Madeline Rose Williams
I read The Sellout and thought: hey, well fuck. I read The Sellout because an old friend had been telling me to read it for over a year, and finally they just handed me their copy so I thought, sure, fine, and opened it. I read The Sellout and laughed so hard eating dinner alone (I love eating dinner alone, in restaurants, at off-hours; the server leaves me to myself a little bit more than usual, lets me sit at the awkward small table and stay too long, lets me be). I read The Sellout and I loved the cover, the hardback thick-cornered cardboard cased in a smooth white jacket with a little man in garish pink trousers holding his golden lantern over and over and over. Made me think of pajamas and buttons and my cold bare feet. I read The Sellout and stopped trying to give plot summaries to bartenders/strangers/friends who asked me “what are you reading?” and then “what’s it about?” because I’m pretty sure I’m not qualified, and anyway, who knows? I read The Sellout and thought: I’m going to make my dad/sister/Sam/boss/Jess/cousin/teacher/Mary/aunt/mom read this, I’m going to make everyone read this, I’m going to read this again and again. I read The Sellout and when I finished, I set it down in my bed, and stroked the pink and white jacket, touched the heads of the identical little men with their identical lanterns and coats and trousers, and turned out the light and pulled the blanket over my head and loved my tired body and brain and heart, somehow, and loved a lot of people that I kinda hate from under that blanket, somehow, and tried to fall asleep like that, breath heavy and close, book still resting (heavy/close) next to my pillow.
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