At fourteen I couldn’t find words (or words I liked) for the marvelous feeling of recognition that came with these characters who had my hair, my eyes, my skin, even the ancestors of the rhythm of my speech. These forms of identification are so natural to white readers-(Of course Rabbit Angstrom is like me! Of course Madame Bovary is like me!)-that they believe themselves above personal identification, or at least believe that they are identifying only at the highest, existential levels (His soul is like my soul. He is human; I am human.)

Zadie Smith, “Their Eyes Were Watching God: What Does Soulful Mean?”; from the collection, Changing My Mind: Occasional Essays (via walkoutofhermind)

How are you enjoying her book of essays? Did you see her essay “hair” on eyeshot.net?