Welcome to the Deep Dive. Our mission here is
pretty simple. You give us the sources, the articles,
the research, all the critical analysis, and
we just strip away the noise. We deliver the
essential insights, the complex context, and
those aha moments you need to be truly well informed.
And today we are taking on a, well, a monumental
task. We're doing a deep dive into the world
building and the... uncompromising vision of
Toni Morrison. We're not just going to summarize
her books. We're really tracing her journey all
the way from a working class Ohio childhood to
becoming a Nobel laureate, a hugely influential
editor, and one of the most vital and... unapologetically
black voices to ever define American letters.
OK, so let's unpack this. When we talk about
Toni Morrison, who was born Chloe Ardelia Wofford
in 1931, we're talking about a figure whose influence
didn't just, you know, grow. It fundamentally
reshaped the entire landscape of American fiction.
She wasn't just a novelist. She was an essayist,
a professor and a cultural critic who really
forced the mainstream literary world to confront
its own blind spots. Yeah. And her recognition
is just staggering. It really speaks to the profound
lasting power of her stories. She got the Nobel
Prize in Literature in 1993, the Pulitzer Prize
for Beloved in 88, and was honored with the Presidential
Medal of Freedom in 2012. And that's not even
all of it. Not even close. You can have the National
Humanities Medal. Her induction into the National
Women's Hall of Fame. Her achievements aren't
just a list of awards. They really represent
this seismic shift in whose stories are seen
as worthy of a highest literary attention. Absolutely.
And when you look at that whole body of work,
you see this one unrelenting focus running through
it all. It's about addressing the harsh, often
psychological consequences of racism in the United
States. And crucially, it's about centering the
Black American experience as an entire self -contained
universe. just, you know, a reaction to whiteness.
And that's our mission today, to trace that path.
We're going to explore how her deeply rooted
upbringing in Lorain, Ohio, really informed her
earliest themes. Then how she became this pivotal
figure in publishing before her literary breakthrough
and what that enduring philosophy was that, you
know, allowed her to create such transcendent
art. And we have some really fascinating nuggets
from the source material to share. We're going
to look at the deeply personal foundation of
her defiance. I mean, how a traumatic childhood
experience, a lynching that her father witnessed,
shaped her whole approach to race. And we'll
definitely dedicate some time to unpacking the
story behind her famous critique of a U .S. president,
a comment that became legendary but is so often
stripped of its real political context. To really
understand the literature, I think we have to
start where the language began for her. Lorraine,
Ohio. She was born Chloe Ardelia Wofford, the
second of four kids, into a working class black
family. And these foundations, they weren't just
biographical details, were they? They were the
essential fuel for her storytelling. Oh, precisely.
Her parents. Rama and George Wofford were profoundly
influential. They made sure the children were
just immersed in this rich cultural inheritance.
This wasn't just about, you know, getting by.
It was about pride and preservation. They passed
down African -American folktales, ghost stories,
songs. These stories instilled a sense of heritage
and language. The rhythm, the vernacular, the
capacity for the supernatural, that became the
bedrock of her fiction. What's so interesting,
though, is the contrast. that essential cultural
stream, her home was also intensely intellectual.
We know her favorite childhood authors included
people like Jane Austen and Leo Tolstoy. How
do you square that, that formal European literary
structure with the deeply vernacular oral tradition
of African -American culture? Well, that tension,
that blending is precisely where her genius lies.
She mastered the high literary tradition, you
know, the rigorous narrative structures of Austen
and the epic sweep of Tolstoy. But she chose
to fill that structure with the vernacular. with
the community's voice, the folktales, and the
history that was passed down orally. It's what
allowed her to achieve both incredible psychological
depth and real formal complexity. And speaking
of those formative influences, the sources really
emphasize this key defining trauma related to
her father, George Wolford, who moved north from
Georgia. This event seems to have shaped the
family's entire perspective on the white world.
The trauma was immense. George Wolford witnessed
the lynching of two African -American businessmen
who lived on his street when he was about 15
years old. This was an experience of raw, existential
racial violence. And he carried that wound with
him. As Morrison later said, this was so profound
that it manifested this intense protective hatred
of white people. He just wouldn't allow them
in the family home. That protective separation
is so telling. It's such an active act of defiance,
not just resignation. How do you think that specific
environment, being raised by a father who fundamentally
saw the white world as a source of, you know,
existential danger, how did that later influence
her philosophy of writing without the white days?
