First, on formality: everything I say is opinion – not fact. If it were
otherwise, I imagine I’d be head of my own church by now. Or possibly a cult.
That said, Morrison’s Sula was an engaging piece of literature. I am
not as well read as some, but I have trudged through my share of
Nobel laureates and can safely say that, though as evocative, Ms. Morrison
was a far more enjoyable read. My proof? I staved off hours of sleep to finish
reading: I don’t do that for any old book.
Next on the pearly-shit: Morrison’s writing was enjoyable; a pleasant concoction
of the poetic and the obscene that didn’t belabor the point. In fact, rather
than lecture, she seemed just along for the ride: as if we were experiencing the
same story from two opposing points of view. Her meaning, if there was one,
was swaddled in enough good prose to make the whole narrative pill that much
easier to swallow.
Lastly, on Arthur Ignatius: Sherlock Holmes (the concept – not
the character) is one of a handful of literary constructs that I aspire (and,
thus far, fail utterly) to emulate. One of his principle guidelines to abide by is
selection of input: deciding what information warrants absorption and what is better
To me, books – good books, books you enjoy – are like old friends or
familiar places. Years after you last pick one up, you can dive right in and recognize
the landmarks. For better or worse, they become part of who you are…
If it were left up to me, I wouldn’t have read this book. Like others we have read
thus far and, I suspect, ones we will read in the remainder of the course, they do
not offer anything I couldn’t have done without.