Opal Street, as streets go, is no jewel of the first water. It is merely an imitation, and none too good at that. Narrow, unsparkling, uninviting, it stretches meekly off from dull Jefferson Street to the dingy, drab market which forms the north side of Oxford Street.
After reading "Quicksand" and "Passing" by Nella Larsen last month, I read an article about women writers of the Harlem Renaissance, and learned of Jessie Redmon Fauset's book, "Plum Bun: A Novel Without a Moral". The quote on the book cover says "A fine example of the hidden Harlem Renaissance - where the women were writers too." I'm eager to read this book.