I think it gave her the psychological freedom
she needed to later reject it entirely. If the
source of danger is externalized and, you know,
walled off, then your internal world, the black
community, is forced to become the center, the
absolute reference point. For Morrison, the black
experience was never secondary or reactive. It
was the primary human experience. Her father's
stance, which was born of so much pain, really
laid the groundwork for her literary philosophy.
The family also showed this incredible resilience.
I'm thinking of that almost unbelievable story
from when she was only two years old. Yes, the
story she described as a lesson in keeping your
integrity against bizarre forms of evil. When
her parents couldn't pay the rent, the landlord...
in this just monumental act of crudeness, set
fire to their house while they were still inside.
And their response as a family was to laugh at
him. That laughter wasn't mockery. It was an
act of refusal to be diminished by his cruelty.
It was a declaration that their spirit was more
powerful than his destructive act. It's a key
insight into the resilience that you see in all
their fiction. And we should probably note the
origin of her name. She was born Chloe Ardelia
Wofford, but at age 12, she became Catholic.
She took the baptismal name Anthony, which then
got shortened to her public nickname, Tony. Right.
And after that foundational home life, she pursued
a really Syrian academic path. In 1949, she enrolled
at Howard University. This was a very deliberate
choice to seek out a community of fellow black
intellectuals. But ironically, it was at Howard
that she first encountered the blatant, systematic
segregation of the Deep South, racially segregated
restaurants and buses, which was a huge difference
from her more integrated upbringing in Ohio.
she studied drama at howard and as part of the
howard players she traveled through the deep
south that must have been a really eye -opening
experience a crucial exposure to the racial codes
that define so much of america and then she continued
her graduate work at cornell getting her m .a
in 1955 and her thesis is so revealing virginia
wolfe's and william faulkner's treatment of the
alienated this shows her early engagement with
the modern literary masters and this profound
theme of alienation a feeling she would later
locate specifically within race and American
history. So after teaching for a while, her personal
life shifted pretty dramatically. She married
Harold Morrison, a Jamaican architect, had two
sons, but they divorced in 1964. She was actually
pregnant with her second son at the time. And
this period, divorce and single motherhood, it
prompted this pivotal turn in her professional
life, not into writing, but into editing. And
this is such a crucial and often overlooked stage
of her career. After a job in Syracuse, she transferred
to the main Random House office in New York City,
and this is where she became a real power broker.
In the late 1960s, Toni Morrison became Random
House's first black woman senior editor in the
fiction department. What's so fascinating here
is that she had gained this institutional authority
inside the mainstream publishing world before
she got famous as a writer. And she used that
power to actively build the modern black literary
canon, validating and promoting voices that had
been historically marginalized. Exactly. She
understood that power wasn't just about writing.
It was about gatekeeping. It was about access.
She championed an entire generation of black
writers, including Tony Cade Bombera, the activist
Angela Davis. Huey Newton, Gail Jones. She didn't
shy away from controversial or politically charged
voices. She saw them as essential. She even worked
on Muhammad Ali's 1975 autobiography, The Greatest.
She was basically a cultural curator, bringing
essential and neglected history to light. And
this is perfectly shown by her major publishing
achievement from that time, The Black Book. The
Black Book was this widely praised anthology
compiled by Morrison that documented black life
in the U .S. from slavery through the 1920s.
It used photographs, essays, documents. Random
House had been, you know, a bit uncertain about
it at first. I can imagine. But its reception
was ecstatic. It's a remarkable piece of preservation.
And it was during the compilation of this very
book that she stumbled upon the real -life story
of Margaret Garner, the enslaved woman who...
