The one I already own I want to hold in my hand against my heart. I need one copy to give to a friend, another to throw against the wall over and over and over. Someone sent me a copy of The Black Book and if at all possible I would like to have two more. They kept their pain and frustration to themselves, and they told their kids that they should do the same and just keep moving forward toward some distant prize. Dad hailed from Birmingham, Ala., and though both had to overcome steep racial obstacles, they never talked much about it at home. My parents were strivers, the first black family to buy a house in an all-white neighborhood on the south side of Minneapolis. At a time when paperbacks cost about 2 bucks, they shelled out $9.95 for The Black Book, because they'd read a review in The New York Times, and they were intrigued with the idea of a book that would offer an unvarnished look at the history of black Americans. It's sort of the approach my parents took with the book. I thought then, as I do now, that when I stare at that same book, she's staring at me, daring me to go ahead and open the front cover. She's the girl with the bobbed hair and the haunting eyes. It was big and mysterious, covered with a dizzying collage of images: cowboys and slaves, showgirls and dandies. That's the year when the book arrived in our household. When I first saw the big, shiny 35th anniversary edition of The Black Book, I was snatched back to 1974. Books Norris Talks With Toni Morrison About The Book's 35th Anniversary Edition
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