Once when I was 12 years old or so, my family went on a vacation in the beautiful San Juan Islands of the Pacific Northwest. The area we were looking into was rather upscale and expensive, but we found a miracle house priced significantly lower to rent than its neighbors. It was a done deal, and the house was even greater in person than online. When we got there, though, we discovered that it was situated directly across the street from a large military graveyard, explaining the discounted price.
The graveyard across the street added something to the stillness of the green forest behind the house, and amplified the glisten of the sun as it rose, shards of light filtering in through the East wall, made up of several clear, shiny windows. The house was breathtaking and quiet, but soon night came and my parents told me I was to sleep in the room downstairs. I got my things and headed down, groggy from the travels of the day, and as soon as I closed the door behind me I was filled with a sense of dread. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I could not sleep in the room that was whispering to me, especially not alone. Whatever relative peace I felt in the main part of the house had disappeared and been replaced with a strong sense of unease - some force in the air was pressing down on me and it was making me intensely uncomfortable.
I slept the entirety of the vacation on the couch in the den of the rental house, scared away by the room downstairs, but respecting it nonetheless.
This sense of an outside force with a purpose, that some places are alive with their stories, with their spirits, is what drives Toni Morrison's novel, Beloved. Her rich language drips and glimmers with sadness and pain, yet you can't help but read more. More than one passage evoked a sense of wonder in me, and to be honest just plain knocked my socks off. Beloved is full of spiritual connections, every bit as real and serious as the human characters Morrison portrays in this story of America just after the Civil War, as the protagonist wrestles with guilt, compulsion, and oppression. An extraordinary read, though very sad - but who ever said sad things couldn't also be beautiful?
This book is a winter lake with a layer of blue-white ice covering the top, laden with millions of tiny veins, indiscernable to the naked eye. You walk out onto the lake, willing, and then watch in awe as the ice top gives way and you fall into the water, like a dream. This book is like a dream. Read it.
Stay Yungry,
Shan
