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Toni Morrison1 was such an exceptional talent， and seemed to float so high above the fray， that it’s easy to forget she was a product of her time. But she was profoundly influenced by the work of contemporary musicians. She wanted her writing to emulate， she told the scholar Paul Gilroy， “all of the intricacy， all of the discipline” that she heard in black musical performance.
Literary critics sometimes compare Morrison’s writing to jazz， the genre after which she titled her novel from 1992， and whose cultural prestige as “America’s classical music” befits her canonical stature. Her work resonates with the music of those soul artists alongside whom she honed her craft： the grand ambition of Isaac Hayes， the moral clarity of Curtis Mayfield， and the erotic truth-telling of Aretha Franklin. But the soul artist who is most closely aligned with Morrison is Nina Simone2. “She saved our lives，” Morrison said of the singer， after Simone’s death， in 2003. Simone meant so much to her， and to other black women， I think， in part because of how she turned social exclusion into superlative beauty and style. It was this recuperative alchemy that defined soul， as a music and an ethos. And， if Simone was soul’s “High Priestess，” Morrison was one of its literary architects.
Simone was born two years after Morrison， in 1933. A musical prodigy by any measure， she played piano in her mother’s church while she was still a toddler and studied classical music throughout her early life. But her dreams of becoming a classical pianist began to wither when she was denied admission to the Curtis Institute of Music， in Philadelphia， owing to her race. It was a foundational trauma， but Simone made of it a radically new aesthetic： a mixture of classical， gospel， the blues， and anything else that inspired her. “I was and still am influenced by everything I hear，” she said， citing Bach， Louis Armstrong， and Marian Anderson as examples. By the nineteen-sixties， she had turned her institutional homelessness into a righteous artistic nomadism3.
In Simone’s recording of the jazz standard “Love Me or Leave Me，” she weaves a solo around a Bach-style fugue. In “Mississippi Goddam，” she couches a statement of black rage in a show tune， like a concealed explosive. But she most explicitly turns marginalization into sonic innovation in her recording of “Ain’t Got No， I Got Life” （or simply “Life”）， from the rock musical “Hair.” With her rich and pointed voice， Simone catalogues her deprivations： “Ain’t got no home， ain’t got no shoes， ain’t got no money， ain’t got no class...” Nor does she have family， friends， culture， perfume， food， faith， love， or God. What she does have is， simply， herself： I got hair， got my head， got my brain， got my heels， got my eyes， got my nose， got my mouth， I got my smile...
I got my heart， got my soul， got my back， I got my sex...
Especially in light of Simone’s song “Four Women，” which details the “pain inflicted again and again” on a series of black women， her recording of “Life” marks a striking reclamation of the black female body as a source of pleasure and pride. The song anticipates Morrison’s famous scene in “Beloved，” in which Baby Suggs instructs black people to love every part of their much-maligned flesh. But， even beyond Simone’s lyrics， her integrative technique itself—her use of gospel piano， blues melisma， classical riffs—refutes myths of black deprivation. Here instead is expressive abundance.
This mode of turning supposed lack into plenitude shapes all of Morrison’s work， but it is especially clear in her novel “Sula，” from 1973， which she composed at the height of the soul era. She seems to echo Simone’s recording of “Life” when she describes Shadrack， a young shell-shocked veteran of the First World War， as finding himself “with no past， no language， no tribe， no source， no address book， no comb， no pencil， no clock... no soap， no key， no tobacco pouch， no soiled underwear and nothing nothing nothing to do...” What Shadrack does find amid this crisis is his blackness. Seeking his reflection in a toilet bowl （he has no mirror）， he feels “joy” at the sight of his black face： “When the blackness greeted him with its indisputable presence， he wanted nothing more.”
