It was the back cover that really killed me: Whitney in a white bathing suit, bestriding some rocky shore like an Eighties Athena and gazing off into the distance with her hands on her hips and her chin up high. Shit, I would think. Has anyone ever been this lucky? And then: Is that really what 19 looks like?
I suppose on some level I was aware of the complication of a little white girl having such thoughts, but that didn’t make them less sincere. I could spend hours flipping the record back and forth as that very grown up voice rippled over me, wondering how God could love one person that much. She would have been remarkable without her beauty, but the fact that she also appeared to have alighted from the clouds turned her from a talent into a phenomenon, one that consolidated everything we valued most into one flawless package.