"Pack your suitcase and don't bring no high-top shoes."

Life in the City is ridiculously disgusting. Disgusting because it is the product of its brainwashed citizens. Love, money, sex, power—the usuals—are the strings that pull and yank the marionettes that greet each other at the parks, the street markets, the barber shops. But everything and everyone is shrouded in a cloud of fog so thick that they themselves can no longer distinguish between truth and reality. And that’s disgusting.

The book tells the tales of a few people that were drawn from the Country, like magnets, to the City, and the fate of several because of this move. A love that blossomed down South has lost itself to a metamorphosis that can be attributed to the ills of the City; the same City the lovers believed to have helped cultivate it, like the crops they once knew and grew calluses for. But bright colors can’t hide that fact that the frogs that display them are poisonous. Ignorance is no disguise in the City. In fact, ignorance, cherished down South, means death in the City.
The plot is sick and twisted and absolutely delicious. It has the drama of a soap opera, but it’s not convoluted with plastic people with plastic cards.

Let me be blunt:

Gossip Girl ain’t got nuthin’ on this right here!

There are love triangles, jealousy, hate, pride, secrets, and more. It is REAL. So much so that I can actually believe this to happen. Really, it probably could occur if it hasn’t already, and the sad part is, no one would be shocked.

Another reason why the City is disgusting: its inhabitants are immune to all that occurs. But just because they are immune, does not mean that word doesn’t spread. Except when it wants, the City can conceal ALL from even the most low-down, trifling of dolls. The City is a beast that no one can quite defeat, and all have fallen into its alluring glow. No matter how bad It treats them, they can’t seem to leave.

The book I had the privilege of enjoying for third quarter SSR was JAZZ by Toni Morrison. This 229-paged work of fiction is a national bestseller, and I understand why. This magnificent piece of literature is of the style that I desire most. Her voice is real, and raw, and sharp, and rich, and sweet, and cold, and absolutely sensuous. It is purely seductive. The viscosity of text, the characters, and the pictures she paints just add the gripping plot.

I love this book so much. I feel, though, that I’m not doing it so much justice because if I were to divulge even the slightest of plots, the book would be ruined. You just have to read it. It’s bomb.
This book is, however, extremely racially dictated. Morrison is a black author, so much of the pictures she paints may not be understood or appreciated for its value by some readers, but still, read this book! Especially if you’re into that kind of Harlem-esque poetry-slam vibe. It’s truly amazing.