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307th out of 575 books
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742 voters
It Begins with Tears
This novel is set in the stone-breaking harshness of South Africa's island prison. Bekimpi, an imprisoned leader of Poko, a branch of the resistance, is stoic under torture but his body finally gives up. This has the power of Solzhenitsyn's writing.
Kristoff village, in the heart of rural Jamaica, is a peaceful home where everyone looks out for each other. Then Monica comes...more
Kristoff village, in the heart of rural Jamaica, is a peaceful home where everyone looks out for each other. Then Monica comes...more
Paperback, 137 pages
Published
April 24th 1997
by Heinemann Drama
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Evoked the life of country people in rural Jamaica very well, and its setting in a village outside Montego Bay brought to mind my visit to Lucea 20-odd years ago. The story centres on the reactions of a group of village women to the return of a prodigal - Monica - after decades away working as a high class prostitute. Adisa weavesa Africanist mystical community of wise women out of her sympathetic characters, each with their stories to tell of usually unsatisfactory, sometimes violent, relations...more
This one is set in rural Jamaica. I remember being deeply reached by the intertwined narratives that highlighted the best and worst of human nature. The "Caribbean Writers Series" books are always a delight to read and is an opportunity to bring a little culture into your life. My professor had a jamaican accent and I loved to hear him read passages of the text--I'd love to hear the entire story read aloud.
What an amazing book this is! No wonder Adisa is an award winner.
This book is about the lives of women (and, to a lesser extent, the men who circle them) in rural Jamaica. It's about tears, and pain, and joy, and love, and . . .
This book is about the lives of women (and, to a lesser extent, the men who circle them) in rural Jamaica. It's about tears, and pain, and joy, and love, and . . .
Opal Palmer Adisa is a wonderful, colorful writer. I enjoy coming back to this book year after year.
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“How did it begin?' Miss Cotton asked.
When?' they replied.
In the beginning,' Aunt Velma said.
Wid tears,' they assured her.
Wid tears,' Dahlia chimed.
Ainsworth and the other children waited, but only silence responded to them. They were certain they had missed something; a few of them thought perhaps they had even fallen asleep. They asked those who sat beside them, but they could offer no explanation. Ainsworth looked at his mother and she was crying. He felt ashamed for her, but he nticed the woman beside her was also crying. He saw the faces of all the adults, including the men, and tears streamed down all their faces. The story was their memory. The story was the pain that produced tears. The story was what they had lived. The story was their petty jealousy that caused them to begrudge each other every minor success and plot ways to harm one another. The story was all that was lost to them because someone was too selfish to share, too mean to forgive, too blind to see the possibilities. The story was the beginning of their lives that had been old them over and over, but out of embarrassment they hadn't listened; so when the time came for those tales to be useful, they didn't know the details and groped in self-darkness. The story was in the first drop of salty tear that was shed for them, that they shed for themselves. Ainsworht lookd around at his mother and the other adults crying and felt cheated, until he found his own tears. Salty. Sticky. Inseparable from him, like the pain of birth. That was indeed the beginning.”
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More quotes…
When?' they replied.
In the beginning,' Aunt Velma said.
Wid tears,' they assured her.
Wid tears,' Dahlia chimed.
Ainsworth and the other children waited, but only silence responded to them. They were certain they had missed something; a few of them thought perhaps they had even fallen asleep. They asked those who sat beside them, but they could offer no explanation. Ainsworth looked at his mother and she was crying. He felt ashamed for her, but he nticed the woman beside her was also crying. He saw the faces of all the adults, including the men, and tears streamed down all their faces. The story was their memory. The story was the pain that produced tears. The story was what they had lived. The story was their petty jealousy that caused them to begrudge each other every minor success and plot ways to harm one another. The story was all that was lost to them because someone was too selfish to share, too mean to forgive, too blind to see the possibilities. The story was the beginning of their lives that had been old them over and over, but out of embarrassment they hadn't listened; so when the time came for those tales to be useful, they didn't know the details and groped in self-darkness. The story was in the first drop of salty tear that was shed for them, that they shed for themselves. Ainsworht lookd around at his mother and the other adults crying and felt cheated, until he found his own tears. Salty. Sticky. Inseparable from him, like the pain of birth. That was indeed the beginning.”
