The Way Forward Is with a Broken Heart

( 3 )

Overview

"These are the stories that came to me to be told after the close of a magical marriage to an extraordinary man that ended in a less-than-magical divorce. I found myself unmoored, unmated, ungrounded in a way that challenged everything I'd ever thought about human relationships. Situated squarely in that terrifying paradise called freedom, precipitously out on so many emotional limbs, it was as if I had been born; and in fact I was being reborn as the woman I was to become."

So says Pulitzer Prize-winning author ...

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Overview

"These are the stories that came to me to be told after the close of a magical marriage to an extraordinary man that ended in a less-than-magical divorce. I found myself unmoored, unmated, ungrounded in a way that challenged everything I'd ever thought about human relationships. Situated squarely in that terrifying paradise called freedom, precipitously out on so many emotional limbs, it was as if I had been born; and in fact I was being reborn as the woman I was to become."

So says Pulitzer Prize-winning author Alice Walker about her beautiful new book, in which "one of the best American writers today" (The Washington Post) gives us superb stories based on rich truths from her own experience. Imbued with Walker's wise philosophy and understanding of people, the spirit, sex and love, The Way Forward Is with a Broken Heart begins with a lyrical, autobiographical story of a marriage set in the violent and volatile Deep South during the early years of the civil rights movement. Walker goes on to imagine stories that grew out of the life following that marriage—a life, she writes, that was "marked by deep sea-changes and transitions." These provocative stories showcase Walker's hard-won knowledge of love of many kinds and of the relationships that shape our lives, as well as her infectious sense of humor and joy. Filled with wonder at the power of the life force and of the capacity of human beings to move through love and loss and healing to love again, The Way Forward Is with a Broken Heart is an enriching, passionate book by "a lavishly gifted writer" (The New York Times Book Review).

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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
"Places Walker in the company of Faulkner."
--The Nation, about The Color Purple

"Superb...a work to stand beside literature of any time and place."
--San Francisco Chronicle, about The Color Purple

"Just when you think Alice Walker has empathized her way as far as any writer can go, she goes further....Each essay is a gift."
--Gloria Steinem, about Anything We Love Can Be Saved

"[Alice Walker] is exceptionally brave: She takes on subjects at which most writers would flinch and quail, and probably fail. She shrinks from no moral or emotional complexity, and she writes consummately skillful short stories....In Walker's work nothing is ordinary....She is a marvelous writer."
--San Francisco Chronicle, about You Can't Keep a Good Woman Down

