On Reading Toni Morrison
ON READING TONI
MORRISON
Morrison, Toni. The
Source of Self-Regard: Selected Essays, Speeches, and Meditations. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2019. 354 pp.
Fortunately, I had almost finished reading The Source of Self-Regard before Namwali
Serpell's "On Black Difficulty: Toni Morrison and the thrill of
imperiousness" (SLATE, March 26,
2019) came to my attention.
The words "difficult" and
"imperiousness" themselves possess a degree of difficulty, and they
can enlighten and obscure in the same moment.
Serpell contends "…Toni Morrison is difficult. She's difficult to read. She's difficult to teach. She's difficult to interview. Notwithstanding, the voluminous train of
profiles, reviews, and scholarly analysis that she drags behind her, she's
difficult to write about. But more to
the point, she is our only truly canonical black, female writer and her work is
complex. This, it seems, is difficult to swallow." Like Lady Macbeth, Serpell protests a bit too much. She is imperious in her yearning "for
that specific human, black, female freedom to feel at ease to be
difficult." She is at once right and wrong.
To be sure, Morrison's fictions and non-fictions are not
easy or transparent. Her novels
demand as much interpretive work as, for
example, Virginia Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway
or Octavia Butler's Kindred. And her
inscription of positions and perspectives in Playing in the Dark, The Origin of Others, and The Source of Self-Regard
call for a kind of sweating provoked by engaging moral meditations which Marilynne Robinson and Martha Nussbaum write. And behind all the effort one hears a snide,
accusatory, very American question: Is it worth it after all? Readers answer in accord with their degrees
of cultural literacy. Whether they are
thrilled or enthralled by imperiousness is a different, difficult question. Whatever the case, readers who lack genuine
intellectual curiosity ought to leave the game, to have the bravery to admit
defeat. But imperiousness or arrogant
assurance is a far cry from the blessed assurance readers can purchase with
tears from James Baldwin's fiction and non-fiction and Ta-Nehisi Coates's
non-fiction, or with laughter from
Maurice Carlos Ruffin's much-acclaimed We
Cast A Shadow.
Serpell's phrasing "she drags behind her"
threatens to toss Morrison into a "mules of the world" briar patch,
and it serves to remind astute readers that Zora Neale Hurston is truly as
canonical, black, female, and complex as Morrison. The implication that the world can afford
only one canonical woman writer at a time is unmitigated, Eurocentric cowshit. The
Source of Self-Regard is Morrison's debatably honest effort to specify her
own limits and possibilities; it is her confession that she is a human being
not a mythological goddess who writes, her admission that no writer, female or
male, is immune to debate. There is
indeed, as Morrison suggests at one point in the book a difficult difference
between a fact and a truth. Reading The Source of Self-Regard is a worthwhile
exercise in discovering the ontology of such difference.
Jerry W. Ward, Jr. April 25, 2019
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