I wish an editor or someone else had persuaded Toni Morrison to change the title of her selected essays, speeches and meditations: The Source of Self-Regard. Occasionally reading it in public places, I was embarrassed to think that anyone might assume I was reading the latest book intended for the bloated New Age and self-help section of an airport bookstore. That title isn’t helped by the boring front cover of the dust jacket, for which a designer is unaccountably credited even though the “design” features nothing but undistinguished typography.
But, as our early teachers advised us, it would be a mistake to judge the book by its cover. If you can navigate Morrison’s unexpectedly academic and too often leaden style as an essayist, this volume does contain some gold and is distinguished by an uncommon moral seriousness in which nothing is exempt from questioning.
In “The Price of Wealth, The Cost of Care,” a speech delivered at Vanderbilt University in 2013, Morrison takes on the holiest of holies:
“I want to talk about the subject that is companion to each graduate just as it is on all campuses as well as communities all over the country, indeed the world. A subject that is an appropriate theme of a speech delivered to students during these provocative times of uncertainty.
“The subject is money.
“Whether we have the obligation to protect and stabilize what we already have and, perhaps, to increase it, or whether we have the task of reducing our debt in order to live a productive, fairly comfortable life, or whether our goal is to earn as much as possible — whatever our situation, money is the not-so-secret mistress of our lives. And like all mistresses, you certainly know, if she has not already seduced you, she is nevertheless on your mind. None of us can read a newspaper, watch a television show, or follow political debates without being inundated with the subject of wealth.”
Morrison is just getting started, and by the time she’s finished, she has set a tall challenge for her young audience. She also does this in a 1988 commencement address at Sarah Lawrence College, breaking all the rules, steering clear of the customary commencement platitudes, and probably annoying some platitude-comfortable parents in her audience. (A truncated and rather lame 1979 commencement address at Barnard College, centering on the Cinderella fairy tale, must have left most of her audience feeling shortchanged.)
In “WarTalk,” she asserts “a fundamental change in the concept of war — a not-so-secret conviction among various and sundry populations, both oppressed and privileged, that war is finally out of date; that it is truly the most inefficient method of achieving one’s (long-term) aims.” (“Not-so-secret” is somewhat of a tic with Morrison, and “various and sundry” is a tired expression, but the essay is strong enough to withstand minor shortcomings, and its firm dismissal of war is welcome.)
The collection reprints Morrison’s 1993 Nobel Lecture in Literature, in which she ably laments forces debasing language in our time: “Whether it is obscuring state language or the faux-language of the mindless media, whether it is the proud but calcified language of the academy, or the commodity-driven language of science; whether it is the malign language of law without ethics, or language designed for the estrangement of minorities, hiding its racist plunder in its literary cheek — it must be rejected, altered, and exposed. It is the language that drinks blood, laps vulnerabilities, tucks its fascist boots under crinolines of respectability and patriotism as it moves relentlessly toward the bottom line and the bottomed-out mind.” Shortly after that comes this: “stirring, memorializing language to mask the pity and waste of needless death.”
If I were teaching a first-year college English course, I would assign Morrison’s essay “The Future of Time” and Wendell Berry’s essay “The Loss of the Future” and set young students to the trusty old exercise of comparing and contrasting, and I would look forward to hearing what they would have to say.
I have to confess that when Morrison’s writing became too turgid, I occasionally found myself skimming. If you haven’t yet read any Morrison, I don’t recommend that you begin with the essays. Turn instead to her durable fiction, which is eminently worthy of that Nobel Prize. The five works from her 1973 second novel Sula through her 1987 novel Beloved are all richly imagined, exquisitely wrought and deeply affecting. It is as a creator of fiction that Morrison most fully realizes her intentions and, through the alchemy and cookery of art, ultimately transcends her intentions.