Shadrack lives on the edge of an all-black town called the Bottom， where the novel’s protagonists， the best friends Sula and Nel， come of age in the nineteen-twenties. Morrison writes that the girls “had discovered years before that they were neither white nor male， and that all freedom and triumph was forbidden to them，” and so “they had set about creating something else to be.” That “something” never quite coalesces， but the search for it cements their bond， which outlasts betrayal， estrangement， and death.
Black female friendship was as crucial to Morrison’s process of writing “Sula” as it was to her main characters. In her foreword to the 2004 edition of the book， she explains that she started work on it in 1969 as a single mother “strapped for money，” and relied on a network of other single mothers for “time， food， money... and daring.” “Daring” was especially important， because “in the late sixties， with so many dead， detained， or silenced， there could be no turning back simply because there was no ‘back’ back there. Cut adrift， so to speak， we found it possible to think up things， try things， explore... Nobody was minding us， so we minded ourselves.” These women， like Sula and Nel， were making something else to be. And Morrison’s experience of that kind of community—as a friend， and later as an editor， at Random House—was a key difference between her life in the arts and that of the exiled and often alienated Simone. It was perhaps Morrison’s sense of being “cut adrift” while writing “Sula” that allowed her to craft such an experimentally syncretic work—a literary counterpart to Simone’s multi-genre music. “Sula” begins in the dreamlike mode of a fable; proceeds as a series of short vignettes told from different perspectives; includes omniscient reflections on townspeople’s behavior and theology; and showcases luminous description， fantastic narrative devices， and theatrical yet perfectly pitched dialogue. It is as strange and stunning a work as Morrison would ever create. This is the richness of black life when no one else is looking—a life touched， but not defined， by white supremacy. This is the reality that Morrison dedicated her life to representing.
There is a version of “Life” that Simone recorded live in Paris， in 1968， in which she performs a false ending： she plays a closing cadence， then strikes up a funk jam4 to keep the song going. The device enacts the virtuosic recovery that was intrinsic to soul. So it is fitting that Morrison should stage a series of narrative false endings in “Sula.” Although one would expect the novel to end with the death of its title character， it doesn’t. Nor does it end when Shadrack leads most of the townspeople into a protest