At one time, I’m sure there was only one genre of books because no one was the wiser when it came to whether or not a story was fiction. Then came the fantastic and, lo, we had two genres. It’s only gotten worse since then with all kinds of divisions. One of the biggest is “literary”—which I call “fiction.” And I don’t read very much of it, but when I do, it’s on recommendation.
This book came highly recommended and…it broke my heart. It made me laugh. It made me cry. I felt nostalgic and melancholy and it made me thoughtful and it rearranged some molecules in my brain when I finished. I one-hundred percent believe that this is what people who read fiction are looking for. They want a story that’s a roller-coaster of emotion that feels real, that provides insight into the human condition. The book is a collection of interrelated short fiction featuring a cast of characters interacting in one neighborhood. It’s period, 1968, and features a primarily African-American characters who provide particular insight into the layers of a culture that perhaps should never have existed and preservers in many ways to this day.
Read it and see for yourself.