The Color Purple
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Winner of the Pulitzer Prize
Winner of the National Book Award
Published to unprecedented acclaim, The Color Purple established Alice Walker as a major voice in modern fiction. This is the story of two sisters—one a missionary in Africa and the other a child wife living in the South—who sustain their loyalty to and trust in each other across time, distance, and silence. Beautifully imagined and deeply compassionate, this classic novel of American literature is rich with passion, pain, inspiration, and an indomitable love of life.
“Intense emotional impact . . . Indelibly affecting . . . Alice Walker is a lavishly gifted writer.” — New York Times Book Review
“Places Walker in the company of Faulkner.” — The Nation
“Superb . . . A work to stand beside literature of any time and place.” — San Francisco Chronicle
“A novel of permanent importance.” — Peter S. Prescott, Newsweek
git Sofia out of prison, she begin to sing. First she sing Shug’s songs, then she begin to make up songs her own self. She got the kind of voice you never think of trying to sing a song. It little, it high, it sort of meowing. But Mary Agnes don’t care. Pretty soon, us git used to it. Then us like it a whole lot. Harpo don’t know what to make of it. It seem funny to me, he say to me and Mr. ____. So sudden. It put me in the mind of a gramaphone. Sit in the corner a year silent as the grave.
me to the level of functioning, if nothing else. Their mother and I are not as close as we once were, but I feel more like their aunt than ever. And the three of us look more and more alike every day. About a month ago, Corrine asked me not to invite Samuel to my hut unless she were present. She said it gave the villagers the wrong idea. This was a real blow to me because I treasure his company. Since Corrine almost never visits me herself I will have hardly anybody to talk to, just in
child. He git out on his side, then go round to open the door for her. She dress to kill in a pink suit, big pink hat and pink shoes, a little pink purse hanging on her arm. They look at our license tag and then come up to the car. She put her hand through his arm. Morning, he says, when he gits up to Shug’s window. Morning, she says slow, and I can tell he not what she expect. Anything I can do for you? He ain’t notice me and probably wouldn’t even if he looked at me. Shug say, under her
pretty, say Carrie, looking in the looking glass. Just that head of hair. She too black. Well, brother must like black. Shug Avery black as my shoe. Shug Avery, Shug Avery, Carrie say. I’m sick of her. Somebody say she going round trying to sing. Umph, what she got to sing about. Say she wearing dresses all up her leg and headpieces with little balls and tassles hanging down, look like window dressing. My ears perk up when they mention Shug Avery. I feel like I want to talk about her my own
battling reptiles. Or unfriendly Africans who thought, since they were wearing dresses with things that looked like wings behind, they should be able to fly. Bush? Corrine would snicker to me or me to her. And just the sound of the word would send us off into quiet hysteria, while we calmly sipped our tea. Because of course they didn’t realize they were being funny, and to us they were, very. And of course the prevailing popular view of Africans at that time contributed to our feeling of