And this is the peril of not knowing anything about a book. Maya Angelou's autobiography starts out as a pleasant but fairly conventional memoir, and then suddenly blammo, an extremely traumatic thing happens, with very little warning, that I was in no way prepared for.
Which is probably just what her actual life was like, except not a book, so there's that.
Anyway, if you haven't read this yet, you now know more than I did. Brace yourself.
Aside from the extreme trauma: this is an absolutely stunning book. What a writer Angelou is! Screamingly perceptive, beautiful, incisive.
This book is some shit right here.