名著阅读

"Then why don't it come?""You forgetting how little it is," said her mother. "She wasn't even two years old when she died.
Too little to understand. Too little to talk much even.""Maybe she don't want to understand," said Denver.
"Maybe. But if she'd only come, I could make it clear to her."Sethe released her daughter's hand and together they pushed the sideboard back against the wall.
Outside a driver whipped his horse into the gallop local people felt necessary when they passed124.
"For a baby she throws a powerful spell," said Denver.
"No more powerful than the way I loved her," Sethe answered and there it was again. Thewelcoming cool of unchiseled headstones; the one she selected to lean against on tiptoe, her kneeswide open as any grave. Pink as a fingernail it was, and sprinkled with glittering chips. Tenminutes, he said. You got ten minutes I'll do it for free.
Ten minutes for seven letters. With another ten could she have gotten "Dearly" too? She had notthought to ask him and it bothered her still that it might have been possible — that for twenty minutes, a half hour, say, she could have had the whole thing, every word she heard the preachersay at the funeral (and all there was to say, surely) engraved on her baby's headstone: DearlyBeloved. But what she got, settled for, was the one word that mattered. She thought it would beenough, rutting among the headstones with the engraver, his young son looking on, the anger in hisface so old; the appetite in it quite new. That should certainly be enough. Enough to answer onemore preacher, one more abolitionist and a town full of disgust.
Counting on the stillness of her own soul, she had forgotten the other one: the soul of her baby girl.
Who would have thought that a little old baby could harbor so much rage? Rutting among thestones under the eyes of the engraver's son was not enough. Not only did she have to live out heryears in a house palsied by the baby's fury at having its throat cut, but those ten minutes she spentpressed up against dawn-colored stone studded with star chips, her knees wide open as the grave,were longer than life, more alive, more pulsating than the baby blood that soaked her fingers likeoil. "We could move," she suggested once to her mother-in-law.
"What'd be the point?" asked Baby Suggs. "Not a house in the country ain't packed to its rafterswith some dead Negro's grief. We lucky this ghost is a baby. My husband's spirit was to come backin here? or yours? Don't talk to me. You lucky. You got three left.
"那它怎么不出来？""你忘了它有多小，"妈妈说，"她死的时候还不到两岁呢。

小得还不懂事。小得话都说不了几句。""也许她不愿意懂事。"丹芙道。
"也许吧。但只要她出来，我就会对她讲清楚。"塞丝放开女儿的手，两人一齐把碗柜推回墙边。

门外，一个车夫把马抽打得飞跑起来——当地居民路过124号时都觉得有这必要。
"这么小的小孩，魔法可真够厉害的。"丹芙说。
"不比我对她的爱更厉害。"塞丝答道，于是，那情景登时重现。那些未经雕凿的墓石凉意沁人；那一块，她挑出来踮着脚靠上去，双膝像所有墓穴一样敞开。它像指甲一样粉红，遍布晶亮的颗粒。十分钟，他说。你出十分钟我就免费给你刻。
七个字母十分钟。再出十分钟她也能得到"亲爱的"么？她没想到去问他，而这种可能至今仍困扰着她——就是说，付出二十分钟，或者半个小时，她就能让他在她的宝贝的墓碑上把整句话都刻上，刻上她在葬礼上听见牧师说的每个字（当然，也只有那么几个字值得一说）：亲爱的宠儿。但是她得到和解决的，是关键的那个词。她以为那应该足够了：在墓石中间与刻字工交媾，他的小儿子在一旁观看着，脸上的愤怒那么苍老，欲望又如此新鲜。那当然应该足够了。再有一个牧师、一个废奴主义者和一座人人嫌恶她的城市，那也足以回答了。
只想着自己灵魂的安宁，她忘记了另一个灵魂：她的宝贝女儿的亡灵。

谁能想到一个小小的婴儿会心怀这么多的愤懑？在石头中间，在刻字工的儿子眼皮底下与人苟合还不够。她不仅必须在那因割断喉咙的婴儿的暴怒而瘫痪的房子里度日，而且她紧贴着缀满星斑的曙色墓石、双膝墓穴般敞开所付出的十分钟，比生命更长，更活跃，比那油一般浸透手指的婴儿的鲜血更加脉动不息。"我们可以搬家。"有一次她向婆婆建议。
"有什么必要呢？"贝比·萨格斯问。"在这个国家里，没有一座房子不是从地板到房梁都塞满了黑人死鬼的悲伤。我们还算幸运，这个鬼不过是个娃娃。是我男人的魂儿能回到这儿来，还是你男人的能回来？别跟我说这个。你够走运的。你还剩了三个呢。
背景阅读

本书简介：
“你的爱太浓了！”——一个不可能重复的故事！！！
女黑奴塞丝怀着身孕只身从肯塔基的奴隶庄园逃到俄亥俄，奴隶主循踪追至；为了使儿女不再重复自己做奴隶的悲惨命运，她毅然杀死了自己刚刚会爬的幼女宠儿……十八年后宠儿还魂重返人间，和塞丝、塞丝的女儿丹芙以及塞丝的情人保罗•D生活在同一幢房子里。她不但加倍地向母亲索取着爱，甚至纠缠和引诱保罗•D，不择手段地扰乱和摧毁母亲刚刚回暖的生活……全书充满苦涩的诗意和紧张的悬念。
作者简介：

托妮·莫里森，美国当代最重要的女作家之一。1931年生于美国俄亥俄州，曾担任兰登书屋编辑、资深编辑，1989年起任普林斯顿大学教授。主要代表作有《最蓝的眼睛》、《秀拉》、《所罗门之歌》、《宠儿》、《爵士乐》、《天堂》等，曾获美国普利策小说奖、美国图书评论协会奖等多项大奖。1993年获诺贝尔文学奖，是历史上得此殊荣的唯一黑人女作家。
《宠儿》是托妮·莫里森最震撼人心、最成熟的代表作，现已经成为当代文学史上不朽的经典，也是美国文学史上最畅销的作品之一。小说完成于1987年，1988年即获得美国普利策小说奖。2006年《纽约时报》召集125位知名作家、评论家、编辑及文坛泰斗等选出自己心目中“25年来最佳美国小说”，《宠儿》得票最高，名列第一。