44 tIme August 19, 2019
in the 1970s my parents displayed just beside the com-
plete set of the Encyclopedia Britannica. Between the two
of them, there was a sense that the entire world of knowl-
edge rested on a single shelf.
Morrison labored tirelessly, and she theorized
about her efforts, leaving for us a road map of sorts.
After the re-election of George W. Bush in 2004, she
wrote:
This is precisely the time when artists go to work. There
is no time for despair, no place for self-pity, no need for si-
lence, no room for fear. We speak, we write, we do language.
That is how civilizations heal.
I know the world is bruised and bleeding, and though it
is important not to ignore its pain, it is also critical to re-
fuse to succumb to its malevolence. Like failure, chaos con-
tains information that can lead to knowledge—even wis-
dom. Like art.
Of course this seems quaint during these dark days, de-
spairing at the idea of a second Bush term, but these words
may serve as an urgent gift to us now
as we are facing moral crisis like none
I have witnessed in my lifetime. Al-
though her art, and artistry, is singu-
lar in such a way that it could exist
only for the sake of its own beauty,
she understood that her work—and
all of our work—must be applied in
pursuit of a world that is more just,
more fair and more humane. All of
her novels center on the lives of peo-
ple who struggle to find their place in
a country that doesn’t always afford
them true ownership on the land
upon which they stand, the soil in
which they find themselves rooted.
They are treated like unwelcome but
necessary tenants that America re-
quires in order to function. Morrison
didn’t just tell these stories of these
people—her people, our people, us—she elevated them.
As I struggle to end this remembrance, I am fiddling
with the jar of earth on my desk. I have developed a habit of
shaking it and letting my mind wander. Today I am thinking
of The Bluest Eye and how it begins with a discussion of dirt
and marigolds that didn’t grow. I’m looking at this sample
of the dry Midwestern soil that sprouted our great Ameri-
can genius, and I am grateful for the life she lived and the
language she left behind. I will close with her own words,
a simple phrase uttered by a grieving grandmother, Pilate
in Song of Solomon, so deeply spiritual that she is almost
super natural, but even she could not prevent the inevita-
bility of death. Of her granddaughter, she proclaimed to
anyone within hearing, the same words so many of us are
whispering as we remember Toni Morrison: She was loved.
Jones is the author of the novel An American Marriage
and a professor at Emory University
Appreciation
HER WORK
CENTERS ON
THE LIVES OF
PEOPLE WHO
STRUGGLE TO
FIND A PLACE
IN A COUNTRY
THAT DOESN’T
ALWAYS
AFFORD THEM
OWNERSHIP
