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Beloved, you are my sister, you are my daughter, you are my face you are me.

Toni Morrison

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Toni Morrison
Age: 88 †
Born: 1931
Born: February 18
Died: 2019
Died: August 5
Audiobook Narrator
Librettist
Novelist
Poet
University Teacher
Writer
Lorain
Ohio
Chloe Ardelia Wofford
Chloe Anthony Wofford-Morrison
Chloe Anthony Wofford
Morrison
Chloe Anthony Wofford Morrison
Face
Faces
Sister
Beloved
Mom
Daughter
Literature

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No gasp at a miracle that is truly miraculous because the magic lies in the fact that you knew it was there for you all along.
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Like any artist without an art form, she became dangerous.
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Women's rights is not only an abstraction, a cause it is also a personal affair. It is not only about us it is also about me and you. Just the two of us.
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My children are delightful people, whom I would love even if they weren't my children.
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When you know your name, you should hang on to it, for unless it is noted down and remembered, it will die when you do.
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The pieces I am, she gather them and gave them back to me in all the right order.
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guileless and without vanity,we were still in love with ourselves then. We felt comfortable in our own skins, enjoyed the news that our senses released to us, admired our dirt, cultivated our scars, and could not comprehend this unworthiness.
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The difference between that which is humane and that which is patriotic is a vital difference.
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You been gone too long, Sula. Not too long, but maybe too far.
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He wants to put his story next to hers.
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Would it be all right? Would it be all right to go ahead and feel? Go ahead and count on something?
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Evil is so seductive. It needs to grind you up and make you its slave.
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You rely on a sentence to say more than the denotation and the connotation you revel in the smoke that the words send up.
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Say make me, remake me. You are free to do it and I am free to let you because look, look. Look where your hands are. Now.
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Something that is loved is never lost.
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A man ain't nothing but a man. But a son? Well, now, that's somebody.
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She was the third beer. Not the first one, which the throat receives with almost tearful gratitude nor the second, that confirms and extends the pleasure of the first. But the third, the one you drink because it's there, because it can't hurt, and because what difference does it make?
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The screams of a hurt woman were indistinguishable from everyday traffic.
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Each member of the family in his own cell of consciousness, each making his own patchwork quilt of reality - collecting fragments of experience here, pieces of information there. From the tiny impressions gleaned from one another, they created a sense of belonging and tried to make do with the way they found each other.
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Life that crawled, life that slunk and crept and never closed its eyes. Life that burrowed and scurried, and life so still it was indistinguishable from the ivy stems on which it lay. Birth, life, and death - each took place on the hidden side of a leaf.
Toni Morrison