Should I Read... Beloved?
And what are the limits to redemption?
So far we’ve discussed books about the Vietnam War, the Holocaust (indirectly), and dystopias. We’ve reviewed immortal lightbulbs, an author who admits to lying, and a society where ‘War is Peace, Freedom is Slavery, Ignorance is Strength’ can exist as a poster. There’s a lot of alternate reality to unpack in those stories, not so much here.
Beloved will still rank among the heaviest, most unpredictable books you’ll ever read.
As I’ve mentioned before, two chapters in Beloved stand out as all-time moments in literary history. (That includes Shakespeare, to which I tattooed a reference on my left shoulder.) But of course such moments can only happen if the surrounding parts also operate on that level. Today we explore how that’s possible.
First, what am I getting into?
So yes, this is a novel that deals with slavery. It is not a novel about slavery, per se—and you’ll notice most great books we’ve talked about do this, i.e. approach a topic from an angle. (“Tell it slant,” as Dickenson said.) If pressed, I would say the essence of the book is closer to the magical realism of Gabriel Garcia Marquez than the slave narratives of Frederick Douglass, James Weldon Johnson, Harriet Jacobs, et al. Morrison opens the wounds of slavery by creating the impossible in a post-slavery setting.
On the surface, this seems like a risky idea. Toni Morrison is afforded far more latitude with re-imagining slavery than, say, Tarantino because her previous work explored profound depths of the black struggle. (Also, she’s not a white male who casts himself to say the n-word.) The late Ms. Morrison had the clout to write Beloved; however, I was surprised to discover a vociferous outcry nonetheless. Some people are averse to anything besides plain dealing in this genre.
The Plot
This is a difficult book to avoid spoiling. Is ____ the conceit of the novel or is it something the reader should discover? I still don’t know, so I’m erring on the latter. Thus, let’s begin from a distance and vaguely so:
The book takes place in Cincinnati, 1873. An escaped slave (now saved by the Emancipation) named Sethe lives with her teenage daughter, Denver. One day they are visited by a man from their past named Paul D. Sethe is also visited by what she believes to be the ghost of her deceased baby, Beloved, who eventually becomes a young woman. Beloved is a source of great companionship for the family, who struggles to find harmony eight years after slavery’s end. Upon Paul’s arrival, the family’s relationship with the ghost changes their lives irrevocably.
The Characters
Another thing you’ll notice is that many of these books deal with the impact of absence. In The Things They Carried, it was Vietnam in places that were not a battlefield. In Gravity’s Rainbow, it was World War II in places like wild parties. Here the characters forge a new life after America’s greatest shame. And it’s a different feeling than the other books: no reality distortion, no blatant untruth, a dash of the surreal, just people moving on.
Beloved’s understated elegance comes from Ms. Morrison knowing that slavery need not be loud to be heard. The echoes of their past drive everyday dialogue in ways that are just gorgeous. I don’t mind that Tarantino tried to re-tell slavery in a Spaghetti Western, not everyone can do it like Toni; but Django just didn’t work for me because the movie suggests slavery needs a twist to be felt anew. That it needs to be literally explosive to be captivating. Think of Beloved and its characters not as a twist on slavery, but rather a thought experiment: What if you could physically draw out the pain escaped slaves experienced? What form would that take?
One could argue it is because the characters are trying to “just move on” that Beloved haunts the house. They have a right to live in peace, certainly. But the universe demands balance for moral horror; in this case, Sethe and her family are the vessel for that balance. It may seem on-the-nose for a ghost from the slave era to show up. Taken individually, many passages in this book could be so; we read Toni Morrison because she writes them anyway. Trusting in her grasp on personal truth, she flourishes where others would flail.
Why was everyone so up in arms about Beloved?
Here’s where I preface that it’s almost unheard of for 48 authors to insist that a book win the 1988 National Book Award. Authors are bitter, scornful people as awards go. Then again, when it’s Maya Angelou herself leading the charge, you can’t be too surprised.
That was the big outcry. The smaller yet reverberating wail: Toni Morrison went too far. She “sensationalized slavery”. “Overwritten”. “Maudlin”. Now, I live near Hollywood, so I am the last person to care about the truth behind an accolade. The barrage of adjectives on For Your Consideration billboards fills me with a singular despair. (It shouldn’t matter. They’re just stupid awards for mostly stupid shows.) But I care deeply about correcting the record on this book, about allowing words to correctly identify value. It is a hilariously bad take to say that Ms. Morrison took liberties with the past. I wouldn’t stand for anyone reading the book and hearing these reviews without a rebuttal.