that ends in mass death. The novel structurally performs the fantastic will to proceed that Morrison saw as characteristic of black life in this country. As she herself notes in the documentary “Toni Morrison： The Pieces I Am，” “Nobody else could have loved as much as we did. Went on with life as much as we did. Carried on. And considering the efforts to make sure we never did—considering that， it’s amazing.”
托妮·莫里森天赋如此出众，似乎高高在上、超然世外，让人们很容易忘记她是那个时代的产物。不过，她也深受同时代音乐作品的影响。她曾对学者保罗·吉尔罗伊说，希望自己的写作能模仿出她在黑人音乐演奏中听到的“种种复杂多变、种种严谨规范”。
文学评论家有时将莫里森的作品比作爵士乐——她1992年出版的一本小说就名为《爵士乐》——爵士乐作为“美国古典音乐”所拥有的文化威望，与莫里森在文坛的至尊地位极为相配。她的作品与那些灵魂乐艺术家的音乐产生了共鸣，她曾在他们作品的陪伴下磨练自己的写作技艺：艾萨克·海耶斯展示的宏大抱负、柯蒂斯·梅菲尔德明晰的道德立场，以及艾瑞莎·富兰克林揭露的情色真相。但与莫里森最为心灵相通的灵魂乐艺术家是歌手尼娜·西莫内。2003年，西莫内去世后，她评价说，西莫内“拯救了我们的生命”。西莫内对她和其他黑人女性之所以意义如此重大，我想，部分原因在于西莫内把社会排斥转化为极致的美与风尚。正是这种治愈的魔力界定了灵魂乐的本质——既是一种音乐，又是一种精神。如果说西莫内是灵魂乐的“天后”，莫里森就是灵魂乐的文学缔造者。
西莫内1933年出生，比莫里森晚兩年。不管以哪种标准来衡量，她都是一个音乐奇才。蹒跚学步时，她就在母亲的教堂里弹钢琴，童年学习了古典音乐。但由于是黑人，她被费城的柯蒂斯音乐学院拒之门外，成为一名古典钢琴家的梦想就此破灭。这种创伤是动摇根基的重伤，但她却藉以创作出一种全新的音乐：融合了古典、福音、蓝调，以及一切带给她灵感的东西。她说：“不论过去还是现在，我听到的一切都对我产生了影响。”她举例时提到了巴赫、路易斯· 阿姆斯特朗和玛丽安·安德森。到20世纪60年代，她已经把由来已久的归属感缺失转变为不偏不倚的艺术游牧。
在自己录制的爵士标准曲《爱我或离开我》中，西莫内编入了一段巴赫式赋格曲风的独唱。在《天杀的密西西比》中，她用流行曲调包裹黑人的愤怒声明，好像隐而未爆的炸药。但在摇滚音乐剧《毛发》中的“什么都没有，我有生命”（简称“生命”）一曲中，最明显的一点是，她将边缘化转变为声音上的创新。她用饱满而尖锐的嗓音历数她的种种匮乏：“没有家归，没有鞋穿，没有钱花，没有学上……”她没有家人、朋友、文化、香水、食物、信仰、爱或上帝。她所拥有的只有她自己： 我有头发，有头颅，有大脑，有脚跟，有眼睛，有鼻子，有嘴巴，有微笑……
我有心脏，有灵魂，有脊背，有性别……
在歌曲《四个女人》中，西莫内详细描述了一系列黑人女性“遭受到的一次又一次的痛苦”——《生命》是特别基于那首歌创作的，她在歌中强烈要求纠正观念，应将黑人女性身体视为快乐与骄傲的源泉。后来，莫里森在小说《宠儿》中也描述了一个著名的场景，贝比·萨格斯教导黑人要爱自己饱受诟病的肉体的每个部分。然而，西莫内的技巧甚至超越了她的歌词——她的技巧融合了福音钢琴、蓝调装饰音、古典即兴曲等，驳斥了有关黑人匮乏的种种迷思，而代之以丰富的表现力。
这种将所谓的匮乏变成丰富的模式构成了莫里森所有作品的特点，而这在她1973年出版的小说《秀拉》中表现得尤为明显，她创作该部小说时正值灵魂乐的鼎盛时期。她对书中人物夏德拉克的描写似乎是在呼应西莫内的《生命》——年轻的夏德拉克是个患有弹震症的一战退伍军人，他发现自己“没有过去，没有语言，没有宗族，没有来历，没有通讯录，没有梳子，没有铅笔，没有钟表……没有肥皂，没有钥匙，没有烟草袋，没有脏内衣，而且无事、无事、无事可做……”他在这场危机中真真切切发现了自己的黑。在马桶池的水里寻找自己的倒影（他没有镜子）时，他“欣喜”地看到自己黑色的脸：“当那张黑脸不容争辩地呈现在他面前时，他再无他求。”
夏德拉克生活在一个叫作“底层”的小镇边上，镇上居民都是黑人。小说的背景设置在20世纪20年代，主人公是在小镇长大的一对好友秀拉和内尔。莫里森写道，两个女孩“多年前就已发现，她们既不是白人也不是男人，一切自由和成功都没她们的份儿”，于是“她们开始自己创造某种新东西”。那种“新东西”从未完全成形，但对它的探索却使她们的关系更加紧密，它的存在超越了背叛、疏远和死亡。
黑人女性之间的友谊在莫里森创作《秀拉》的过程中起到了至关重要的作用，就像这样的友谊带给她书中主要角色的那样。在该书2004年版的前言中，她解释说，1969年开始写这本书时，她是个“经济上捉襟见肘”的单身母亲，依靠其他单身母亲朋友的帮助才有了“时间、食物、金钱……和胆识”。“胆识”尤其重要，因为“60年代末，有那么多的人死亡、被拘或被禁言，不可能回头，就因为那会儿根本没有人支持。可以说，漂泊中，我们发现能去想一些事、尝试一些事、探索……既然没人管我们，那我们就自己管自己。”像秀拉和内尔这样的女性在创造一些新东西。莫里森曾生活在这样的社区——先是作为朋友，后来作为兰登书屋的编辑——这份经历是她的艺术生活与西莫内经常遭受冷落疏远的流浪生活重要的不同之处。
也许正是莫里森创作《秀拉》时那种“漂泊”的感觉，让她得以构思出这样一部实验性的融通作品——与西莫内的多体裁音乐相呼应的文学作品。《秀拉》以梦幻式寓言开场，接着是从不同角度叙述的一系列小短文，还有对小镇居民的行为和宗教信仰的全知式反思，并展现出清晰的描写、奇幻的叙事手法和充满戏剧性的绝妙对话。这是莫里森创作过的最奇特、最令人惊叹的作品。这就是没人关注时黑人生活的丰富性——这种生活会被白人至上所损害，但不会由其界定支配。这就是莫里森一生致力于表现的现实。
