Whether motto on Oven is Beware Furrow of His Be Furrow of His or even Are Furrow of His Brow or Her Brow, God's brow is not only one that is furrowed in Toni Morrison's seventh novel, Paradise. The brows of many of characters are furrowed in anger, frustration, or perplexity: in particular, nine Ruby men who attack Convent; Ruby's three ministers, who quarrel over meaning of God's love; Patricia Best, who tries unsuccessfully understand social discriminations in Ruby; Consolata, who for much of is tired of living; and Mavis and Gigi, who squabble over everything. Readers' brows also are likely be furrowed as they try absorb complexities and nuances of this novel. A persistent theme in early reviews of is its difficulty: Louis Menand finds that the writing is more demanding and takes more chances than in Song of Solomon or Beloved (78); Carol Shields calls it long, complex, fluent novel and great sprawl of a narrative (16); and for Richard Eder to read Toni Morrison is advance upon an Olympic wrestling master. We draw confidently near, only be hurled onto our backs and set in opposite direction (2). (1) Morrison's own brow was also apparently furrowed while she wrote novel, for she describes having work very hard create three-dimensional characters without indicating their race (Rose). In a sense, there is nothing new about this: All participants in Morrison's novels-characters, readers, presumably Morrison, and Morrison's narrator in Jazz-engage in serious work that usually furrows their brows. Readers are familiar with Morrison's tendency delve beyond what into more problematic how and why, with her nonlinear, polyvocal, multi-stranded narratives; and with such challenging techniques as jump-cutting radically from one scene and/or perspective another and dropping unexplained tidbits that leave readers suspended, waiting for more information. But in Paradise Morrison ups ante. From its opening sentence, They shoot white girl first, readers are confronted with questions whose answers are usually delayed and sometimes never revealed: Who are they? Do they kill or only wound girl? Which girl is white? Who else do they shoot, wound, or kill? Why are they shooting these women? Although readers eventually learn identities and motives of shooters, they ar e never told which of Convent women is white or whether any of them besides Consolata is killed, just as they are left wonder about many other details, such as who is related whom in Ruby, what motto on communal oven says, or who mysterious men are who occasionally appear (the walking man, Dovey's Friend, and cowboy figure who talks with Consolata). Just as Morrison moves beyond what why and how, so should readers. The question is not what ambiguities arise in text, nor is it how such ambiguities can be resolved. The issue centers on effects Morrison creates through such an ambiguous and knotty text. The general effect is require readers work hard, so that they, like characters and author, become truly part of fictional enterprise. Whereas Morrison's previous novels have invited readers participate, have, in Morrison's words, left holes and spaces so reader can come into [them] (Tate 25), in Paradise reader is forced work hard simply enter into text. Morrison takes a great risk here, since readers may not be willing make such a commitment, may walk away rather than study and re-study novel. She acknowledges this risk when she admits that this may not be her most affecting or enjoyable (Rose), but her comments suggest that her emphasis is on readers' participation rather than their enjoyme nt. For example, she left unidentified races of Convent women because knowing about a person's race is least amount of information an individual has when confronting another, and therefore readers will have move beyond that conventional, but Morrison less significant, piece of information and will thereby have to be as creative as possible in responding racial codes (OnlineHost). …