Jesus, this book was a rough read. Not because it was poorly written; it wasn't. Not because I couldn't engage with it; I most certainly could. It was rough because the topic came so fiercely alive in Octavia Butler's words, and because it left me feeling obscurely guilty, not because I'd done anything like those awful things Rufus and the other whites did, but because I felt a sort of guilt by association. As if what these white slaveholders did was a responsibility I myself needed to discharge. And you know what? I'm okay with that.

The events in this book might be fictional, but they were hardly invented from whole cloth. Slavery happened, and it was assuredly both more brutal and more insidious than many of us today can reasonably imagine. The effects of that shameful period of our history are still felt today, and I'm as culpable in repairing this damage as any other white person.

This book resonated with me, and I'll be buying a physical copy as soon as possible.