By Toni Morrison
Within the iciness of 1926, while each person in all places sees not anything yet great things forward, Joe hint, middle-aged door-to-door salesman of Cleopatra attractiveness items, shoots his teenage lover to dying. on the funeral, Joe’s spouse, Violet, assaults the girl’s corpse. This passionate, profound tale of affection and obsession brings us backward and forward in time, as a story is assembled from the sentiments, hopes, fears, and deep realities of black city existence.
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Extra info for Jazz
There are bottles too, made of glass beautiful enough to rival stars I cannot see above me because the citysky jazz has hidden them. Otherwise, if it wanted to, it could show me stars cut from the lamé gowns of chorus girls, or mirrored in the eyes of sweethearts furtive and happy under the pressure of a deep, touchable sky. But that’s not all a citysky can do. It can go purple and keep an orange heart so the clothes of the people on the streets glow like dance-hall costumes. I have seen women stir shirts into boiled starch or put the tiniest stitches into their hose while a girl straightens the hair of her sister at the stove, and all the while heaven, unnoticed and as beautiful as an Iroquois, drifts past their windows.
No. We still together. ” “Dead? ” 15 “He thinks about her all the time. Nothing on his mind but her. Won’t work. Can’t sleep. Grieves all day, all night . . ” “Oh,” says the woman. She knocks the fire from her cigarette, pinches the tip and lays the butt carefully into the ashtray. Leaning back in the chair, she presses the rim of her ear with two fingers. “You in trouble,” she says, yawning. “Deep, deep trouble. Can’t rival the dead for love. ” Violet agrees that it must be so; not only is she losing Joe to a dead girl, but she wonders if she isn’t falling in love with her too.
People can see us, he says, those little lamps you talking about big enough to show who’s jazz there. You always say that, she giggles, like last time and nobody even looked at us they were having such a good time and Mexico is better even because nobody can see under the tablecloth, can they? Can they? If you don’t want to dance, we can just sit there at the table, looking siditty by the lamplight and listen to the music and watch the people. Nobody can see under the tablecloth. Joe, Joe, take me, say you’ll take me.