"A writer of staggering talent."
--New York Newsday

New York Newsday
A writer of staggering talent.
Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
HIn 13 affectionate stories, Walker (The Color Purple; By the Light of My Father's Smile) reflects on the nature of passion and friendship, pondering the emotional trajectories of lives and loves. Some of the pieces are directly autobiographical, as Walker explains in her preface. "To My Young Husband" is about her marriage as a young woman to a Jewish civil rights lawyer and their difficult but mostly happy decade in Mississippi and Brooklyn. Many years later, telling her daughter the story of the marriage, Walker wonders how she and her ex-husband, once so close, could have become such strangers. Other stories are "mostly fiction, but with a definite thread of having come out of a singular life." Old hurts are soothed in "Olive Oil," in which Orelia learns to trust her husband, John, and not visit the sins of the past upon him. In "The Brotherhood of the Saved," Hannah, the lesbian narrator, confronts the bigotry of religion and attempts to save her relationship with her mother, whose fundamentalist church is urging her to ostracize her daughter. A trip to a screening of Deep Throat gets the older woman and two of her friends talking about sex, but true acceptance proves more elusive. Infusing her intimate tales with grace and humor, Walker probes hidden corners of the human experience, at once questioning and acknowledging sexual, racial and cultural rifts. Though a few stories tip into self-indulgence and read less like fiction than personal testimony, this is nonetheless a strong, moving collection. A common theme runs throughoutDwe are all obliged to love and be loved, no matter how blind, inexpert or troublesome we may be. 100,000 first printing; 8-city author tour. (Oct.) Copyright 2000 Cahners Business Information.
Library Journal
Love may be a mighty balm, but Walker (The Color Purple) knows that it can also be unsettling, causing both lover and beloved to question their values, politics, and commitments. In seven beautifully written and astoundingly perceptive short stories--admittedly based in fact, then fictionalized--she homes in on the problems endemic to interracial romance and offers a near stream-of-consciousness reflection on her own ten-year marriage to a white civil rights attorney. It is powerful, jarring reading. But Walker treads lightly, conscious that the inevitable disagreements and betrayals that accompany relationships are what make us human. While several of the book's entries examine the problems inherent in black/white coupling, other pieces assess the ways we communicate woman to woman, sister to sister, husband to wife. Throughout, the book remains remarkably upbeat, urging us to chance heartache in order to connect. Brave and passionate, audacious and wise, this is Walker at her best. Highly recommended for all collections. [Previewed in Prepub Alert, LJ 6/1/00.]--Eleanor J. Bader, Brooklyn, NY Copyright 2000 Cahners Business Information.\
Linda Barrett Osborne
Alice Walker's touching and provocative collection of autobiographical stories is filled with truisms...yet Walker is capable of surprisingly complex insights into the tenuity of desire and marriage, the saving grace of friendship and the ambivalent experiences of African-Americans since the civil rights movement.
Denise Gess
Throughout, Walker posits her conviction that our only true journey on earth-to grow and to love-is deceptively simple.
Book Magazine
V.R. Peterson
[A] Moving tale of hope and healing.
People
Samira A. Bashir
It is a beautiful treatment of love in its many forms—romantic, platonic, familiar—and its everlasting effect on one's life...In finally coming to terms with and laying to rest the woman she was, while honoring that spirit still living in the woman she has become, Walker offers a challenge of self-growth and acceptance, not just to herself or her ex, but to all of us who walk down the long and dusty roads of Alice Walker country, knowing that we cannot emerge unchanged.
Ms. Magazine
Kirkus Reviews
Using the accretion method that has become her trademark, Walker (By the Light of My Father's Smile, 1998, etc.) here offers a manyvoiced, often lyrical story—but in discrete, oddly shaped lumps—of her first marriage and subsequent awakenings over the course of a lifetime of relationships.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780345407955
  • Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 10/2/2001
  • Series: Ballantine Reader's Circle Series
  • Pages: 240
  • Sales rank: 702,607
  • Product dimensions: 5.59 (w) x 8.19 (h) x 0.56 (d)

Meet the Author

Alice Walker won the Pulitzer Prize and the American Book Award for her novel The Color Purple, which was preceded by The Third Life of Grange Copeland and Meridian. Her other bestselling novels include By the Light of My Father's Smile, Possessing the Secret of Joy and The Temple of My Familiar. She is also the author of two collections of short stories, three collections of essays, five volumes of poetry and several children's books. Her books have been translated into more than two dozen languages. Born in Eatonton, Georgia, Walker now lives in Northern California.

Biography

Alice Walker won the Pulitzer Prize and the American Book Award for her novel The Color Purple, which was preceded by The Third Life of Grange Copeland and Meridian. Her other bestselling novels include By the Light of My Father's Smile, Possessing the Secret of Joy and The Temple of My Familiar. She is also the author of two collections of short stories, three collections of essays, five volumes of poetry and several children's books. Her books have been translated into more than two dozen languages. Born in Eatonton, Georgia, Walker now lives in Northern California.

Author biography courtesy of Random House, Inc.

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    1. Also Known As:
      Alice Malsenior Walker (full name)
    2. Hometown:
      Mendocino, California
    1. Date of Birth:
      February 9, 1944
    2. Place of Birth:
      Eatonton, Georgia
    1. Education:
      B.A., Sarah Lawrence College, 1965; attended Spelman College, 1961-63

Read an Excerpt

To My Young Husband

Memoir of a Marriage

Beloved,

A few days ago I went to see the little house on R. Street where we were so happy. Before traveling back to Mississippi I had not thought much about it. It seemed so far away, almost in another dimension. Whenever I did remember the house it was vibrant, filled with warmth and light, even though, as you know, a lot of my time there was served in rage, in anger, in hopelessness and despair. Days when the white white walls, cool against the brutal summer heat, were more bars than walls.

