From the author of the ever famous The Secret Life of Bees, she brings in another great book – The Invention of Wings. It tells about the story of two women struggling to take their belief out in the open despite of the threats all around them. Two women of different status but feels the same on the ideology of freedom and equality. The Invention of Wings by Sue Monk Kidd is a must read for both men and women who believes about courage, equality, and freedom.
Although there are a lot of The Invention of Wings reviews fluttering in the internet, I was able to amass several reviews from book clubs and bookstores and not just from any random marketers out there. Also, we were able to take hold of a copy of The Invention of Wings Ebook were you can download it by clicking the green download button above. Get your The Invention of Wings by Sue Monk Kidd ebook all for free now!
Reader’s Review on The Invention of Wings
I loved this story and I loved the writing. I am moved to explore more of the true story behind it. I wish it was available without Oprah’s comments and highlights. It was annoying and difficult to navigate—especially at the beginning. I am a diehard Kindle reader. I have four Kindles, but I would recommend a hardcover edition until an Oprah free edition is available.
– Carol B.
As soon as I started reading this book I noticed it was riddled with these blue notes which threw me off. After searching around I realized these were Oprah’s notes. No where in the title or book cover did I see anything that suggested that this had Oprah’s notes in it, so I returned the kindle book right away. I was very disappointed because I really like this author and wanted to read the book that SHE wrote and form my own opinions. Luckily a friend told me how I could get the book without Oprah’s notes by pressing on the plus sign when ordering the book and getting the other edition. Now how many people are going to go back and do that, which is a shame, because so far it’s a really good book without Oprah’s input.
Amazon I’m ashamed at you, you should know better and the ones your going to hurt by doing this is the author because people will be returning the book once they figure out what they have or just won’t buy it once the word gets out.
I feel bad for the author it really is a good book.
– S. Morris
Amazing in every way, Sue Monk Kidd manages to excel in storytelling, character, and an inspiring if sorrowful message in her latest, “The Invention of Wings”.
Wings is based loosely on the real-life story of Sarah Grimke, a Southern aristocrat whose father is a bigshot judge on South Carolina’s Supreme Court, where Sarah wants to be eventually. She is given a slave (Handful) for her 11th birthday, which strikes the little firebrand as something ridiculous. How can someone OWN another person? She doesn’t want the “gift” but she’s forced to accept.
From there, the story is set in motion and follows the two women as they struggle for a common goal: freedom. Handful, naturally, struggles for her freedom from bondage, and Sarah for her freedom from the misogynist oppression of pre-suffrage era sexism. She’s taught how to needlepoint and play piano, but she escapes her constrained existence by getting into her father’s forbidden library and dreaming of great things like abolition work.
Kidd does a wonderful job portraying the barbarism of that time in American history and especially the horrid mistreatment of the slaves, graphically detailing whippings and other abuses. She also intertwines the characters beautifully in almost a female version of Huckleberry Finn.
I hadn’t read Kidd’s first book, but I will go back and read that based on my experience with Wings. I love books that explore deeper ideas than just entertaining plot. Wings explores ideas of freedom, gender roles, race relations, the law, and belief. The only other place I’ve seen this balance of emotion and ideas is in The Book Thief and the more recent Now and at the Hour of Our Death.
Amazing all around!
– Aly Willard
Snippet : The Invention of Wings
There was a time in Africa the people could fly. Mauma told me this one night when I was ten years old. She said, “Handful, your granny-mauma saw it for herself. She say they flew over trees and clouds. She say they flew like blackbirds. When we came here, we left that magic behind.”
My mauma was shrewd. She didn’t get any reading and writing like me. Everything she knew came from living on the scarce side of mercy. She looked at my face, how it flowed with sorrow and doubt, and she said, “You don’t believe me? Where you think these shoulder blades of yours come from, girl?”
Those skinny bones stuck out from my back like nubs. She patted them and said, “This all what left of your wings. They nothing but these flat bones now, but one day you gon get ’em back.” I was shrewd like mauma. Even at ten I knew this story about people flying was pure malarkey. We weren’t some special people who lost our magic. We were slave people, and we weren’t going anywhere. It was later I saw what she meant. We could fly all right, but it wasn’t any magic to it.
The day life turned into nothing this world could fix, I was in the work yard boiling slave bedding, stoking fire under the wash pot, my eyes burning from specks of lye soap catching on the wind. The morning was a cold one—the sun looked like a little white button stitched tight to the sky. For summers we wore homespun cotton dresses over our drawers, but when the Charleston winter showed up like some lazy girl in November or January, we got into our sacks—these thickset coats made of heavy yarns. Just an old sack with sleeves. Mine was a cast-off and trailed to my ankles. I couldn’t say how many unwashed bodies had worn it before me, but they had all kindly left their scents on it.
Already that morning missus had taken her cane stick to me once cross my backside for falling asleep during her devotions. Every day, all us slaves, everyone but Rosetta, who was old and demented, jammed in the dining room before breakfast to fight off sleep while missus taught us short Bible verses like “Jesus wept” and prayed out loud about God’s favorite subject, obedience. If you nodded off, you got whacked right in the middle of God said this and God said that. I was full of sass to Aunt-Sister about the whole miserable business. I’d say, “Let this cup pass from me,” spouting one of missus’ verses. I’d say, “Jesus wept cause he’s trapped in there with missus, like us.”
Aunt-Sister was the cook—she’d been with missus since missus was a girl—and next to Tomfry, the butler, she ran the whole show. She was the only one who could tell missus what to do without getting smacked by the cane. Mauma said watch your tongue, but I never did. Aunt-Sister popped me backward three times a day.
I was a handful. That’s not how I got my name, though. Handful was my basket name. The master and missus, they did all the proper naming, but a mauma would look on her baby laid in its basket and a name would come to her, something about what her baby looked like, what day of the week it was, what the weather was doing, or just how the world seemed on that day. My mauma’s basket name was Summer, but her proper name was Charlotte. She had a brother whose basket name was Hardtime. People think I make that up, but it’s true as it can be.
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