Band of Angels by Robert Penn Warren

Band of Angels 

Robert Penn Warren 

1955

Signet

 English

HALF SLAVE , HALF FREE ,BUT ALL WOMAN …

As the belle of Kentucky , and mistress of her father’s plantation , beautiful Amantha Starr had known only privilege and wealth until the shocking revelation at his death that she was also the daughter of one of his slaves . Torn from the comfort of the luxurious estate she expected to rule , and auctioned off in the slave market , Amantha was forced into bondage as the plaything for a rich plantation owner . It was in this decadent world of exploitation and debauchery that she became the easy object of every man’s lust and license and was never allowed to forget the shameful truth about her birth . Here are all the moods and passions of a tortured era in a bold and unforgettable novel of the Kentucky belle who was sold into slavery

first page of the book

OH , WHO AM I ? FOR SO LONG THAT WAS , YOU MIGHT SAY , the cry of my heart . There were times when I would say to myself my own name – my name is Amantha Starr – over and over again , trying , somehow , to make myself come true . But then , even the name might fade away in the air , in the bigness of the world . The world is big , and you feel lost in it , as though the bigness recedes forever , in all directions , like a desert of sand , and distance flees glimmering from you in all directions . Or the world is big , and the bigness grows tall and close , like walls coming together with a great weight and you will be crushed to nothingness . Nothingness – there are two kinds , the kind which is being only yourself , lonely as the dis tance withdraws forever , and the kind when the walls of the world come together to crush you . If I could only be free , I used to think , free from the lonely nothingness of being only yourself when the world flees away , and free from the closing walls that would crush you to nothingness . And then , sometimes , there would come into my head the picture of a grassy place , a place with sun , maybe water run ning and sparkling , or just still and bright , and myself sitting there . I can never describe this place too clearly , even to my self , the way you can’t describe a dream . When you try to tell somebody about a dream , you find in the telling that you are simply having another dream , and different , and even the feel ing of the old one changes . But the feeling I have in this dream – if you can call it a dream – is of being light and free , a feeling of suddenly lifting up my arms as though I were discovering myself , waking up , saying Why , I’m Amantha Starr ! But there was , in sober fact , a grassy place , no dream , with cedars in the background , a line of willows to one side dipping into the branch that runs down to join the river , and to the other side , the grave , just a sunken , trenchlike spot , not awfully long , in the soft Kentucky grass that the sheep have

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