“We mistook violence for passion, indolence for leisure, and thought recklessness was freedom.”

This was my second Toni Morrison and likely my last. I read Song of Solomon a couple years ago and, while gripped the beauty of Toni Morrison's prose, just didn't connect to it at all. This one was a little better for me, but I think I can officially say that Morrison is just not for me. This story is epic and heartbreaking and gorgeous, but also really quite dark (as is most of what Morrison writes, it seems). It's difficult not to compare her to Maya Angelou, though they don't write in the same genre, they touch on on many of the same subjects, and while I adore Maya Angelou, Toni Morrison never gives you the hope Angelou does. Her work is so, so important, and I appreciate that, but it sits a little bit too heavy on my heart.