This, for me, transcends even Morrison's Recitatif. Every emotion is so palpable behind her carefully crafted words, it feels like poetry, having just an unfortunate reason to have to write one. “This is not home” really hit a nerve that we had almost successfully numbed down with painkillers. What a melancholic masterpiece. Even if I do not identify with her race, I'm still a woman, and this constant struggle to just “divert a failure” is no stranger to me. I didn't realise how important this book is while going into it, but a part of me deeply believes in its “transcendence” and “assimilation” into a future classic.
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