First published in 1937
We are Here: Done reading!
Spoilers? Not really.
What more can be said about this overlooked-then-lauded masterpiece of inner life? All I can really say is that I wish I’d opened it sooner. Its relative simplicity belies its depth, although the first lines give away its promise. I continue to think about its messages, rhythms, warmth, seasons, and how expertly Hurston plays with style–a balance of nuance and insistence of being.
The first line is a sugar-coated sucker punch. I was hooked.
When Janie awakens, it is a poetic symphony of springtime. I will never think about pear blossoms and bees the same way, again. Gorgeous, pure, sensuality.
Hurston was an anthropologist, of Boas pedigree no less.
Why is this book better than people?
Its quietude stays with you, and doesn’t expect you to make conversation.