You do not talk to me now, a fate I could not have imagined twenty years ago. It is true we say the usual greetings, when we have to, over the phone: How are you? Have you heard from Our Child? But beyond that, really nothing. Nothing of the secrets, memories, good and bad, that we shared. Nothing of the laughter that used to creep up on us as we ate together late at night at the kitchen table—perhaps after one of your poker games—and then wash over us in a cackling wave. You were always helpless before anything that struck you as funny, and I reveled in the ease with which, urging each other on, sometimes in our own voices, more often in a welter of black and white Southern and Brooklyn and Yiddish accents—which always felt as if our grandparents were joking with each other—we’d crumple over our plates laughing, as tears came to our eyes. After tallying up your winnings—you usually did win—and taking a shower—as I chatted with you through the glass—you’d crawl wearily into bed. We’d roll toward each other’s outstretched arms, still chuckling, and sleep the sleep of the deeply amused.

I went back with the woman I love now. She had never been South, never been to Mississippi, though her grandparents are buried in one of the towns you used to sue racists in. We took the Natchez Trace from Memphis, stopping several times at points of interest along the way. Halfway to Jackson we stopped at what appeared to be a large vacant house, with a dogtrot that intrigued us from the road. But when we walked inside two women were quietly quilting. One of them was bent over a large wooden frame that covered most of the floor, like the one my mother used to have; the other sat in a rocking chair stitching together one of the most beautiful crazy quilts I’ve ever seen. It reminded me of the quilt I made while we were married, the one made of scraps from my African dresses. The huge dresses, kaftans really, that I sewed myself and wore when I was pregnant with Our Child.

The house on R. Street looked so small I did not recognize it at first. It was nearly dark by the time we found it, and sitting in a curve as it does it always seemed to be seeking anonymity. The tree we planted when Our Child was born and which I expected to tower over me, as Our Child now does, is not there; one reason I did not recognize the house. When I couldn’t decide whether the house I was staring at was the one we used to laugh so much in, I went next door and asked for the Belts. Mrs. Belt (Did I ever know her name and call her by it? Was it perhaps Mildred?) opened the door. She recognized me immediately. I told her I was looking for our house. She said: That’s it. She was surrounded by grandchildren. The little girl we knew, riding her tricycle about the yard, has made her a grandmother many times over. Her hair is pressed and waved, and is completely gray. She has aged. Though I know I have also, this shocks me. Mr. Belt soon comes to the door. He is graying as well, and has shaved his head. He is stocky and assertive. Self-satisfied. He insists on hugging me, which, because we’ve never hugged before, feels strange. He offers to walk me next door, and does.

Its gate is the only thing left of the wooden fence we put up. The sweet gum tree that dominated the backyard and turned to red and gold in autumn is dying. It is little more than a trunk. The yard itself, which I’ve thought of all these years as big, is tiny. I remember our dogs: Myshkin, the fickle beloved, stolen, leaving us to search and search and weep and weep; and Andrew, the German shepherd with the soulful eyes and tender heart, whose big teeth frightened me after Our Child was born.

The carport is miniscule. I wonder if you remember the steaks we used to grill there in summer, because the house was too hot for cooking, and the chilled Lambrusco we bought by the case to drink each night with dinner.

The woman who lives there now, whose first act on buying the house was to rip out my writing desk, either isn’t home or refuses to open the door. Not the same door we had, with its three panes at the top covered with plastic “stained glass.” No, an even tackier, more flimsy door, with the number 1443 affixed to its bottom in black vinyl and gold adhesive.

