If it's Monday, read Tony Morrison. If you are sick, read Tony Morrison. If you are a woman, read Tony Morrison. If you are sad, read Tony Morrison. If you are a man also read Tony Morrison. For every occasion, read Tony Morrison. 

But then or now, decent underwear or none, wild women never could hide their innocence -a kind of pity-kitty hopefulness that their prince was on his way. Especially the tough ones with their box cutters and dirty language, or the glossy ones with two seated cars and a pocket book full of dope. Even the ones who wear scars like presidential medals and stocking rolled at their ankles can't hide the sugar-child, the winsome baby girl curled up somewhere inside, between the ribs, say, or under the heart. Naturally all of them have a sad story: too much notice, not enough, or the worst kind. Some tale about dragon daddies and false-hearted men, or mean mamas and friends who did them wrong.  Each story has a monster in it who made them tough instead of brave, so they open their legs rather than their hearts where that folded child is tucked. 

Love Toni Morrison