The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison

This book is art. It's incredibly poetic, beginning with a children's story of a perfect house and family assumed to be white but never stated. It isn't enjoyable—it's a hard read for the level of tragedy, shame, and disgust. It was very difficult to process. Honestly, I'm not sure I've really taken it all the way in, even after several weeks. I think this story will live forever in my back of my mind. For its unpleasantness and shame, but also for its prose. When I read these final paragraphs of the introduction, I sat back in awe of the tragedy I was about to embark on. I had to read it aloud to Hubs because I just had to share this poetry with someone. We had dropped our seeds in our own little pot of black dirt just as Pecola's father had dropped his seeds in his own plot of black dirt. Our innocence and faith were no more productive than his lust or despair. What is clear now is that of all of that hope, fear, lust, love, and grief, nothing remains but Pecola and unyielding…