A review by ebonyutley
Love by Toni Morrison

3.0

Toni Morrison books should be read twice. I confess to immense impatience every time I read a novel yearning to find out how it ends only to realize that in my rush, I’ve missed a plethora of details that make the ending make sense. Upon arrival at the conclusion of Love, I was also convinced that I hadn’t learned anything and the book was a disappointment until I started to journal and then the ideas poured out of me like the tears of a heartbreak. Reading a Morrison novel is never about the plot for me, it’s about the emotions that are evoked after the last page is turned. It’s about learning about myself and linking my feelings to those of her characters and wondering if that kind emotional solicitation is something I can learn how to do as a writer. The plots of Morrison novels are similar. She notes in the forward that people claim she writes always about love when in reality she writes about betrayal. Because you cannot have one without the other at least not within black lives—imagined and real. (Having never been white, I can’t speak for white people.) And as much as I admire Morrison for writing so introspectively about so many aspects of “us,” I can’t help but feel depressed at the end of her books. So much loss, so much regret. I imagine the only way it doesn’t destroy us is because death is not the end of our lives, it’s just another state of being with room for apologies, exploration, answers, accountability, and love—at long last. Even though from the first pages, I desperately wanted to know who was talking and why and how the story was going to end, I’m glad I had to wait so no spoilers for this review. Read it. Wait for it. Love it. If you can.