Winner of AUDIOFILE Earphones Award (c)AudioFile, Portland, Maine This is an outstanding production of a classic work. Nothing of the poetic, contemplative nature of this book is lost in its abridgment. Dialogue is abundant, and Dee lends great depth to characters with unique voices and skillfully handled dialect. Pecola's life is read in an unhurried, emphatic style, which respects the somber strength of the book. The Bluest Eye is the tragic story of eleven-year-old Pecola Breedlove, who "each night without fail" prays for blue eyes, believing her ugly reality will be made beautiful through them. Ruby Dee's reading of Morrison's first novel is masterful. With haunting poignancy Nobel Prize-winner Toni Morrison writes of the hardships of poor black America. The puke swaddles down the pillow onto the. You think I got time for nothing but washing up your puke?" 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. I am covered up with heavy quilts and ordered to sweat, which I do, promptly. A hot flannel is wrapped about my neck and chest. 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.
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She takes two fingers' full of it at a time, and massages my chest until I am faint. Her hands are large and rough, and when she rubs the Vicks salve on my chest, I am rigid with pain. Once I have generated a silhouette of warmth, I dare not move, for there is a cold place one-half inch in any direction. It takes a long time for my body to heat its place in the bed. 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. I trudge off to bed, full of guilt and self-pity. Frieda? Get some rags and stuff that window."įrieda restuffs the window. How many times do I have to tell you to wear something on your head? You must be the biggest fool in this town. 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. Our illness is treated with contempt, foul Black Draught, and castor oil that blunts our minds. How, they ask us, do you expect anybody to get anything done if you all are sick? We cannot answer them. When we catch colds, they shake their heads in disgust at our lack of consideration. When we trip and fall down they glance at us if we cut or bruise ourselves, they ask us are we crazy. They issue orders without providing information. Adults do not talk to us - they give us directions.
The others are braced in darkness, peopled by roaches and mice. At night a kerosene lamp lights one large room. It is impossible not to feel a shiver when our feet leave the gravel path and sink into the dead grass in the field.
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Frieda and I lag behind, staring at the patch of color surrounded by black. The dying fire lights the sky with a dull orange glow. 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. 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. School has started, and Frieda and I get new brown stockings and cod-liver oil. 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. 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 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. She rolls down the window to tell my sister Frieda and me that we can't come in. Rosemary Villanucci, our next-door friend who lives above her father's cafe, sits in a 1939 Buick eating bread and butter. Nuns go by as quiet as lust, and drunken men and sober eyes sing in the lobby of the Greek hotel.
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