Like the elder child. Yes. So her work as an
editor, as a curator, it directly fed the inspiration
for her most celebrated novel years later. The
institutional role prepared her for the artistic
one. It's hard to overstate how influential she
was as an editor before she ever became a famous
author. She was already shaping the literary
world. And her own transition to novelists came
after she started writing in an informal writers
group while she was teaching at Howard. That
small group was the safe space where her first
novel, The Bluest Eye, was born in 1970. It started
as a short story about a black girl, Pakola Breedlove,
who internalized racism so deeply that she just
longed for blue eyes. The novel is a searing
look at how racial aesthetic standards can destroy
self -worth from within the community. And the
context of its creation is legendary. It shows
her sheer discipline. She famously got up every
morning at 4 a .m. to write while raising two
young children by herself. Is that commitment
reflected anywhere in the themes of the novel
itself? Oh, absolutely. That early morning discipline
reflects the novel's thematic core. The difficulty
of carving out a space for self -creation and
dignity in a world that is constantly trying
to diminish you. The very act of writing The
Bluest Eye was an act of repossession, mirroring
the theme of the black community struggling to
claim its own internal beauty. And it was published
when she was 39. The critical praise was immediate
that the commercial success was a little slower
at first. Correct. The New York Times praised
her precise prose. But initial sales were pretty
modest. The big shift came when colleges and
universities started adopting The Bluest Eye
for their new black studies departments. So this
institutional adoption, driven by the very cultural
movement she was championing as an editor, cemented
the book's importance. Her next book, Sula, which
focused on the complex friendship between two
black women, was quickly nominated for the National
Book Award. But the novel that truly launched
her into the national consciousness, the one
that really established her, was Song of Solomon
in 1977. Song of Solomon is just massive, both
in its scope and its influence. It follows the
main character, Macon Milkman, dead the third,
as he undertakes this journey to discover his
heritage. It weaves together realism, myth, folk
tradition. The style incorporates what we now
call magical realism. like the myth of the flying
Africans, to explore themes of identity and escape.
And its historical significance is just impossible
to overlook. It was the first novel by a black
writer to be chosen as a main selection of the
Book of the Month Club since Richard Wright's
Native Son. Which was way back in 1940. In 1940.
That 37 -year gap just underscores how monumental
this achievement was. Native Son was groundbreaking,
but Song of Solomon defined a new path. a literary
style that embraced cultural myth and lyrical
prose. It won the National Book Critics Circle
Award, and that made her a literary star. And
then came 1987 and the publication of Beloved,
which for so many people is the crowning achievement
of her whole career. And we mentioned the inspiration
for this came directly from her editorial work
on The Black Book. Yes, from the true story of
Margaret Garner, an enslaved woman who, after
escaping, killed her two -year -old daughter
to prevent the child's return to slavery. Morrison
took this horrific historical act and transformed
it into this complex, psychological, supernatural
story. The plot imagines the dead baby returning
as a ghost, named Beloved, to haunt the mother,
Seath, and her family. The narrative structure
of Beloved is, well, it's famously fragmented.
It refuses a simple, linear telling of the story.
How did that deliberate fragmentation serve the
themes of trauma and memory? Well, trauma doesn't
operate in a straight line, does it? It exists
in constant flashes and repetitions. By fragmenting
the timeline, Morrison forces the reader to experience
the persistence of the past. The ghost, beloved,
isn't just a horror trope. She's the physical
embodiment of unacknowledged, unmourned history.
The novel's central question is, how do you deal
with a past so horrific it's unspeakable? And
the answer, structurally, is by forcing the community,
and you, the reader, to piece the story together.
Peace by Painful Peace. The critical reception
was immediate and overwhelmingly positive. It
was a bestseller for 25 weeks. And yet, despite
all this, the novel initially failed to win the
major awards, which led to a very public and
highly charged literary controversy. It did.
Beloved was shockingly overlooked by both the
National Book Award and the National Book Critics
Circle Award that year. And this omission sparked
as profound outrage among her peers, who felt
that the establishment was still unwilling to
recognize the full scope of genius when it came
from. a black woman writing about the central
trauma of American history. And this is where
the power of collective cultural advocacy came
into play. 48 prominent black critics and writers,
including Maya Angelou, published a public protest
statement in The New York Times. What was the
underlying message of that protest? It was an
assertion of cultural authority. It wasn't just
about winning an award. It was about defining
value. The statement essentially told the overwhelmingly
white literary establishment, you are missing
the most important voice of our time. Your system
of validation is flawed. Wow. And it worked.
The sources show that Beloved won the Pulitzer
Prize for fiction two months later, cementing
its place in the canon. It's also really important
to see Beloved not just as a standalone masterpiece,
but as the beginning of a larger literary project.
