Livro Americanah

Estes livros são como jóias recém-polidas, emergindo diretamente das editoras para o nosso estoque e agora brilhando em direção à sua casa, em um estado impecável que encanta os sentidos.

Estes livros são como jóias recém-polidas, emergindo diretamente das editoras para o nosso estoque e agora brilhando em direção à sua casa, em um estado impecável que encanta os sentidos.

Estes livros são como jóias recém-polidas, emergindo diretamente das editoras para o nosso estoque e agora brilhando em direção à sua casa, em um estado impecável que encanta os sentidos.

Estes livros são como jóias recém-polidas, emergindo diretamente das editoras para o nosso estoque e agora brilhando em direção à sua casa, em um estado impecável que encanta os sentidos.

Estes livros são como jóias recém-polidas, emergindo diretamente das editoras para o nosso estoque e agora brilhando em direção à sua casa, em um estado impecável que encanta os sentidos.

Livro usado, com sujidade, desgaste na borda da capa e lombada, vinco na capa, orelhas, com partes sublinhadas a lápis. Conteúdo em boas condições para leitura.

But she did not like that she had to go to Trenton to braid her hair. It was unreasonable to expect a braiding salon in Princetonthe few black locals she had seen were so light-skinned and lank-haired she could not imagine them wearing braidsand yet as she waited at Princeton Junction station for the train, on an afternoon ablaze with heat, she wondered why there was no place where she could braid her hair. The chocolate bar in her handbag had melted. A few other people were waiting on the platform, all of them white and lean, in short, flimsy clothes. The man standing closest to her was eating an ice cream cone; she had always found it a little irresponsible, the eating of ice cream cones by grown-up American men, especially the eating of ice cream cones by grown-up American men in public. He turned to her and said, About time, when the train finally creaked in, with the familiarity strangers adopt with each other after sharing in the disappointment of a public service. She smiled at him. The graying hair on the back of his head was swept forward, a comical arrangement to disguise his bald spot. He had to be an academic, but not in the humanities or he would be more self-conscious. A firm science like chemistry, maybe. Before, she would have said, I know, that peculiar American expression that professed agreement rather than knowledge, and then she would have started a conversation with him, to see if he would say something she could use in her blog. People were flattered to be asked about themselves and if she said nothing after they spoke, it made them say more. They were conditioned to fill silences. If they asked what she did, she would say vaguely, I write a lifestyle blog, because saying I write an anonymous blog called Raceteenth or Various Observations About American Blacks (Those Formerly Known as Negroes) by a Non-American Black would make them uncomfortable. She had said it, though, a few times. Once to a dreadlocked white man who sat next to h

But she did not like that she had to go to Trenton to braid her hair. It was unreasonable to expect a braiding salon in Princetonthe few black locals she had seen were so light-skinned and lank-haired she could not imagine them wearing braidsand yet as she waited at Princeton Junction station for the train, on an afternoon ablaze with heat, she wondered why there was no place where she could braid her hair. The chocolate bar in her handbag had melted. A few other people were waiting on the platform, all of them white and lean, in short, flimsy clothes. The man standing closest to her was eating an ice cream cone; she had always found it a little irresponsible, the eating of ice cream cones by grown-up American men, especially the eating of ice cream cones by grown-up American men in public. He turned to her and said, About time, when the train finally creaked in, with the familiarity strangers adopt with each other after sharing in the disappointment of a public service. She smiled at him. The graying hair on the back of his head was swept forward, a comical arrangement to disguise his bald spot. He had to be an academic, but not in the humanities or he would be more self-conscious. A firm science like chemistry, maybe. Before, she would have said, I know, that peculiar American expression that professed agreement rather than knowledge, and then she would have started a conversation with him, to see if he would say something she could use in her blog. People were flattered to be asked about themselves and if she said nothing after they spoke, it made them say more. They were conditioned to fill silences. If they asked what she did, she would say vaguely, I write a lifestyle blog, because saying I write an anonymous blog called Raceteenth or Various Observations About American Blacks (Those Formerly Known as Negroes) by a Non-American Black would make them uncomfortable. She had said it, though, a few times. Once to a dreadlocked white man who sat next to h

But she did not like that she had to go to Trenton to braid her hair. It was unreasonable to expect a braiding salon in Princetonthe few black locals she had seen were so light-skinned and lank-haired she could not imagine them wearing braidsand yet as she waited at Princeton Junction station for the train, on an afternoon ablaze with heat, she wondered why there was no place where she could braid her hair. The chocolate bar in her handbag had melted. A few other people were waiting on the platform, all of them white and lean, in short, flimsy clothes. The man standing closest to her was eating an ice cream cone; she had always found it a little irresponsible, the eating of ice cream cones by grown-up American men, especially the eating of ice cream cones by grown-up American men in public. He turned to her and said, About time, when the train finally creaked in, with the familiarity strangers adopt with each other after sharing in the disappointment of a public service. She smiled at him. The graying hair on the back of his head was swept forward, a comical arrangement to disguise his bald spot. He had to be an academic, but not in the humanities or he would be more self-conscious. A firm science like chemistry, maybe. Before, she would have said, I know, that peculiar American expression that professed agreement rather than knowledge, and then she would have started a conversation with him, to see if he would say something she could use in her blog. People were flattered to be asked about themselves and if she said nothing after they spoke, it made them say more. They were conditioned to fill silences. If they asked what she did, she would say vaguely, I write a lifestyle blog, because saying I write an anonymous blog called Raceteenth or Various Observations About American Blacks (Those Formerly Known as Negroes) by a Non-American Black would make them uncomfortable. She had said it, though, a few times. Once to a dreadlocked white man who sat next to h