Books I've Forgotten to Read

The statement every English major will inevitably encounter:

You must have read [insert so-called classic here]!

Well, I hate to disappoint you folks, but there is a good chance that I have never read that one for two reasons:

1. Let's do the math. Even though I have a degree in it, my schooling still stopped at 22 (so far). So let's say I read 10 required books per year in middle school and high school. Add to that those I've read in college. I probably took an average of two English classes a semester, averaging about 7 books per class. That's 112. Plus 40 is 152, and I have a feeling that's a generous number. Regardless, there are hundreds upon hundreds of classics I have yet to have the pleasure of enjoying.

2. And now for that word classic. Some classics are undisputed: Shakespeare's works, Paradise Lost, The Divine Comedy, and so on. But as you get to later time periods, you encounter more and more discord among the (intellectual) masses. Besides, English profs love to make an academic name for themselves by developing some theory on some completely unknown author. They then proceed to teach this author to students, thinking they are teaching something new when half of the time students haven't encountered the old.

That being said, I put together a little list of books I probably should have read (and probably should get around to reading):

- 1984, George Orwell
- Wuthering Heights, Emily Bronte
- Catcher in the Rye, J. D. Salinger
- Absalom, Absalom!, William Faulkner
- For Whom the Bell Tolls, Ernest Hemingway
- The Grapes of Wrath, John Steinbeck
- Brave New World, Aldous Huxley
- Ulysses, James Joyce
- Sula, Toni Morrison
- Moby Dick, Herman Melville
- Cat's Cradle, Kurt Vonnegut

A Mercy, Toni Morrison

It’s easy to come to these two conclusions: Toni Morrison hates men. Toni Morrison hates white people. If you read her work with a certain slant, you could probably even support these two rather simplistic hypotheses. (And if you fit into either category, you may even slump away from the text feeling impossibly but inexplicably guilt-ridden.)

But Morrison is simply not that simple. Her works, to be cliché, are like onions. Maybe the world’s biggest onion. Peel one layer away, and then there’s another. And another, and another, and another. Pretty soon you are cringing with every meticulously chosen dagger of a word, but you just can’t stop reading.

I’ll make a little confession before I go on: I listened to this book on CD during my brief stint as a commuting bookseller. But I don’t think it counts as cheating since Morrison’s voice is far more powerful and haunting than the mousy one in my head. Her voice rolls over what can better be described as lyrics than words, singing the parts that are sweet (few) and drumming in the parts that are harrowing (many).

I still contend that Paradise is Morrison's best, but A Mercy is a close contender. (NYT disagrees.) It is told in the Paradise-like fashion, with chapters alternating perspectives in a tightly wound story. Unlike most of her works, which take place in the twentieth century, this one takes place in the early colonial years. Morrison, I think, seems more suited to the 1960s than the 1690s.

But what is most impressive in her rendering of the 1690s is what she does not do. It is a historical era that could easily lend itself to stereotypes and caricatures, and Morrison deftly and masterfully avoids them. Lena, an unfree Native American, is tragically beautiful yet commits deplorable acts. Sorrow, a red-headed floozy, proves a dedicated mother. Jacob Vaark, the man in charge of them all, despises the slave-trade but benefits from it. Florens, the black slave-girl whose story brings them all together, has a dreaming soul and yet is capable of bloody and frivolous sins.

With this cast of complicated characters, Morrison creates a masterpiece and maintains her place as one of America's greatest writers. A Mercy will surely join the ranks of the revered (though probably hotly contested) contemporary classics.