It was the first in a trilogy. This trilogy concept
is a key insight into her whole method. She said
they were linked by the search for the beloved,
the part of the self that is you and loves you
and is always there for you. Jazz, the second
book, tries to recover that identity through
the rhythm of improvisation set in the Harlem
Renaissance. And Paradise, the final book, moves
to a communal scale, focusing on an all -black
town in Oklahoma and exploring the failures of
utopianism. And during this same incredibly productive
period, she also released a piece of nonfiction
that has been just profoundly influential on
how literature is taught in universities. That
would be Playing in the Dark, Whiteness and the
Literary Imagination from 1992. It's a collection
of essays examining the Africanist presence in
classic American literature by white authors
like Poe, Hawthorne, Melville. It's one of her
most frequently assigned texts on college campuses.
A true watershed moment. So how does she define
that Africanist presence and why was it so revolutionary
to point it out? She argued that this presence,
the black or African figure, was consistently
used as a structural necessity, this silent dark
shadow that allowed white authors to define their
own concepts of freedom and innocence. So like
Jim and Huckleberry Finn. Exactly. His status
as a non -person is what allows Huck to have
his moral journey. Morrison argued that criticism
had been too polite or too fearful to notice
this disrupting darkness that fundamentally underpinned
the white American story. She forced critics
to confront the fact that American identity was
constructed in opposition to the black figure.
It just fundamentally shifted the gaze. And then
in 1993 came the ultimate validation of her life's
work, the Nobel Prize in Literature. She was
the first black woman of any nationality to win.
The Nobel Committee praised her novels for being
characterized by visionary force and poetic import,
giving life to an essential aspect of American
reality. It was global recognition that her work
wasn't on the periphery. It was central to understanding
the modern condition. And in her acceptance speech,
she left us with that incredibly memorable line,
we die, that may be the meaning of life, but
we do language. that may be the measure of our
lives. It just encapsulates her belief in the
enduring, regenerative power of narrative. Language
is the tool for building and preserving culture.
Her Nobel lecture itself is a beautiful metaphor,
a story about an old, blind Black woman approached
by young people who demand literature for their
lives. And her command to them was not to read
the past, but to create the future. In the later
stages of her career, Morrison really solidified
her role as a public intellectual. She was wielding
influence through, you know, both the rigorous
world of academia and the broad reach of mass
media. Her academic career was just exceptional.
She held the prestigious Robert F. Goheen Chair
in the Humanities at Princeton from 1989 until
she retired in 2006. And this gave her an institutional
platform to influence the next generation of
thinkers and artists. It's during her Princeton
years that she made that very clear statement
on the artist's responsibility, famously telling
her creative writing students, I don't want to
hear about your little life, okay. And that quote
is so often misunderstood as just a dismissal
of memoir, but it's much deeper. It's a philosophical
statement about the responsibility of art. She
was demanding that her students go beyond mere
personal anecdote and tap into something universal,
something invented. Her own refusal to ever write
an autobiography confirms this. She also had
a huge impact on Princeton's creative structure,
developing the Princeton Atelier. The Atelier
was a crucial, cross -disciplinary program she
conceived. The whole goal was to bring students
together with professional artists to produce
public, collaborative works. It emphasized process
and creation. Her impact was later honored when
Morrison Hall at Princeton was dedicated to her
in 2017. OK, now let's talk about her foray into
mass media, specifically the film adaptation
of Beloved in 1998, which was co -produced by
and starred Oprah Winfrey. Oprah spent 10 years
bringing that book to the screen, which just
shows her deep commitment to Morrison's work.
The film's reception was. Well, it was complicated.
It was a commercial flop at the box office. A
lot of publications chalked it up to audiences
just being unwilling to endure nearly three hours
of a cerebral film dealing with murder, rape,
slavery, and supernatural themes. It was difficult
material. But critics who understood her work
defended the structure. I know Roger Ebert, for
example, noted that the film's nonlinear structure
was an intentional echo of the novel. Yes, it
was used to explore the deeper issues of generational
trauma, not just to provide a simple story. But
regardless of the Thurm's box office, Oprah Winfrey
proved to be the single most potent commercial
engine for Morrison's work through the power
of her book club. This became known as the Oprah
Effect. This is a truly remarkable case study
in how mass media can elevate serious literature.
Starting with Song of Solomon in 1996, Oprah
selected four of Morrison's novels. It exposed
her work to a massive audience that went way
beyond academic and traditional literary circles.
