Millions have read Kathryn Stockett’s bestselling novel The Help with a mixture of fascination and raw, often tearful, emotion.
Based on the lives of black servants in America’s Southern states of the Sixties, it is a sharply observed portrait of a racially charged, segregationist world that some might say has barely passed.
It has also proved a
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Sharply observed? Ha ha. First of all, anyone who says the book was about "an unlikely friendship between a white girl and a black maid" wasn't reading very closely. Stockett wasn't THAT crazy. But beyond that, it takes an especially clueless white person to claim that anything about Stockett's feel-good narrative about light mostly-harmless racism in the form of caricatured white women and a Mighty Whitey Female Edition helping a bunch of sexless mammies is "sharply observed." The only good thing about the movie was getting to see Viola Davis and Octavia Butler.
But how ironic is it that a novel about a white woman profiting from black women's stories is, in reality, penned by a white woman who stole a black woman's story to profit?
And to me, the fact that you had to send her a book ahead of time and a note explaining that there's no connection spells fishy. She lying.
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