Red at the Bone
A Novel
(Sprache: Englisch)
A NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER
A NEW YORK TIMES NOTABLE BOOK OF THE YEAR
"A spectacular novel that only this legend can pull off." -Ibram X. Kendi, #1 New York Times-bestselling author of HOW TO BE AN ANTIRACIST, in The Atlantic
"An exquisite tale of...
A NEW YORK TIMES NOTABLE BOOK OF THE YEAR
"A spectacular novel that only this legend can pull off." -Ibram X. Kendi, #1 New York Times-bestselling author of HOW TO BE AN ANTIRACIST, in The Atlantic
"An exquisite tale of...
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A NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLERA NEW YORK TIMES NOTABLE BOOK OF THE YEAR
"A spectacular novel that only this legend can pull off." -Ibram X. Kendi, #1 New York Times-bestselling author of HOW TO BE AN ANTIRACIST, in The Atlantic
"An exquisite tale of family legacy….The power and poetry of Woodson's writing conjures up Toni Morrison." - People
"In less than 200 sparsely filled pages, this book manages to encompass issues of class, education, ambition, racial prejudice, sexual desire and orientation, identity, mother-daughter relationships, parenthood and loss….With Red at the Bone, Jacqueline Woodson has indeed risen - even further into the ranks of great literature." - NPR
"This poignant tale of choices and their aftermath, history and legacy, will resonate with mothers and daughters." -Tayari Jones, bestselling author of AN AMERICAN MARRIAGE, in O Magazine
An unexpected teenage pregnancy pulls together two families from different social classes, and exposes the private hopes, disappointments, and longings that can bind or divide us from each other, from the New York Times-bestselling and National Book Award-winning author of Another Brooklyn and Brown Girl Dreaming.
Moving forward and backward in time, Jacqueline Woodson's taut and powerful new novel uncovers the role that history and community have played in the experiences, decisions, and relationships of these families, and in the life of the new child.
As the book opens in 2001, it is the evening of sixteen-year-old Melody's coming of age ceremony in her grandparents' Brooklyn brownstone. Watched lovingly by her relatives and friends, making her entrance to the music of Prince, she wears a special custom-made dress. But the event is not without poignancy. Sixteen years earlier, that very dress was measured and sewn for a different wearer: Melody's mother, for her own ceremony-- a celebration that ultimately never took place.
Unfurling the history of Melody's parents and
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grandparents to show how they all arrived at this moment, Woodson considers not just their ambitions and successes but also the costs, the tolls they've paid for striving to overcome expectations and escape the pull of history. As it explores sexual desire and identity, ambition, gentrification, education, class and status, and the life-altering facts of parenthood, Red at the Bone most strikingly looks at the ways in which young people must so often make long-lasting decisions about their lives--even before they have begun to figure out who they are and what they want to be.
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Lese-Probe zu „Red at the Bone “
1But that afternoon there was an orchestra playing. Music filling the brownstone. Black fingers pulling violin bows and strumming cellos, dark lips around horns, a small brown girl with pale pink nails on flute. Malcolm's younger brother, his dark skin glistening, blowing somberly into a harmonica. A broad-shouldered woman on harp. From my place on the stairs, I could see through the windows curious white people stopping in front of the building to listen. And as I descended, the music grew softer, the lyrics inside my head becoming a whisper, I knew a girl named Nikki, guess you could say she was a sex fiend.
No vocalist. The little girl didn't know the words. The broad-shouldered woman, having once belted them out loud while showering, was now saved and refused to remember them. Iris wouldn't allow them to be sung and Malcolm's brother's sweet seven-year-old mouth was full. Still, they moved through my head as though Prince himself were beside me. I met her in a hotel lobby masturbating with a magazine.
And in the room, there was the pink and the green of my grandmother's sorority, the black and gold of my grandfather's Alpha brothers-gray-haired and straight-backed, flashing gold-capped teeth and baritone A-Phi-A! as I made my entrance. High-pitched calls of Skee-wee answering back to them. Another dream for me in their calling out to each other. Of course you're gonna pledge one day, my grandmother said to me over and over again. When I was a child, she surprised me once with a gift-wrapped hoodie, pale pink with My Grandmother Is An AKA in bright green letters. That's just legacy, Melody, she said. I pledged, your grandfather pledged-
Iris didn't.
A pause. Then quietly, her lips at my ear, That's because your mama isn't legacy.
This, I whispered back to her, quoting her sorority mantra, is a serious matter.
My grandmother laughed and
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laughed.
