If either Toni Morrison or her consummate author-fan, A.J. Verdelle, had anything to say about it, I’m sure that both would categorically disqualify me from coming anywhere near reviewing the latter’s new autobiographical memoir, MISS CHLOE.

In her labyrinthine but compelling reminiscence about Morrison’s career and their rather eccentric off-and-on relationship, Verdelle reiterates at mindful intervals how important it is for the reader to really know the late Nobel laureate’s pivotal works and, by extension, her own award-winning THE GOOD NEGRESS (1995).

I admit to near-total failure on that count, having so far read only Morrison’s THE BLUEST EYE, and that was decades ago. Yet even realizing within the first 50 pages that neither Verdelle nor her revered mentor tolerates fools of any kind --- especially race-cultural ones --- the power of the writing and emotional imagery drew me on and on, deeper and deeper into the complexities of what it’s like not to be white, privileged, straight, politically safe and educated barrier-free.

"Verdelle’s way of breaking, or recreating, literary rules...goes a long way to giving MISS CHLOE its abundant character. In the hands of any lesser writer, such a precarious blend of genre and technique would rapidly descend into chaos. Not here."

In fact, it was hard to know where to stop, as MISS CHLOE really has no formal chapter divisions. Reading it was a lot like playing or listening to music with no clearly defined resolving chords to mark key transitions of mood or material. Yet suddenly (or subtly) there you are, listening inwardly as Verdelle slaloms in and out of her personal life and career, her interactions with Morrison (whose birth name was Chloe Wofford, hence the title), and the political, religious and social contexts that formed, and often wounded, both women.

I learned to simply let go of things like literary structure and chronology, and let my brain relax into Verdelle’s distinctive semantic and descriptive flow. As in few other books I’ve read, this one bears out the maxim that mastering the rules and conventions of any art form legitimately entitles one to break them. Verdelle’s way of breaking, or recreating, literary rules --- even those of conventional sentence composition --- goes a long way to giving MISS CHLOE its abundant character. In the hands of any lesser writer, such a precarious blend of genre and technique would rapidly descend into chaos. Not here.

As compelling as the book is to read, it is far from an emotionally or psychologically smooth journey. And perhaps that is only to be expected from a friendship (or intense mentorship) that spanned generations, careers, decades, personal crises and a very obvious power imbalance.

It is the latter aspect that I found somewhat problematic at times. As someone not quite in Morrison’s intimate inner circle, not as securely established in academia or popular culture, and often struggling economically at a period when Morrison had no financial challenges, Verdelle frequently went to extraordinary lengths of time, effort and expense to supply Morrison with things or favors for which she was rarely fully acknowledged or thanked. Not just once, but over and over again.

As Morrison failed physically in her later years and was increasingly unable to travel, doing personal favors for her as a friend seemed very reasonable. But the narrative often reads as one of almost religious devotion on Verdelle’s part, where gifts and personal presence are bestowed time and time again, regardless of the adored one’s ability to provide such things for themselves. The disturbing irony in all of this is how eloquently and forcefully Verdelle, having attended Catholic schools as a child, denounces religion as a negative influence in her life, while acting out a profound discipleship of her own.

However, despite her mercurial, inconsistent and often turbulent relationship with a much younger and independently gifted disciple, Morrison was faithful to her protégée and her peers in dispensing a great deal of powerfully good advice. Her experience as an editor gave her rare insight into the perennial obfuscations of major publishing companies (especially at a time when Verdelle felt compromised over endless unnecessary revisions to a coming book). Her admonition to young writers to know what they’re doing before asking self-serving questions of public figures was right on target, despite the often terse or rude deliveries.

After reading this book, I honestly feel I now know more about A.J. Verdelle than I do about Toni Morrison --- and in the end, I believe that’s as it should be. Both women have shared a lot of the same challenges in a world perpetually marred by racism, injustice, greed and patriarchy. And they have both overcome, time and time again.

Morrison died in 2019, a triumphant national and international icon of literature, Black or otherwise. Verdelle was too much the outsider even to be invited to her funeral. But I came to the end of MISS CHLOE dead certain that the next chapter, the next book, the next icon, will be Miss A.J.

And that will be worth waiting for.