1968年，西莫内在巴黎录制了一个现场版《生命》，歌曲结尾时她演唱了一个假结束段：她先演奏了一个收尾的终止音节，然后又演奏了一段即興放克让歌继续。她通过这样的表演呈现了灵魂内在的艺术复苏。因此，莫里森在《秀拉》中设置一连串假结尾的叙事也挺合适。人们本以为小说会随着主人公秀拉之死而结束，但故事却没结束。夏德拉克带领镇上大多数人去抗议，结果导致很多人死亡，小说至此还是没有结束。莫里森通过小说结构的安排来展现她眼中美国黑人生活的特点，那就是始终抱持继续前行的最美好的意愿。正如她自己在纪录片《托尼·莫里森：我的人生乐章》中所说：“没有人能像我们一样爱得深切，像我们一样活得坚韧。不懈前行。尽管还有那么多试图阻止我们继续前进的力量存在——考虑到这个，生活太不可思议了。”
（译者单位：中国民航飞行学院）
Literary critics sometimes compare Morrison’s writing to jazz， the genre after which she titled her novel from 1992， and whose cultural prestige as “America’s classical music” befits her canonical stature. Her work resonates with the music of those soul artists alongside whom she honed her craft： the grand ambition of Isaac Hayes， the moral clarity of Curtis Mayfield， and the erotic truth-telling of Aretha Franklin. But the soul artist who is most closely aligned with Morrison is Nina Simone2. “She saved our lives，” Morrison said of the singer， after Simone’s death， in 2003. Simone meant so much to her， and to other black women， I think， in part because of how she turned social exclusion into superlative beauty and style. It was this recuperative alchemy that defined soul， as a music and an ethos. And， if Simone was soul’s “High Priestess，” Morrison was one of its literary architects.
Simone was born two years after Morrison， in 1933. A musical prodigy by any measure， she played piano in her mother’s church while she was still a toddler and studied classical music throughout her early life. But her dreams of becoming a classical pianist began to wither when she was denied admission to the Curtis Institute of Music， in Philadelphia， owing to her race. It was a foundational trauma， but Simone made of it a radically new aesthetic： a mixture of classical， gospel， the blues， and anything else that inspired her. “I was and still am influenced by everything I hear，” she said， citing Bach， Louis Armstrong， and Marian Anderson as examples. By the nineteen-sixties， she had turned her institutional homelessness into a righteous artistic nomadism3.
In Simone’s recording of the jazz standard “Love Me or Leave Me，” she weaves a solo around a Bach-style fugue. In “Mississippi Goddam，” she couches a statement of black rage in a show tune， like a concealed explosive. But she most explicitly turns marginalization into sonic innovation in her recording of “Ain’t Got No， I Got Life” （or simply “Life”）， from the rock musical “Hair.” With her rich and pointed voice， Simone catalogues her deprivations： “Ain’t got no home， ain’t got no shoes， ain’t got no money， ain’t got no class...” Nor does she have family， friends， culture， perfume， food， faith， love， or God. What she does have is， simply， herself： I got hair， got my head， got my brain， got my heels， got my eyes， got my nose， got my mouth， I got my smile...
