[ALSO BY TON MORRISON Low Paradise Jase Belosed Tor Baby © Song of Solomon Sula The Dancing Mind laying in tbe Darks ‘Witenes and the Literary Inagination & THE BLUEST EYE @& A NOVEL Toni Morrison VINTAGE INTERNATIONAL Vintage Books ‘A Division of Random House, Ine. ‘New YorkFIRST VINTAGE INTERNATIONAL EDITION, MAY 2007 Cig © 1970, igh rea 99 by Tit Moria ‘ard © 1993, 2007 Tt Mari ‘Airihs eee, Pullin in thé United Sra By Vinge Books, vison ef Random Hou, Ie, New Yr, at in Ces by Raeom “Hour of Cnn Limite, Teron Oxigially plished in ora o he Usted Sse by Hole, Rear apd Wise, in 197208 soequnly pubis nity dierent frm in aroner LAA. Koop vis of Rando Hons, 0193+ ‘Viatge ies eis rademare and Vite Toceratina ae sophia ‘ie eademagt Rane Hose, Ie Poros fe foewan! wee pei poblised te arr othe 1993 Kowa en. “The Libasy of Congo a nal the Kropf diton flows: Moto, Tn ‘To bat gb Tt Marston. sce «ie Amerost~Obio— Fiction. Gi Ohio—etion. Tle P8556 -87 40855 193 ‘15 54—e29 oe Vinee ISBN: 978-0-307-27844-9 Bei by Day 5 Bakr www.vineagebooks.com ‘Psned n the Unied Sef America mob 765 To the two who gave me life ‘and the one who made me freeForeword ‘There can't be anyone, Iam sure, who doesn’t know whet it feels like to be disliked, even rejected, momentarily ofr sus- tained periods of time. Pethaps the feeling is merely indifer- ‘ence, mild annoyance, hue i may also be hure. Ie may even be thar some of us know what ie is like to be acrusly hared— hated for things we have no control over and cannot change. ‘When this happens itis some consolation to know chat the dislike ot hatted is unjustified —chae you don'e deserve it, And if you have the emorional strength sndior support from family and friends, che damage is reduced or erased. We think of it as the sress (minor or disabling) chat is pare of lif as human, ‘When I began writing The Blut Ey, I was interested in something else. Not rexiseance to the contempe of others, ways 0 deflece it, but the fir more tragic and disabling conse- quences of accepting rejection as legitimate, as selGevident. I knew thae some victims of powerful self-loathing rar out © be dangerous, violen, eproducing the enemy who has huil-Foreword {sted chem over and over Others surrender thee identey mele ing a seructare chat deliver the strong persona they lack. Mose aches, however, grow beyond ie. Bu cher are some who calle, silenly, anonymously, with no Wace co expres ot enowledge it.'They ae invisible. The death of self-esteem fan occur quickly, easly in children, before cir ego bas “legs” s0 co speak. Couple che valneabiliry of youth with indifene paren, dismisive adults, and a wodd, whic, i its language, law, end images, enforces despaie, and the jurey ro destruction is sealed ‘The projec, chen, for this, my ise book, was co enter the life ofthe one leat likely to withstand such damaging forces because of youth, gender, and race. Begun sa beac naraive of psychological mutder, che main character could oe stand slone since her passivity made her a narrative void. So 1 invented fiends, clastates, who understood, even sympa- ‘hized, with her pligh, but had che benef of supportive pa nts and a feistines all thei owa. Yee they were helpless at well, They could noe save thee frend fom the world. She broke. “The origin of he novel lay in conversation Thad with « childhood frend, We bad just seated elementary schoo. She said she waned blue eyes. looked around co pierre her with chem and was volnely repelled by what Fimagined she would look ike fshe had her wish. The sorow in her voice seemed ro call foe sympathy, nd Ike ic for he, bat, tconished bythe deaceraton she proposed, I“goe mad” ther instead, ‘Una thst moment I bad seen the prety, the lovely, che nice, the up, and alebough T had ceraialy used che word “beautiful” Thad never expeienced is shock—the force of hich was equaled by the knowledge tha no one ecognized i, ot ica, o expecially, che one who possessed it Teamust have been more than the fie Twas examining: the silence of the ste inthe eae afternoon, ee light, che tmo- sphece of confesion. In any case it was the frst time I knew beautiful. Had imagined ie for myself, Beaury was nor simply something co behold ic was something one could de ‘The Blut Eye was my effore co say something about that; to say something about why she bad nor, or possibly ever would have, the experience of what she possessed and also why she prayed for so radical an alteration Implice in her desce was sacial self-loathing. And ewenty years later, Iwas still wonder- ing aboat how one learas that. Who told her? Who made her feel that ic was better to be a teak than what she was? Who hd looked ac her and found her so wanting, so small «weight ‘on the beaury scale? The