Those of you who did not pick up the link between my grandfather's story and the story of Celie in _The Color Purple_ are not competent readers.
Celie cannot utter the name of her persecutor. My grandfather cannot utter the name, to this day, of my grandmother [he remarried, she's my Lola too, but not the same, though I can tell he loved her almost more than mine]. What's the difference? It's pornographic to explain, but I'll violate that very personal rule, and be violated myself. Celie was undeniably, hurt, by her experiences. The more so because she loves Avery [Shug boss, short for Prembone and Fernwithy], and not any other man. It hurt my grandfather to recall the story of my grandmother's death, though he did it just about every waking moment in his life. I'm verklempt. He could not even come near, though Mommy ain't bad. God is cruel. To have everyone know this most personal story of my families, and how they relate. "My beloved wife, I suffered while I was writing these misnamed 'sonnets'; they hurt me and caused me grief, but the happiness I feel in offering them to you is vast as a savanna." -- comrade Neruda again. Quoting him anymore would just be going on and on, and does injustice to everybody I am writing about in this e-mail. [Boss, 2 in a row, stop it.] Julia and Marvin are arbiters of complaint.
