The Bluest Eye

by Morrison, Toni

• ISBN13: 9780307278449
• ISBN10: 0307278441
• Edition: 1st
• Format: Paperback
• Copyright: 2007-05-08
• Publisher: Vintage

About This Book

The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison

ISBN: 9780307278449

About This Book

"The Bluest Eye" by Toni Morrison is a powerful and thought-provoking novel that has become a classic in American literature. First published in 1970, this book has been a staple in educational curricula for decades, particularly in high school and college English literature classes. It's a must-read for anyone interested in exploring themes of race, class, and gender through the lens of a young black girl's struggle for beauty and acceptance.

Who Uses It?

Primarily, this book is used by students and educators in high school and college English literature classes. It's also a valuable resource for anyone interested in understanding the complexities of human experience, including professionals looking to explore the intersection of social justice and literature.

History and Editions

The 2007 edition of "The Bluest Eye" (ISBN 9780307278449) is a re-release of the original novel. This edition has been widely praised for its enduring relevance and Morrison's masterful storytelling. The book has been a National Bestseller and a Parade Best Book of All Time, solidifying its place in literary history.

Author and Other Works

Toni Morrison was an acclaimed Nobel Prize-winning author known for her poignant and insightful writing style. She wrote eleven novels and three essay collections, including "Beloved," "Song of Solomon," and "Sula." Her work often explored themes of identity, history, and the African American experience, making her one of the most influential voices in contemporary literature.

Key Features

• Powerful Themes: The book delves into the obsession with beauty and conformity, raising important questions about race, class, and gender.
• Historical Context: Set in the 1940s, the novel provides a poignant look at the experiences of African Americans during that era.
• Character Development: Pecola Breedlove, the protagonist, is a deeply relatable and tragic figure whose story commands attention.
• Literary Style: Morrison's writing is described as "so precise, so faithful to speech and so charged with pain and wonder that the novel becomes poetry" (The New York Times).

Detailed Information

ISBNs and Formats

• Paperback: ISBN-13: 9780307278449
• Hardcover: ISBN-13: 9780374526364 (Note: This is a different edition published by Knopf)
• eBook: Available through various digital platforms
• Used Copies: Available through AbeBooks, Goodwill, and other used book retailers

Publication Details

• Publisher: Vintage
• Publication Date: May 8, 2007
• Number of Pages: 224
• Language: English

Other Editions and Formats

• Hardcover Edition: Published by Knopf (ISBN: 9780374526364)
• Used Copies: Available through various sellers with conditions ranging from Good to Very Good (as listed on AbeBooks)

This detailed information section provides a quick reference for all the available formats and sources for "The Bluest Eye," making it easier to find and access the book in the preferred format.

Author Biography

Toni Morrison is the author also of Sula, Song of Solomon, Tar Baby, Beloved (awarded the Pulitzer Prize in 1988), and Jazz.


From the Hardcover edition.

Excerpts

Nuns go by as quiet as lust, and drunken men and sober eyes sing in the lobby of the Greek hotel. Rosemary Villanucci, our next-door friend who lives above her father's cafe, sits in a 1939 Buick eating bread and butter. She rolls down the window to tell my sister Frieda and me that we can't come in. We stare at her, wanting her bread, but more than that wanting to poke the arrogance out of her eyes and smash the pride of ownership that curls her chewing mouth. When she comes out of the car we will beat her up, make red marks on her white skin, and she will cry and ask us do we want her to pull her pants down. We will say no. We don't know what we should feel or do if she does, but whenever she asks us, we know she is offering us something precious and that our own pride must be asserted by refusing to accept.


School has started, and Frieda and I get new brown stockings and cod-liver oil. Grown-ups talk in tired, edgy voices about Zick's Coal Company and take us along in the evening to the railroad tracks where we fill burlap sacks with the tiny pieces of coal lying about. Later we walk home, glancing back to see the great carloads of slag being dumped, red hot and smoking, into the ravine that skirts the steel mill. The dying fire lights the sky with a dull orange glow. Frieda and I lag behind, staring at the patch of color surrounded by black. It is impossible not to feel a shiver when our feet leave the gravel path and sink into the dead grass in the field.


Our house is old, cold, and green. At night a kerosene lamp lights one large room. The others are braced in darkness, peopled by roaches and mice. Adults do not talk to us -- they give us directions. They issue orders without providing information. When we trip and fall down they glance at us; if we cut or bruise ourselves, they ask us are we crazy. When we catch colds, they shake their heads in disgust at our lack of consideration. How, they ask us, do you expect anybody to get anything done if you all are sick? We cannot answer them. Our illness is treated with contempt, foul Black Draught, and castor oil that blunts our minds.


When, on a day after a trip to collect coal, I cough once, loudly, through bronchial tubes already packed tight with phlegm, my mother frowns. "Great Jesus. Get on in that bed. How many times do I have to tell you to wear something on your head? You must be the biggest fool in this town. Frieda? Get some rags and stuff that window."


Frieda restuffs the window. I trudge off to bed, full of guilt and self-pity. I lie down in my underwear, the metal in the black garters hurts my legs, but I do not take them off, because it is too cold to lie stockingless. It takes a long time for my body to heat its place in the bed. Once I have generated a silhouette of warmth, I dare not move, for there is a cold place one-half inch in any direction. No one speaks to me or asks how I feel. In an hour or two my mother comes. Her hands are large and rough, and when she rubs the Vicks salve on my chest, I am rigid with pain. She takes two fingers' full of it at a time, and massages my chest until I am faint. Just when I think I will tip over into a scream, she scoops out a little of the salve on her forefinger and puts it in my mouth, telling me to swallow. A hot flannel is wrapped about my neck and chest. I am covered up with heavy quilts and ordered to sweat, which I do, promptly.


Later I throw up, and my mother says, "What did you puke on the bed clothes for? Don't you have sense enough to hold your head out the bed? Now, look what you did. You think I got time for nothing but washing up your puke?"


The puke swaddles down the pillow onto the sheet -- green-gray, with flecks of orange. It moves like the insides of an uncooked egg. Stubbornly clinging to its own mass, refusing to break up and be removed. How, I wonder, can it be so neat and nasty at the same time?


My mother's voice drones on. She is not talking to me. She is talking to the puke, but she is calling it my name: Claudia. She wipes it up as best she can and puts a scratchy towel over the large wet place. I lie down again. The rags have fallen from the window crack, and the air is cold. I dare not call her back and am reluctant to leave my warmth. My mother's anger humiliates me; her words chafe my cheeks, and I am crying. I do not know that she is not angry at me, but at my sickness. I believe she despises my weakness for letting the sickness "take holt." By and by I will not get sick; I will refuse to. But for now I am crying. I know I am making more snot, but I can't stop.


My sister comes in. Her eyes are full of sorrow. She sings to me: "When the deep purple falls over sleepy garden walls, someone thinks of me. . . ." I doze, thinking of plums, walls, and "someone."


But was it really like that? As painful as I remember? Only mildly. Or rather, it was a productive and fructifying pain. Love, thick and dark as Alaga syrup, eased up into that cracked window. I could smell it -- taste it -- sweet, musty, with an edge of wintergreen in its base -- everywhere in that house. It stuck, along with my tongue, to the frosted windowpanes. It coated my chest, along with the salve, and when the flannel came undone in my sleep, the clear, sharp curves of air outlined its presence on my throat. And in the night, when my coughing was dry and tough, feet padded into the room, hands repinned the flannel, readjusted the quilt, and rested a moment on my forehead. So when I think of autumn, I think of somebody with hands who does not want me to die.


From the Hardcover edition.

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Excerpted from The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.