novel pecks away atthe gaze that con- demned her. ‘The reclamation of racial beauty in che sixties sited these thoughts, made me think aboue the necesity fo the claim, ‘Why, although reviled by ochers, could this beaury noe be taken for granted withia the community? Why did ic need wide public articulation to exist? These are not clever ques- tions. Burin 1962 when I began this story, and in 1965 when i began ro bea book, ehe answers were not as obvious to me as they quickly became and are now. The assertion of racial beauty ‘was not a reaction to the sefmocking, humorous critique of cultural/racil foibles common in all groups, but agains the ‘damaging intemalization of assumptions of immutable infeti- crty originating in an ouside gaze. T focused, therefore, on how something as grotesque as the demonization of an entice ‘ace could take root inside the most delicate member of society ‘child che most vulnerable member: female. In tying vo dra- ‘matize the devastation that even casual racial contempt can ‘cause, I chose @ unique situation, nota representative one. The~ Foreword cexxcemity of Peclas case stemmed largely from a crippled and crippling family—unlike the average black family and unlike the narmtors. Bue singular as Pecola life was, I believed some aspects of hee woundability were lodged in all young gies. In exploring the social end domestic aggression that could cause a chil co literally fll spac, I mounted a series of rejections some routine, some exceptional, some monstrous, all che while trying, hard co avid complicity in the dernonization process Pecola was subjected to. That is, did not want ro dchurmanize the charac- ‘ers who trashed Pecolaand contibueed to her collapse One problem was centering the weight of the novel’ inquiry on 40 delicate and valnesable e character could smash her and lead readers into che comfort of pirying her rather than inco an intecrogation of cherselves for the smashing. My solu tion —break the nazragve into parts that had ro be reassembled by the reader—seemed to me a good ides, che execution of which does nce satisfy me now. Besides, ic didn'e work: many readers remain wooched but not moved. “The other problem, of course, was language. Holding the espising glance while sabotaging ic was dificult. The novel ‘tied to hie che raw nerve of racial sel-contempt, expos it, ‘then soothe it not with narcotics bue with language chat repli- cated the agency I discovered in my first experience of beauty. Because chat moment was so racially infused (my revulsion at ‘whac my schoo! fiiend wanted: very blue eyes in a very black skin; the haem she was doing to my concept ofthe beautifl), the struggle was for weting ear was indisputably black. I don’ yet know quite whae that is, but neither chat nor the actemprs co disqualify an effore co find out keeps me from ery- ing to pursue it My choices of language (epeakerly, aural, colloquial), my reliance for full comprehension on codes embedded in black culture, my effort eo effect immediate caconspiracy and inti- macy (without any distancing, explanatory fabric), a5 well s ‘my aztempc co shape a silence while breaking it are attempts to ‘ransfigare the complexity and wealth of Black Americen cul= ute into« language worthy ofthe culture, ‘Thinking back now on the problems expressive langoage presented t0 me, lam amazed by their currency, their tenacity. Hearing “civilized” languages debase humans, watching cul- tural exorcisms debuse literature, seeing oneself preserved in ‘the amber of disqualifying metaphors—I can say that my nar- ‘ative project is as difficult today ai was then.The Bluest Eye GFHere is the houte tis green and white. It has a red door. Is very pretty. Here isthe family. Mother, Father, Dick, and Jane live in the green-and-white house. They are very happy. See Jane. She has a red dress. She wants to play. Who will play with Jane? See the cat. Ie goes meow- ‘meow. Come and play. Come play with Jane. The kitten will not play. See Mother. Mother is very nice. Mother, will you play with Jane? Mother laughs. Laugh, Mother, laugh, See Father. He is big and strong, Father, will you play with Jane? Father is smiling, Smile, Father, smile. See the dog. Bowwow goes the dog, Do you want to play with Jane? See the dog run. Run, dog, run. Look, look. Here comes a friend, The friend will play with Jane. They will play a good game. Play, Jane, play.oe] x ‘The Bluest Eye Here is the house it is green and white it has a red door it is very prety here isthe family mother father dick and jane live in the green-and-white house they are very happy see jane she as a ed dress she wants to play who will play with jane see the cat it goes meow-meow come and play come play with jane