When we talk about “overwritten” or “excessively sentimental”, we have decided that our frame of reference dictates taste. Normally that’s not such a big deal. If I don’t like Ted Lasso—relax, I loved it—then I don’t like Ted Lasso because it doesn’t suit my taste. Maybe you could say that I don’t know enough about soccer to make that call; but even that doesn’t really hold up, because the show strives to connect with a non-soccer audience. But what exactly is taste, in this regard?
We’re talking about slavery.
While it’s true that a book cannot say ‘slavery is bad’ 600 times and expect acclaim, we also have to adjust our taste sensors. There’s nothing you have experienced or will ever experience that compares to slavery. Not a fraction, not even close. The black literary giants who pushed for Beloved’s National Book Award endured brutal racism, perhaps even met people who were slaves. Even they could not call the book “trite”. (Not that they would want to, obviously.)
So when you read, pause to absorb more than you might otherwise, because the book demands a new lens. It demands transportation away from what might be called “overdone”. Context is important. Immersion is essential.
Not to be a bad person, but… what’s in it for me?
Somewhere deep down, white people like myself had to admit: 12 Years a Slave wasn’t all that engaging. Was it impeccably crafted? Did it deserve Best Picture? Was it important? Was it emotional? Yes, yes, yes, and yes. Would I watch it again? Of course not. And neither would you.
Naturally the reader will have the impression that Beloved is slavery fare, based on its synopsis and overall aura. Incorrect. I might say the book is closer to Moonlight tonally, which I would watch again, but that doesn’t do it justice either.
Beloved explores being consumed. If you relate to this book, it’s because you have been in a situation where everyone wants something from you. You feel like a bottomless pit, emptied out but still finding more of yourself to give. Sethe lives with her past, in the ghost of Beloved, which alone would crush all of us five times over. She lives with the present, in her daughter, Denver, needing a mother still. She lives with the future, in Paul D. wanting to be with her and to have children. Yet we never feel that Sethe is some rare force of womanhood. Her plight is entirely believable and accessible.
It explores the idea of “tomorrow”. Whether it’s a dystopia, slavery, World War II, or just Cincinnati, “tomorrow” is this volatile concept that never stops attacking. You have to deal with tomorrow. It doesn’t care what happened to you. It doesn’t sympathize nor does it judge. Despite all our weighty aspirations, “tomorrow” may be the only post-racial thing that truly exists.
But most importantly, it explores our most inviolable law: energy cannot be created or destroyed, only transformed. People today fight so much about addressing the past. Some heinous few want it erased. Some want it to be healed in ways that just aren’t logistically possible. Everyone is concerned about the balance sheet. Ultimately what we are saying, without saying, is that an energy exists and no one knows how to deal with it. It has been 156 years since slavery was abolished; we are no closer to tempering this energy. How can something get stronger after 156 years?
Because equality is literally impossible. Obviously everyone should be treated equally. But we all have a balance sheet. For black people, a large, unfixable mistake will always exist in slavery. The Jewish community can go back even farther. So can the Palestinians. And the gays, and on and on. Most people try to make peace with this in their own way. This book fascinates me because Sethe has no notion of her own balance sheet, except to say she feels an infinite debt to humanity at large. (A debt that she in no way owes.) She represents the energy that gives; Beloved represents the energy that takes.
They are driven by a massive force, which is why the “sentimental” gripe sounds so stupid to me. If you are swept up by a tidal wave, your life might look different than from ashore. Above all, you will enjoy this book because it resists futility. It does not swim toward the monster wave, as books that try to explain racism often do. It rides the many kinetic and potential energies with a masterful grip on language and character. Ms. Morrison constantly keeps her eye on tomorrow, even as the past becomes faster and more enormous.
Overall…
Toni Morrison once said that her goal was to write so that you could tear out any page from any book and know it’s her. I would go a step further and say this: If I found a page of Toni Morrison’s writing on the street, I would look for its owner or make a collage. Sinking into a Toni Morrison novel is one of the great experiences in reading. She writes in a manner so fluid as to be peerless, language so easy and bubbling as to be mistaken for a pleasure read. Then she has you and the heat goes up. I’ve read a few of her books—and about two dozen staples of Black Lit for my capstone—and I’ve never encountered a page saying, “I have a point to make!” It would be a betrayal to the natural energy that drives us to love and to insanity.
If you read Beloved, expect a fast-paced ride through a detailed family drama and history itself. Just don’t freak out if you leave your body.