I am disappointed because I do want to see inside, and I want my lover to see it too. I want to show her the living room, where our red couches sat. The moon lamp. The low table made from a wooden door on which I kept flowers, leaves, Georgia field straw, in a gray crockery vase. The walls on which hung our Levy’s bread poster: The little black boy and “You Don’t Have to Be Jewish to Love Levy’s.” The white-and-black SNCC (Student Non-violent Coordinating Committee) poster of the large woman holding the small child, and the red-and-white one with the old man holding the hand of a small girl that helped me write about the bond between grandfather and granddaughter that is at the heart of my first novel. There by the kitchen door was the very funny Ernst lithograph, a somber Charles White drawing across from it.

In Tupelo where I lectured I saw an old friend who remembered the house better than I did. She remembered the smallness of the kitchen (which I’d never thought of as small) and how the round “captain’s table” we bought was wedged in a corner. She recalled the polished brown wood. Even the daisy-dotted placemats. The big yellow, brown-eyed daisy stuck to the brown refrigerator door.

I wanted to see the nondescript bathroom. If I looked into the mirror would I see the serious face I had then? The deeply sun-browned skin? The bushy hair? The grief that steadily undermined the gains in levity, after each of the assassinations of little known and unsung heroes; after the assassination of Dr. King?

I wanted to see Our Child’s room. From the porch I could see her yellow shutters, unchanged since we left. Yellow, to let her know right away that life can be cheerful and bright. I wanted to see our room. Its giant bed occupying most of the floor, in frank admission that bed was important to us and that whenever possible, especially after air-conditioning, that is where we stayed. Not making love only, but making a universe. Sleeping, eating, reading and writing books, listening to music, cuddling, talking on the phone, watching Mary Tyler Moore, playing with Our Child. Our rifle a silent sentry in the corner.

The old friend whom I saw in Tupelo still lives in Jackson. When we met two decades ago she had just come home from a college in the North where she taught literature. She’d decided to come back to Jackson, now that opportunities were opening up, thanks to you and so many others who gave some of their lives and sometimes all of their life, for this to happen. She hoped to marry her childhood sweetheart, raise a family, study law. Now she tells me she hates law. That it stifles her creativity and cuts her off from community and the life of the young. I tell her what I have recently heard of you. That, according to Our Child, you are now writing plays, and that this makes you happy. That you left civil rights law, at which you were brilliant, and are now quite successful in the corporate world. Though the writing of the plays makes me wonder if perhaps you too have found something missing in your chosen profession?

She remembers us, she says, as two of the happiest, most in love people she’d ever seen. It didn’t seem possible that we would ever part.

It is only days later, when I am back in California, that I realize she herself played a role in our drifting apart. This summer she has promised to come visit me, up in the country in Mendocino—where everyone my age has a secret, sorrowful past of loving and suffering during the Sixties time of war—and I will tell her what it was.

Maybe you remember her? Her name is F. It was she who placed a certain novel by a forgotten black woman novelist into my hands. I fell in love with both the novel and the novelist, who had died in obscurity while I was still reading the long-dead white writers, mostly male, pushed on everyone entering junior high. F.’s gift changed my life. I became obsessed, crazed with devotion. Passionate. All of this, especially the passion and devotion, I wanted to share with you.

You and I had always shared literature. Do you remember how, on our very first night alone together, in a motel room in Greenwood, Mississippi, we read the Bible to each other? And how we felt a special affinity with the poet who wrote “The Song of Solomon?” We’d barely met, and shared the room more out of fear than desire. It was a motel and an area that had not been “cleared.” Desegregated. We’d been spotted by hostile whites earlier in the day in the dining room. The next day, after our sleepless night, they would attempt to chase us out of town, perhaps run us off the road, but local black men courageously intervened.

Over the years we shared Shakespeare, Dostoyevsky, Tol- stoy. Orwell. Langston Hughes. Sean O’Faolain. Ellison. But you would not read the thin paperback novel by this black woman I loved. It was as if you drew a line, in this curious territory. I will love you completely, you seemed to say, except for this. But sharing this book with you seemed everything.

I wonder if you’ve read it, even now.

