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“So precise, so faithful to speech and so charged with pain and wonder that the novel becomes poetry.”
—The New York Times

“A profoundly successful work of fiction. . . . Taut and understated, harsh in its detachment, sympathetic in its truth...it is an experience.” —The Detroit Free Press

“This story commands attention, for it contains one black girl’s universe.”
—Newsweek

From the Trade Paperback edition.

内容简介

Pecola Breedlove, a young black girl, prays every day for beauty. Mocked by other children for the dark skin, curly hair, and brown eyes that set her apart, she yearns for normalcy, for the blond hair and blue eyes that she believes will allow her to finally fit in.Yet as her dream grows more fervent, her life slowly starts to disintegrate in the face of adversity and strife. A powerful examination of our obsession with beauty and conformity, Toni Morrison's virtuosic first novel asks powerful questions about race, class, and gender with the subtlety and grace that have always characterized her writing.

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Nuns go by as quiet as lust, and drunken men and sober eyes singin the lobby of the Greek hotel. Rosemary Villanucci, our next-doorfriend who lives above her father's cafe, sits in a 1939 Buickeating bread and butter. She rolls down the window to tell mysister Frieda and me that we can't come in. We stare at her,wanting her bread, but more than that wanting to poke the arroganceout of her eyes and smash the pride of ownership that curls herchewing 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 wewant her to pull her pants down. We will say no. We don't know whatwe should feel or do if she does, but whenever she asks us, we knowshe is offering us something precious and that our own pride mustbe asserted by refusing to accept.

School has started, and Frieda and I get new brown stockings andcod-liver oil. Grown-ups talk in tired, edgy voices about Zick'sCoal Company and take us along in the evening to the railroadtracks where we fill burlap sacks with the tiny pieces of coallying about. Later we walk home, glancing back to see the greatcarloads of slag being dumped, red hot and smoking, into the ravinethat skirts the steel mill. The dying fire lights the sky with adull orange glow. Frieda and I lag behind, staring at the patch ofcolor surrounded by black. It is impossible not to feel a shiverwhen our feet leave the gravel path and sink into the dead grass inthe field.

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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