I got my heart， got my soul， got my back， I got my sex...
Especially in light of Simone’s song “Four Women，” which details the “pain inflicted again and again” on a series of black women， her recording of “Life” marks a striking reclamation of the black female body as a source of pleasure and pride. The song anticipates Morrison’s famous scene in “Beloved，” in which Baby Suggs instructs black people to love every part of their much-maligned flesh. But， even beyond Simone’s lyrics， her integrative technique itself—her use of gospel piano， blues melisma， classical riffs—refutes myths of black deprivation. Here instead is expressive abundance.
This mode of turning supposed lack into plenitude shapes all of Morrison’s work， but it is especially clear in her novel “Sula，” from 1973， which she composed at the height of the soul era. She seems to echo Simone’s recording of “Life” when she describes Shadrack， a young shell-shocked veteran of the First World War， as finding himself “with no past， no language， no tribe， no source， no address book， no comb， no pencil， no clock... no soap， no key， no tobacco pouch， no soiled underwear and nothing nothing nothing to do...” What Shadrack does find amid this crisis is his blackness. Seeking his reflection in a toilet bowl （he has no mirror）， he feels “joy” at the sight of his black face： “When the blackness greeted him with its indisputable presence， he wanted nothing more.”
Shadrack lives on the edge of an all-black town called the Bottom， where the novel’s protagonists， the best friends Sula and Nel， come of age in the nineteen-twenties. Morrison writes that the girls “had discovered years before that they were neither white nor male， and that all freedom and triumph was forbidden to them，” and so “they had set about creating something else to be.” That “something” never quite coalesces， but the search for it cements their bond， which outlasts betrayal， estrangement， and death.
Black female friendship was as crucial to Morrison’s process of writing “Sula” as it was to her main characters. In her foreword to the 2004 edition of the book， she explains that she started work on it in 1969 as a single mother “strapped for money，” and relied on a network of other single mothers for “time， food， money... and daring.” “Daring” was especially important， because “in the late sixties， with so many dead， detained， or silenced， there could be no turning back simply because there was no ‘back’ back there. Cut adrift， so to speak， we found it possible to think up things， try things， explore... Nobody was minding us， so we minded ourselves.” These women， like Sula and Nel， were making something else to be. And Morrison’s experience of that kind of community—as a friend， and later as an editor， at Random House—was a key difference between her life in the arts and that of the exiled and often alienated Simone. It was perhaps Morrison’s sense of being “cut adrift” while writing “Sula” that allowed her to craft such an experimentally syncretic work—a literary counterpart to Simone’s multi-genre music. “Sula” begins in the dreamlike mode of a fable; proceeds as a series of short vignettes told from different perspectives; includes omniscient reflections on townspeople’s behavior and theology; and showcases luminous description， fantastic narrative devices， and theatrical yet perfectly pitched dialogue. It is as strange and stunning a work as Morrison would ever create. This is the richness of black life when no one else is looking—a life touched， but not defined， by white supremacy. This is the reality that Morrison dedicated her life to representing.
There is a version of “Life” that Simone recorded live in Paris， in 1968， in which she performs a false ending： she plays a closing cadence， then strikes up a funk jam4 to keep the song going. The device enacts the virtuosic recovery that was intrinsic to soul. So it is fitting that Morrison should stage a series of narrative false endings in “Sula.” Although one would expect the novel to end with the death of its title character， it doesn’t. Nor does it end when Shadrack leads most of the townspeople into a protest that ends in mass death. The novel structurally performs the fantastic will to proceed that Morrison saw as characteristic of black life in this country. As she herself notes in the documentary “Toni Morrison： The Pieces I Am，” “Nobody else could have loved as much as we did. Went on with life as much as we did. Carried on. And considering the efforts to make sure we never did—considering that， it’s amazing.”
