Morrison is not just one of the most widely read authors of modern time; she also carries the distinction (perhaps, at times, the burden) of being the most frequently taught living novelist. She holds a preeminent place on high school and college reading lists, and probably has spawned more term papers in recent years than Napoleon and Caesar combined. As such, one always reads Morrison with expectations of getting a lesson in post-colonial perspectives. Yet it is to Morrison’s credit that she constructs her scenes in A Mercy without letting her characters collapse into the one-dimensional stick figures that populate too many self-consciously post-colonial fictions. The victims here are sometimes also victimizers, and all demonstrations of heroism are only relative. In short, there is a richness and true-to-life contrariness to Morrison’s unfolding plot that resists the Cliff Notes bullet points.
Of course, there are lessons here. But, in a strange sort of way, Morrison’s very fame may prevent her audience from seeing how multi-layered this book is. After all, this author has herself become a symbol and catchword. Moreover, she releases this novel at a time when another African-American has taken on an unprecedented visibility and symbolic resonance — of groundbreaking historical importance. “No one talks about the book," Morrison recently confided to an interviewer. Which is both understandable, yet also a shame; since Toni Morrison has delivered a book here that is eminently worth discussing.
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