New Chapters Demand Courage, Written in Ink
Created at: August 12, 2025
Turn the page; new chapters demand bold ink. — Toni Morrison
The Imperative to Begin Again
To begin, the call to “turn the page” frames change as both deliberate and hopeful: endings are not voids but thresholds. Yet the second clause—“new chapters demand bold ink”—insists that renewal is not passive. It requires decisive authorship, the kind that leaves marks resistant to erasure. In life as in literature, timidity writes in pencil; courage commits to lines that can be read, cited, and remembered. Thus the aphorism urges us to meet transition not with hesitation but with an assertive narrative of our own making.
Language as Measure and Instrument
Building on this, Toni Morrison consistently linked language to ethical action. In her Nobel Lecture (1993), she affirmed, “We die. That may be the meaning of life. But we do language. That may be the measure of our lives.” Here, “bold ink” becomes a moral instrument: words can wound, but they can also repair, testify, and imagine freedom. So, turning the page is not escape; it is commitment to speech that bears weight. The task, then, is to choose language that does work in the world—naming harm, summoning beauty, and refusing silence.
Editing as Activism: Making Space on the Shelf
Carrying that ethic into practice, Morrison’s editorial career at Random House (1967–1983) modeled how “bold ink” can institutionalize change. She helped bring forth The Black Book (1974), an extraordinary collage of advertisements, letters, photographs, and ephemera that made African American history palpable on the page. She also edited Angela Davis’s Autobiography (1974) and championed Gayl Jones’s Corregidora (1975), amplifying voices often sidelined. Through such choices, the next cultural chapter did not merely arrive—it was curated, printed, and distributed, making courage legible in the marketplace of ideas.
Fictional Lives, Real Courage
Moreover, Morrison’s novels dramatize bold authorship at the level of character and community. Beloved (1987) treats “rememory” as a form of inscription, compelling characters to write trauma into public awareness rather than bury it. Likewise, in Song of Solomon (1977), the search for names and lineage becomes a quest to revise a family’s narrative. These stories suggest that turning the page without telling the truth only reorganizes silence; new chapters require ink dark enough to hold grief and joy together, so the page will not fade.
Writing Communal Memory
Extending from individual arcs to collective record, “bold ink” underscores the politics of memory. Archives and curricula can omit as easily as they include; The Black Book (1974) shows how curatorial choices shape what a nation remembers. By foregrounding artifacts of everyday Black life—patents, recipes, posters—the volume turns marginalia into headline. In this view, each generation inherits an editorial role: to cite what was ignored, to reprint what was suppressed, and to bind new editions of the common story so that erasure cannot masquerade as consensus.
Living the Metaphor: Plans, Risks, and Revision
Finally, the metaphor becomes practical. Research on the “fresh start effect” shows that temporal landmarks prompt ambitious action (Dai, Milkman, and Riis, Management Science, 2014). Yet ambition stalls without ink—specific commitments, public stakes, and the courage to be accountable. Boldness does not reject revision; it invites it, because only written lines can be edited. Thus, we turn the page by naming what comes next, sign it with our full hand, and keep rewriting—so the chapter reads brave, and the story keeps moving.