Our Child was conceived. Grew up. Went to a large Eastern university. Read the book. She found it there on the required reading list, where I and others labored for a decade to make sure it would be. She tells me now she read it before she even left home, when she was in her early teens. She says I presented it to her with a quiet intensity, and with a special look in my eyes. She says we used to read passages from it while we cooked dinner for each other, and that she used to join me as I laughed and sometimes cried.

What can one say at this late date, my young husband? Except what was surely surmised at the beginning of time. Life is a mystery. Also, love does not accept barriers of any kind. Not even that of Time itself. So that in the small house that seemed so large during the years of happiness we gave each other, I remain

Yours,

Tatala

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Table of Contents

Preface xiii
To My Young Husband
To My Young Husband 3
Kindred Spirits 52
Orelia and John
Olive Oil 71
Cuddling 79
Charms 89
There Was a River
There Was a River 105
Big Sister, Little Sister
Uncle Loaf and Auntie Putt-Putt 113
Blaze 128
Growing Out
Growing Out 141
Conscious Birth 149
This Is How It Happened
This Is How It Happened 169
The Brotherhood of the Saved 175
The Way Forward Is with a Broken Heart
Epilogue: The Way Forward Is with a Broken Heart 197
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Introduction

October 2000

The Way Forward Is with a Broken Heart is a magical book, full of deep insights and Alice Walker's unique understanding of people, life, sex, love, and the spirit. These beautiful and provocative autobiographical stories are imbued with Walker's hard-won knowledge of love of many kinds and of the relationships that shape our lives. In "To My Young Husband," Walker touches on the pleasures of her early marriage, the problems of interracial, interdenominational relationships, the frustration and excitement of raising a child, and the despair of divorce. The stories that follow resound with the complicated knowledge of love both platonic and romantic, with men and with women, and of the relationships that transform us and make us who we are. This is Alice Walker at her best: frank, insightful, lyrical, passionate.

Called "one of the best American writers of today" by The Washington Post, Alice Walker is beloved, and The Way Forward Is with a Broken Heart, with its insights into Walker's own private life and philosophy, presents a side of the author her readers have not yet seen.

Read an excerpt and be sure to join us on Wednesday, October 11th at 7pm ET for our live chat with the author.

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Reading Group Guide

1. In the Jim Crow South, whites had daily, often intimate contact with blacks whom they trusted to work in their homes and care for their children. Given that context, what was their rationale for en-acting laws against interracial marriage?

2. What are some of the societal messages put forth about interracial relationships today?

3. How does the epistolary technique have an impact on the narrative in ÒTo My Young HusbandÓ?

4. What can be learned from the experiences of biracial children in an increasingly diverse society?

5. In ÒKindred SpiritsÓ the narrator makes reference to Cuban immi-grants in the United States. Discuss the Cuban revolution and its impact on American politics.

6. Discuss the relationship between Marcella, Angel, and Sally as depicted in ÒThere Was a River.Ó How would you handle such a scenario?

7. How is the subject of pornography addressed in ÒThe Brotherhood of the SavedÓ? Is it possible to limit access to pornography without breaching First Amendment rights?

8. If you brought your gift to Alice Walker, what would it be?

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 3.5
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Sort by: Showing all of 3 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted March 5, 2001

    Beautifuly Touching

    This book, as all Alice Walker's books are, was absolutly exquisite. Her use of language, imagry and experience made this book a pleasure to read. The personal letters from Walker to her 'Young Husband' were especially poigient. The ability of Walker to weave different characters and different story lines into one amazing novel once again demonstrates her unmatched talent as a writer. I highly recomend this, and all, of Alice Walker's books.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 23, 2001

    A Time to Remember

    I saw each short story as being significant to real life drama. Alice Walker made the reader think and you reminiscence about every love affair you've encountered. Walker allows you to remember how life was before the revolution. A critic, a fan, or just a plan old Malik or Moesha has to give credit where it's due with 'The Way Forward is with A Broken Heart.' Walker writes with no fear about the way it is and gives her blantant point of view. I honestly, love Alice Walker and her unique writing style.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 8, 2010

    No text was provided for this review.

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