And the statistics are just stunning. The sales
boost Morrison got from the Oprah selections
surpassed the sales lift her work received from
winning the Nobel Prize. Really? That's incredible.
Yeah. To give you a concrete example, when Winfrey
selected The Bluest Eye in 2000, it sold an additional
800 ,000 paperback copies. copies. It just confirms
her unique ability to speak across cultural divides
to the intellectual elite and the mass reading
public at the same time. Morrison herself called
the book club a reading revolution. It affirmed
her belief that serious, difficult literature
could resonate deeply with a popular audience
if it was just given a platform. In her later
years, she also explored a lot of creative collaborations.
She provided text for classical music scores.
She collaborated on the song cycle Honey and
Rue and Woman .Life .Song. And she went right
back to the historical roots of Beloved when
she wrote the libretto for the opera Margaret
Garner in 2005. It just shows her deep, lasting
commitment to that story. She transformed it
across mediums, from historical document to novel
to theatrical performance. In 2011, she also
collaborated with director Peter Sellers on Desdemona,
which was a powerful reexamination of Shakespeare's
Othello, focusing on the relationship between
Desdemona and her African nursemaid. Personally,
though, this later period was marked by profound
tragedy. Her younger son, Slade Kevin Morrison,
with whom she had collaborated on several children's
books, died of pancreatic cancer in 2010. It
was an immense loss, one that briefly caused
her to stop writing altogether. She later spoke
very movingly about the difficulty of continuing,
but she realized that Slade would have been profoundly
disappointed if his death had caused her to abandon
her art. She concluded he would want her to continue,
so she finished Home in 2012, a story of a Korean
War veteran grappling with trauma, and she dedicated
it to Slade. And her 11th and final novel, God
Help the Child, published in 2015, confirmed
that her vision was still sharp and focused right
until the end. Yes, it focuses on Bride, an executive
who is traumatized by her mother for being dark
-skinned, a theme that brings her career full
circle, right back to the internalized racism
she explored in The Bluest Guy. So moving beyond
her narrative achievements and cultural influence,
we need to really focus on the philosophical
core of Toni Morrison's work because it's built
on this radical sense of self -possession and
literary defiance. This is where the deep dive
analysis truly begins. And the centerpiece of
this philosophy is her absolute unyielding commitment
to writing without the white gaze. She made it
her mission to ensure that the white gaze was
not the dominant one in her books, meaning the
narrative was never structured to explain black
life to a white. readership. So how did that
practice actually impact the structure and the
language of her novels? If she was purposefully
excluding the dominant cultural reference point,
how did she stay so accessible and critically
rigorous? Well she maintained rigor by focusing
purely on the internal dynamics. When you remove
the white gaze, you remove the need for exposition,
for justification, for translation. She didn't
know vernacular. She didn't explain cultural
practices. She simply presented the African -American
experience as the entire necessary universe.
And this forces the reader, no matter their background,
to enter her world on her terms. She once said
about navigating the white male world, it wasn't
even interesting. I was more interesting than
they were. I knew more than they did. That's
quite a statement. It is. And that internal confidence
allowed her to write fiction that just required
no external validation. She was also very explicit
that she was writing to and for a specific primary
audience, primarily black women. She said in
a 1986 interview, we are writing to repossess,
rename, reown. And that is a declaration of artistic
sovereignty. Repossess the history stolen by
slavery, rename the self and the community, and
reown the narrative perspective. She accepted
the labels black and female, arguing that they
weren't restrictive but expansive, that they
gave her a rich place to write from. Her views
on feminism, however, were often more nuanced,
which can sometimes be confusing for readers
who are expecting a simple ideological alignment.
She avoided identifying her work as purely feminist
because she wanted to maintain open doors and
avoid being boxed into closed positions or restrictive
ideologies. While she strongly advocated for
equitable access for women, she rejected limiting
structures, criticizing both patriarchy and matriarchy
as limiting forms of power. And this ties into
the black feminist movement of the 1970s, which
often adopted the term womanist. It does. She
noted that black feminists often called themselves
womanists, a term coined by Alice Walker. This
reflected a historically different relationship
with black men, where black women often felt
compelled to shelter and protect them, knowing
they were the ones most likely to be killed.
by systemic violence. Their struggle was linked
to the survival of the entire community. OK,
let's tackle something that gets brought up all
the time, but I think is it's almost always misunderstood.