the kiten will not play see mother mother is very nice mother will you play with jane mother laughs laugh mother laugh see father hes big and strong father will, you play with ane father is smiling smile father smile se the dog bowwow goes the dog do you want to play do you want to play with jane see the dog run run dog,run look look here comes a friend the friend will play with jane they will play ‘good game play jane play Hereisthehouseitipreenandwhiteithasareddoositisverypretty hrereisthefamilymotherfatherdickandjaneliveinthegreenandw hitehousetheyareveryHappyseejaneshehasareddressshewants toplaywhowillplaywithjaneseethecatitgoesmeowmeowcomea indplaycomeplaywithjanethekitenwillnotplayseemothermoth crisverynicemotherwillyouplaywithjanemotherlaughslaughm ‘otherlaughscefatherheisbigandstrongfatherwillyouplaywithia, ‘nefatherssmilingsmilefathersmileseethedoghowwowgoesthe dogdoyouwantroplaydoyouwanttoplaywithjaneseethedogrun ‘rundogrunlooklookherecomesafriendthefriendwillplaywithia, ‘netheywillplayagoodgameplayjaneplay Quiet as i's kept, there were no marigolds in the fall of 194t, We thought, at the time, that it was because Pecole was having her father's baby that the marigolds did not grow. A litle examination and much less melancholy would shave proved tous that our seeds were not the only ones that did not sprout; nobody's did. Not even the gardens fronting the lake showed marigolds that year. But so deeply con- cerned were we with the health and safe delivery of Pecola's baby we could think of nothing but our own magic: if we planted the seeds, and said the right words over them, they ‘would blossom, and everything would be all right. 1 was a long time before my sister and I admitted to ‘urselues that no green was going to spring from our seeds. Once we knew, our guilt was relieved only by fights and ‘mutual accusations about who was to blame. For years I thought my sister was right it was my fault. I bad planted them too far down in the earth. It never occurred to either of us thatthe earth itself might have been unyielding. We= ‘The Bluest Eye had dropped our seeds in our own little plot of black dirt just as Pecola’s father bad dropped his seeds in bis own plot of black dirt. Our innocence and faith were no more produc- tive than his lust or despair. What is clear now is that of all, of that hope, fear, lust, love, and grief, nothing remains but Pecola and the unyielding earth. Cholly Breedlove is dead; cour innocence to0. The seeds shriveled and died; her bay 100, ‘There is really nothing more to say—except why. But since why is dificult 10 handle, one must take refuge in how. AutumnNuns go by as quiet as lust, and drunken men and sober eyes sing in the lobby of the Greek hotel. Rosemary Villanucei, our next-door friend who lives above her father’s café, sits in a 1939 Buick eating bread and burter. She rolls down the window to tell my sister Frieda and ‘me that we can't come in, We stare at her, wanting hee 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 ery 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pos —~ The Bluest Eye 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 skirs 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 eld. Our house is old, cold, and green. At night a kerosene amp 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 istue 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 ate sick? We cannot answer them. Our illnes is treated with contempr, foul Black Draught, and castor oil that blunts our minds. ‘When, on a day after a trip t0 collet coal, I cough ‘once, loudly, through bronchial tubes alzeady 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 erudge off to bed, full of guilt and self-pity. I ie down in my underwear, the metal in my black garters hurts my legs, but I do not take them ‘off, fr it is too cold to lie stockingless. It takes a long time for my body to heat its place in the bed. Once I hhave 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 ‘wo 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 i at a time, ‘and massages my chest until Iam faint. Just when I think Twill tip over into a scream, she scoops outa litle 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. | 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 1 got time for nothing but washing up ‘your puike? 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 pulke, but she is calling it my name: (Claudia. She wipes it up as best she can and puts @ scratchy towel over the large wer place. Ilie 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 mothee’s anger humiliates me; her words cchafe my cheeks, and I am crying. I do not know that she is not angry at me, but at my sickness. I believe she