托妮·莫里森天赋如此出众，似乎高高在上、超然世外，让人们很容易忘记她是那个时代的产物。不过，她也深受同时代音乐作品的影响。她曾对学者保罗·吉尔罗伊说，希望自己的写作能模仿出她在黑人音乐演奏中听到的“种种复杂多变、种种严谨规范”。
文学评论家有时将莫里森的作品比作爵士乐——她1992年出版的一本小说就名为《爵士乐》——爵士乐作为“美国古典音乐”所拥有的文化威望，与莫里森在文坛的至尊地位极为相配。她的作品与那些灵魂乐艺术家的音乐产生了共鸣，她曾在他们作品的陪伴下磨练自己的写作技艺：艾萨克·海耶斯展示的宏大抱负、柯蒂斯·梅菲尔德明晰的道德立场，以及艾瑞莎·富兰克林揭露的情色真相。但与莫里森最为心灵相通的灵魂乐艺术家是歌手尼娜·西莫内。2003年，西莫内去世后，她评价说，西莫内“拯救了我们的生命”。西莫内对她和其他黑人女性之所以意义如此重大，我想，部分原因在于西莫内把社会排斥转化为极致的美与风尚。正是这种治愈的魔力界定了灵魂乐的本质——既是一种音乐，又是一种精神。如果说西莫内是灵魂乐的“天后”，莫里森就是灵魂乐的文学缔造者。
西莫内1933年出生，比莫里森晚兩年。不管以哪种标准来衡量，她都是一个音乐奇才。蹒跚学步时，她就在母亲的教堂里弹钢琴，童年学习了古典音乐。但由于是黑人，她被费城的柯蒂斯音乐学院拒之门外，成为一名古典钢琴家的梦想就此破灭。这种创伤是动摇根基的重伤，但她却藉以创作出一种全新的音乐：融合了古典、福音、蓝调，以及一切带给她灵感的东西。她说：“不论过去还是现在，我听到的一切都对我产生了影响。”她举例时提到了巴赫、路易斯· 阿姆斯特朗和玛丽安·安德森。到20世纪60年代，她已经把由来已久的归属感缺失转变为不偏不倚的艺术游牧。
在自己录制的爵士标准曲《爱我或离开我》中，西莫内编入了一段巴赫式赋格曲风的独唱。在《天杀的密西西比》中，她用流行曲调包裹黑人的愤怒声明，好像隐而未爆的炸药。但在摇滚音乐剧《毛发》中的“什么都没有，我有生命”（简称“生命”）一曲中，最明显的一点是，她将边缘化转变为声音上的创新。她用饱满而尖锐的嗓音历数她的种种匮乏：“没有家归，没有鞋穿，没有钱花，没有学上……”她没有家人、朋友、文化、香水、食物、信仰、爱或上帝。她所拥有的只有她自己： 我有头发，有头颅，有大脑，有脚跟，有眼睛，有鼻子，有嘴巴，有微笑……
我有心脏，有灵魂，有脊背，有性别……
在歌曲《四个女人》中，西莫内详细描述了一系列黑人女性“遭受到的一次又一次的痛苦”——《生命》是特别基于那首歌创作的，她在歌中强烈要求纠正观念，应将黑人女性身体视为快乐与骄傲的源泉。后来，莫里森在小说《宠儿》中也描述了一个著名的场景，贝比·萨格斯教导黑人要爱自己饱受诟病的肉体的每个部分。然而，西莫内的技巧甚至超越了她的歌词——她的技巧融合了福音钢琴、蓝调装饰音、古典即兴曲等，驳斥了有关黑人匮乏的种种迷思，而代之以丰富的表现力。