Her phrase calling Bill Clinton our first black
president. This demands some serious unpacking.
Oh, this is vital context. The phrase appeared
in a 1998 New Yorker article during the height
of the Whitewater investigation and the impeachment
proceedings. She did not mean he was literally
black. She meant he was being treated by the
political system and the media like a black man.
So the analogy was rooted in her deep critique
of systemic criminalization. Exactly. She argued
he was being treated like a black on the street,
already guilty, already a perp, subjected to
a level of scrutiny and assumed guilt that is
structurally reserved for black men. She later
clarified it was a critique of the system's overzealous,
racially charged behavior toward him. It was
a statement about structural. racism, not racial
identity. And she maintained that sharp political
focus in the post -Obama era. After endorsing
Barack Obama in 2008, she later focused heavily
on the continued lack of racial accountability
in America. Her 2015 commentary on police violence
set this extraordinarily high bar for judging
when racial conflict would be over. She stated,
I want to see a cop shoot a white, unarmed teenager
in the back, and I want to see a white man convicted
for raping a black woman. Then when you ask me,
is it over? I will say yes. That quote is just
a powerful, almost desperate call for true systemic
inversion, a belief that equality will only be
achieved when white individuals face the same
presumption of guilt. And after the 2016 election,
she wrote the piercing essay, Mourning for Whiteness.
Her analysis was that white Americans had elected
Donald Trump, whom she noted was endorsed by
the Ku Klux Klan, not necessarily because they
believed in his policies, but because they fundamentally
feared losing their racial privileges. So in
her view, the vote was an act of preserving white
supremacy. Right. But her influence, it transcends
political commentary and it's rooted in tangible
memorialization and literary activism. Her birthday
is Toni Morrison Day in Ohio. Her papers are
at Princeton. But the most powerful piece of
her enduring legacy might be the Bench by the
Road project. This concept comes directly from
a 1988 speech. Yes, she was lamenting the national
refusal to memorialize the victims of slavery.
She noted that while there are monuments to wars
and generals, there's no small bench by the road.
This phrase inspired the Toni Morrison Society
to start installing physical memorial benches
by the road at historically significant sites,
like Sullivan's Isle in South Carolina, a major
entry point for enslaved Africans. This project
is the ultimate physical embodiment of her literary
philosophy, an active, ongoing process of recognizing
and reowning the world. A quote from her is also
inscribed at the National Memorial for Peace
and Justice in Montgomery. Zadie Smith, a writer
who was heavily influenced by Morrison, captured
the vast scope of her influence perfectly. She
noted that Morrison, quote, rejected the very
concept of the narrow door and claimed for herself
the wide world. She didn't wait for permission.
She just redefined the boundaries of what was
possible. What an immense, world -altering life
we've just traced. We've seen her arc from Chloe
Wofford, the child of working -class Ohio grounded
in resilience and folktales, to the crucial editor
who used institutional authority to champion
an entire generation of Black literary voices.
And from there, she ascended to become an author
who won the highest literary honor, the Nobel
Prize, by writing what the New York Times Book
Review rightly called the best work of American
fiction published in the previous 25 years. years
beloved her core strength and the reason her
legacy is so vital was her absolute uncompromising
decision to center the black experience as the
complete entire universe of her fiction by rejecting
the need to address the white gaze she expanded
the literary world for everyone showing that
true universality is found in profound specificity
so what does this all mean if we connect this
to the bigger picture Morrison's Nobel quote,
we do language. That may be the measure of our
lives. It encapsulates her life's work as a continuous
act of creation and preservation. She used language
to measure and define history, repossessing,
renaming and reowning the past through story.
And that commitment to language was also a caution.
In her 1996 Jefferson lecture, she argued that
time, it seems, has no future. She was cautioning
against the misuse of history, how it can diminish
future expectations by locking us into these
past narratives of failure or limitation. We
are deeply indebted to Toni Morrison for the
immense, expansive space she created in literature.
But the work of using language to measure life
continues. And based on her warnings, we leave
you with this final provocative thought. What
story are you telling yourself about the past,
your history, your family, your community that
might be unintentionally limiting your expectations
for the future? Go explore her work, find your
own bench by the road, and think about the radical
potential of the language you do. Thank you for
joining us for the Deep Dive. We'll see you next
time.