all of us—all who knew her—felt so wholesome after we cleaned ourselves on her. we were so beautiful when we stood astride her ugliness. her simplicity decorated us, her guilt sanctified us, her pain made us glow with health, her awkwardness made us think we had a sense of humor. her inarticulateness made us believe we were eloquent. her poverty kept us generous. even her waking dreams we used—to silence our own nightmares. and she let us, and thereby deserved our contempt. we honed our egos on her, padded our characters with her frailty, and yawned in the fantasy of our strength. (205)