i keep forgetting that toni morrison is often cruel to her readers. she will warmly open her door to you and before you know it, your shoes are off, resting by the door, and you’re wrapped in a cashmere throw, sipping a tea you’ve never had until this moment but you’ve declared as your favorite. then right after you’ve sighed out your long day, your thankfulness, she whispers a sentence in your ear that makes you hot with rage and anxious about how long the melancholy she’s just gifted you will last.
