As I was reading this book (or rather, listening to the audiobook), I get thinking to myself — I’m so glad that Imani Perry has reached a level of prestige where she gets to write whatever she wants. And then I’d question myself — wait, couldn’t I do that too? I mean, seemingly, yes, but it’s hard to imagine that anyone would be willing to publish my idiosyncratic ruminations (though you never know…). That means, when I write, I’m thinking about audience, about what people would want to know more about. And to be clear, Imani Perry is also clearly imagining some kind of audience — there are plenty of moments of quasi-dialogue in this book (“You’re probably thinking…” or “You might be wondering”). But it also seems so marvelously free to explore its own interests without worrying over whether the reader will want to follow down the rabbit hole. One might call this self-indulgence, but to me that term implies a kind of smugness or ostentatious narcissism. I’d rather call it freedom. A sense of entitlement to one’s own intellectual interests. It’s a beautiful thing. And it’s infectious: I approached the book knowing almost nothing about it, but happy to surrender myself to it because of my faith in the author, and my certainty that if something is interesting to her, it will be to me, too.
It’s a book about the color blue, and its entanglement with African American history and culture. The fascinating thing, to me, is how this inquiry is at times doggedly literal, in a Sebaldian sort of way, where it can seem almost absurd but turns out to be weirdly revelatory. Exploring blue, Perry casts a wide net. People named Blue, ships named blue, the production of indigo, references to the color of someone’s clothing, and of course, the genre of music, and the connotation of sadness. It becomes sort of uncanny, how overdetermined blue is. But it also makes for a really compelling, unexpected lens on history. It’s a wonderful, meditative book — very weird, in the best kind of way.
Kasia Reads 