That brings me to Toni Morrison’s novels. It is not quite accurate to say that we constantly relive these hurts because to relive, to redo, to re-anything implies that at some point we have stopped. In the world of these hurts, as in the world of dreams, time means little or nothing. We are, all of us, walking maps of the hurts we have suffered, whether we are conscious of those hurts or - possibly worse - not. Often the disguise is not very convincing. Of course, the hurt usually ends soon - or does it? And they forget all about it - or do they really? Do we?īecoming adults and raising children reveals the key difference, arguably the only difference, between these two groups: one wears a disguise. Lacking the understanding that the hurt they feel will end soon (assuming it will), they know only that their world has suddenly become a world of pain, permanently for all they know. Lacking, for example, the word “betrayal,” they nevertheless often feel betrayed, and their inability to say so makes them cry all the harder. Lacking the ability to put matters in perspective, they understand only the hurt they feel, which, while it lasts, defines their existence, and against which they are defenseless. But of course, they are children, they don’t understand, and that is the whole point. Usually, perhaps in part to protect ourselves, we dismiss the crying of children as unimportant because the things they cry about are trivial, as they would understand if only they weren’t children.

I find it harder, as I get older, to hear children cry. I BEGIN THIS ESSAY on Toni Morrison’s 11 novels with a personal confession, if that’s the right word.

Toni morrison jazz review