Look back at me on that last day in May. Finally sixteen and the moment like a hand holding me out to the world. Rain giving way to a spectacular sun. Its rays speckling through the stained glass, dancing off the hardwood floors. The orchestra's music lifting through the open windows and out over the block as though it had always belonged to the Brooklyn air. Look at me. Hair flat-ironed and curling over my shoulders. Red lipstick, charcoaled eyes. The dress, Iris's dress, unworn in her closet until that moment. Already, when it was time for her ceremony, I was on my way. Already, at nearly sixteen, her belly told a story a celebration never could. My grandfather's oversize dress shirts backdropping the baby fat still pouting her cheeks, the fine lanugo hair still clinging to the nape of her neck. Still, that afternoon, the years that separated us could have been fifty-Iris standing at the bottom of the stairs watching me. Me looking away from her. Where was I looking? At my father? My grandparents? At anything. At anyone. But her.
Earlier that day, she came into my room as I pulled stockings over my thighs, attempted to clip them to an ivory gartered corset. These too had once belonged to her-unworn, still boxed and wrapped with tissue paper. The fragile stocking struggling against being locked into the garter-this I had learned from my grandmother-and she from her mother and on back-mine the only ceremony skipping a generation of mothers showing daughters. This-the corset wearing, the garters, the silk stockings-was as old as the house my father and I shared with my grandparents. This ritual of marking class and time and transition stumbled back into the days of cotillions, then morphed and morphed again until it was this, some forgotten ancestor's gartered corset-and a pair of new silk stockings, delicate as dust.
I guess you win this round, she said. Prince it is.
I looked up at her. The evening before she'd twisted her hair into tight pin curls, and standing before me, sh
Look back at me on that last day in May. Finally sixteen and the moment like a hand holding me out to the world. Rain giving way to a spectacular sun. Its rays speckling through the stained glass, dancing off the hardwood floors. The orchestra's music lifting through the open windows and out over the block as though it had always belonged to the Brooklyn air. Look at me. Hair flat-ironed and curling over my shoulders. Red lipstick, charcoaled eyes. The dress, Iris's dress, unworn in her closet until that moment. Already, when it was time for her ceremony, I was on my way. Already, at nearly sixteen, her belly told a story a celebration never could. My grandfather's oversize dress shirts backdropping the baby fat still pouting her cheeks, the fine lanugo hair still clinging to the nape of her neck. Still, that afternoon, the years that separated us could have been fifty-Iris standing at the bottom of the stairs watching me. Me looking away from her. Where was I looking? At my father? My grandparents? At anything. At anyone. But her.
Earlier that day, she came into my room as I pulled stockings over my thighs, attempted to clip them to an ivory gartered corset. These too had once belonged to her-unworn, still boxed and wrapped with tissue paper. The fragile stocking struggling against being locked into the garter-this I had learned from my grandmother-and she from her mother and on back-mine the only ceremony skipping a generation of mothers showing daughters. This-the corset wearing, the garters, the silk stockings-was as old as the house my father and I shared with my grandparents. This ritual of marking class and time and transition stumbled back into the days of cotillions, then morphed and morphed again until it was this, some forgotten ancestor's gartered corset-and a pair of new silk stockings, delicate as dust.
I guess you win this round, she said. Prince it is.