这种将所谓的匮乏变成丰富的模式构成了莫里森所有作品的特点，而这在她1973年出版的小说《秀拉》中表现得尤为明显，她创作该部小说时正值灵魂乐的鼎盛时期。她对书中人物夏德拉克的描写似乎是在呼应西莫内的《生命》——年轻的夏德拉克是个患有弹震症的一战退伍军人，他发现自己“没有过去，没有语言，没有宗族，没有来历，没有通讯录，没有梳子，没有铅笔，没有钟表……没有肥皂，没有钥匙，没有烟草袋，没有脏内衣，而且无事、无事、无事可做……”他在这场危机中真真切切发现了自己的黑。在马桶池的水里寻找自己的倒影（他没有镜子）时，他“欣喜”地看到自己黑色的脸：“当那张黑脸不容争辩地呈现在他面前时，他再无他求。”
夏德拉克生活在一个叫作“底层”的小镇边上，镇上居民都是黑人。小说的背景设置在20世纪20年代，主人公是在小镇长大的一对好友秀拉和内尔。莫里森写道，两个女孩“多年前就已发现，她们既不是白人也不是男人，一切自由和成功都没她们的份儿”，于是“她们开始自己创造某种新东西”。那种“新东西”从未完全成形，但对它的探索却使她们的关系更加紧密，它的存在超越了背叛、疏远和死亡。
黑人女性之间的友谊在莫里森创作《秀拉》的过程中起到了至关重要的作用，就像这样的友谊带给她书中主要角色的那样。在该书2004年版的前言中，她解释说，1969年开始写这本书时，她是个“经济上捉襟见肘”的单身母亲，依靠其他单身母亲朋友的帮助才有了“时间、食物、金钱……和胆识”。“胆识”尤其重要，因为“60年代末，有那么多的人死亡、被拘或被禁言，不可能回头，就因为那会儿根本没有人支持。可以说，漂泊中，我们发现能去想一些事、尝试一些事、探索……既然没人管我们，那我们就自己管自己。”像秀拉和内尔这样的女性在创造一些新东西。莫里森曾生活在这样的社区——先是作为朋友，后来作为兰登书屋的编辑——这份经历是她的艺术生活与西莫内经常遭受冷落疏远的流浪生活重要的不同之处。
也许正是莫里森创作《秀拉》时那种“漂泊”的感觉，让她得以构思出这样一部实验性的融通作品——与西莫内的多体裁音乐相呼应的文学作品。《秀拉》以梦幻式寓言开场，接着是从不同角度叙述的一系列小短文，还有对小镇居民的行为和宗教信仰的全知式反思，并展现出清晰的描写、奇幻的叙事手法和充满戏剧性的绝妙对话。这是莫里森创作过的最奇特、最令人惊叹的作品。这就是没人关注时黑人生活的丰富性——这种生活会被白人至上所损害，但不会由其界定支配。这就是莫里森一生致力于表现的现实。
1968年，西莫内在巴黎录制了一个现场版《生命》，歌曲结尾时她演唱了一个假结束段：她先演奏了一个收尾的终止音节，然后又演奏了一段即興放克让歌继续。她通过这样的表演呈现了灵魂内在的艺术复苏。因此，莫里森在《秀拉》中设置一连串假结尾的叙事也挺合适。人们本以为小说会随着主人公秀拉之死而结束，但故事却没结束。夏德拉克带领镇上大多数人去抗议，结果导致很多人死亡，小说至此还是没有结束。莫里森通过小说结构的安排来展现她眼中美国黑人生活的特点，那就是始终抱持继续前行的最美好的意愿。正如她自己在纪录片《托尼·莫里森：我的人生乐章》中所说：“没有人能像我们一样爱得深切，像我们一样活得坚韧。不懈前行。尽管还有那么多试图阻止我们继续前进的力量存在——考虑到这个，生活太不可思议了。”
（译者单位：中国民航飞行学院）