I looked up at her. The evening before she'd twisted her hair into tight pin curls, and standing before me, sh
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Autoren-Porträt von Jacqueline Woodson
Jacqueline Woodson
Bibliographische Angaben
- Autor: Jacqueline Woodson
- 2020, 224 Seiten, Maße: 13,2 x 20,3 cm, Kartoniert (TB), Englisch
- Verlag: Riverhead Books
- ISBN-10: 0525535284
- ISBN-13: 9780525535287
- Erscheinungsdatum: 31.08.2020
Sprache:
Englisch
Pressezitat
Praise for Red at the Bone:Readers mourning the death of Toni Morrison will find comfort in Sabe s magnificent cadences as she rues her daughter s teen pregnancy, which flies in the face of the lessons her mama ingrained in her from the Tulsa race riots of 1921 the massacre by whites that drove her family north and taught them to vigilantly safeguard their social and economic gains. . . . With Red at the Bone, Jacqueline Woodson has indeed risen even further into the ranks of great literature. NPR
Occasionally mentioned, and never forgotten, is the fact that Iris s family moved to Brooklyn from the South in 1921 after white people in Tulsa burned down black people s schools, restaurants, and beauty shops. It s not just that the past informs the present, nor is it just that the past isn t past; it s also the case that the past has to be remembered, has to be kept alive. The New York Times
Red at the Bone is a nuanced portrait of shifting family relationships, jumping back and forth in time and moving between the characters different voices. . . . Underneath it all runs the vexed and violent history of the US. Sabe s family lost everything in the Tulsa massacre of 1921. . . . Stories may be hidden, but they will come to light. Financial Times
Beautiful . . . a generous, big-hearted novel. Brit Bennett, #1 NYT bestselling author of The Vanishing Half
Profoundly moving . . . With its abiding interest in the miracle of everyday love, Red at the Bone is a proclamation. The New York Times Book Review
A spectacular novel that only [a] legend can pull off, one that wrenches us to confront the life-altering and life-pulling and life-subsuming facts of history, of love, of expectations, of status, of parenthood. Ibram X. Kendi in The Atlantic
A treasure awaits readers who encounter Red at the Bone. . . . [A] universal American tale of striving, failing, then trying again. Time
Sublime . . . This short
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novel contains immense empathy for each member of its wide ensemble. Thus, as Woodson covers nearly a century, from the 1921 Tulsa race massacre to 9/11, her grasp of history s weight on individuals and definitive feel for borough life, past and present proves to be as emotionally transfixing as ever. Entertainment Weekly
A true spell of a book, Woodson is one of those rare writers who make you feel like you can do anything, should do anything. The story of family and young love are timeless human stories but through Woodson s sentences, this novel offers us new ways to think and embody our burning world and, perhaps most mercifully, permission to dream and to change. Ocean Vuong, New York Times bestselling author of On Earth We re Briefly Gorgeous
Red at the Bone is a narrative steeped in truth. . . . Thank you, Ms. Woodson, for leading me home. The Washington Post
Red at the Bone is a slim novel that has all the heft of a family saga . . . [but] reads like poetry. . . . Woodson nailed the ending, leaving me thoroughly satisfied and awed by her talent. Lynn Neary, NPR
Lyrical, dreamy, and brimming with compassion for her characters. Esquire
[Red at the Bone] subtly explores the ways in which desire can reconfigure our best-laid plans, and its expansive outlook suggests how easily, in African-American life, hard-won privileges can be dissolved. The New Yorker
Vast emotional depth, rich historical understanding, and revelatory pacing . . . Woodson draws the profound magic out of the ordinary. She is unmatched in her ability to evoke emotion. San Francisco Chronicle
A remarkable, intergenerational harmony of voices. At its center is hope for both individual and hereditary survival. USA Today
Gorgeous, moving . . . A story of love romantic and familial and alienation, grief and triumph, disaster and survival. Nylon
Red at the Bone breaks down the ways in which parenthood changes people for both better and worse and what it means to find your true identity. Parade
Slender miracle of a novel [that] performs a magic trick with time. . . . Woodson skips back and forth between the decades so deftly that it feels like it all happens in a heartbeat. Family Circle
A true spell of a book, Woodson is one of those rare writers who make you feel like you can do anything, should do anything. The story of family and young love are timeless human stories but through Woodson s sentences, this novel offers us new ways to think and embody our burning world and, perhaps most mercifully, permission to dream and to change. Ocean Vuong, New York Times bestselling author of On Earth We re Briefly Gorgeous
Red at the Bone is a narrative steeped in truth. . . . Thank you, Ms. Woodson, for leading me home. The Washington Post
Red at the Bone is a slim novel that has all the heft of a family saga . . . [but] reads like poetry. . . . Woodson nailed the ending, leaving me thoroughly satisfied and awed by her talent. Lynn Neary, NPR
Lyrical, dreamy, and brimming with compassion for her characters. Esquire
[Red at the Bone] subtly explores the ways in which desire can reconfigure our best-laid plans, and its expansive outlook suggests how easily, in African-American life, hard-won privileges can be dissolved. The New Yorker
Vast emotional depth, rich historical understanding, and revelatory pacing . . . Woodson draws the profound magic out of the ordinary. She is unmatched in her ability to evoke emotion. San Francisco Chronicle
A remarkable, intergenerational harmony of voices. At its center is hope for both individual and hereditary survival. USA Today
Gorgeous, moving . . . A story of love romantic and familial and alienation, grief and triumph, disaster and survival. Nylon
Red at the Bone breaks down the ways in which parenthood changes people for both better and worse and what it means to find your true identity. Parade
Slender miracle of a novel [that] performs a magic trick with time. . . . Woodson skips back and forth between the decades so deftly that it feels like it all happens in a heartbeat. Family Circle
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