Invisible Man Review

Having finished Invisible Man, I feel compelled to write some reactionary notes before moving on to my assignments. One thing about it really bothers me. For just as I began to near the long-awaited conclusion, a thought struck me: Honestly? The whole purpose in writing is selfish-- to fulfill your own needs-- speaking for pages and pages not for the reader, but for yourself? Could you not have spoken to an empty room instead? Could you not have written the thing for your own satisfaction, without sending it to a publisher? And so I read on with itchy indignation, thinking of the author's selfishness, and that I had read something that was never really intended for me; a diary disguised as a novel! How ridiculous! How could this Ellison dupe me so?! But I finished. I pushed through, even tried to taste the last lines thoroughly, as one might try to savor a final bite of fine chocolate. And yet as I savored it, it turned bitter and confused in my mouth. What! Another lie! Another boomerang! "Who knows but that, on the lower frequencies, I speak for you?" True! Who does know? So for whom do you speak, Ralph? Do you write for your own satisfaction, or for my enlightenment? And why must either be mixed with so much unholy confusion? Why the insanity? Why do I read the last quivering line, only to feel violated? Cheated? Betrayed? Do you do this only to convey IM's feelings for the brotherhood? I have read books, only to put them down and sit in profound confusion for days. But this is new. I felt nothing but distaste until the end--probably Chapter 25-- and just as I tell myself, "Maybe it's not so bad, after all," you plunge me into confusion once again? Well, Mr. Ellison, I tell you one thing for sure. You have not written for me, even if you think you have. You wrote and wrote and in so doing changed yourself again, just as you changed through the entire book ,and you will continue to change. There is no end. No top. No reality. Your disillusionment will never end. Life is nothing but illusion anyway. Is that your theme? Is it really? Do you even have a theme? Or it may be, "Trust no one. Whites are tyrants and blacks are fools." That's wonderful. Well, congratulations. The only time I've been racist in my entire life was while reading your book. And I've learned nothing, because you've learned nothing, and neither did your nameless invisible man. What do I know about your protagonist, anyway? He had, at once, no name and two names. He was a "ginger negro". He doesn't have the balls to stick to his ideals and he's easily fooled by redheads. He died many deaths and lives now, emerging belatedly from drunken hibernation. Who will he be when he comes out into the light? A saint? A white man? Dr. Bledsoe? Sybil?

cont'd

I was going to write this morning, but my plate was rather full.
In any case, today's been wonderful. I woke up in a good mood. And I don't know what came over me last night. I suppose I was just tired. Plagued with a strange misery.
I don't remember now what my complaint was. Something with social issues, cultural differences. Something to do with having to face the fact that I'm a part of my culture more than I'll ever want to admit. Now today the sun hides behi9nd clouds and the air is filled with angry little water droplets, and yet to me the world shines with beauty.
Coffee rests playfully on my palate as I recall today's series of events, all filled with joy. Why am I in such a pleasant mood today? I don't know, and I don't care to. Somehow, I'm uplifted.



Perhaps there is a God.

Again . . .

It seems to me that this is the best place to write when I really need to.
Even when I've neglected it for almost half a year.
Exhaustion, disappointment, and polyurethane fumes. Bad mix.
I hate the bitter taste of disappointment in my mouth.
Hate the ugly face of belligerence in my presence.
. . . and now I'm interrupted. Why must life scorn me to such an extent?
Ah, I guess my life is not so horrid; so unfair. Just now it feels that every drop of rain exists solely to fall upon my head. But this is attitude is foolish and I am well aware. To continue in such a mentality would lower me to nothing beyond a common teenager. Let me rest. Let me sleep. Let my dreams chase away all that is troublesome or frightening, and perhaps I will return in the morn to better outline my complaints. I am sorry to the Internet for my intermittent postings; my childish whines.
Maybe some good will spring forth.Maybe I will grow.

Failure feels delicious.

I tried, and failed. I wanted to be the most docile person I could be. But Now I'm going to explode. I simply can't live the life I love without being extreme in the oddest of ways. Without being myself in a way that no one can deny or without chasing be dreams with all my strength. I will be calm. i will be loving and compassionate and soft. But I will be static energy, living in the corners of the universe tat no one ever dusts. I am life. I am love. I am everything I want and everything I need. I will breathe every breath like it is my first and my last. I will see every light like it welcomes me to Heaven. I will taste all food as if I am starving. Savor each scent as if it is new. I need people to understand that I am more than I seem. That I'm strong in a way that they don't see. That I am spectacular. And that all starts with me.

Failure feels delicious.

...

I don't have anything in particular to say, I just feel like writing.
It's Wednesday, and I had Monday off. Yet somehow this has managed to be a hellish week. Too much work, too much pain, too much confusion.

My hand is healing nicely; on the surface it's little more than a pink line, and it only hurts now if I really strain my hand or put significant pressure on it. So, that's something good. I have to try to focus on the good... it seems that there are too many negative things competing for attention...

I suppose the primary cause of my stress is myself. Ultimately, I allow myself to be frustrated. I choose to wait too long and work too hard, hence my exhaustion. I let myself stress.

But life hasn't been doing me too many favors lately. My mother had surgery... again. I've been bitchy to my boyfriend, which I just feel awful about-- that's not life's fault, but it's a stress. I've had loads of work to do. It's strange how when I write down my stressors, they look so small and so few that I wonder why I bother being stressed about them. However, it's a lot less daunting to read loads of work than to read 4 Psychology Essays, 5 sketches, 2 Physics Labs, 4 Biology Reading Guides, 1 Biology Lab, 2 Faith Papers, US History Midterm Essay, Psychology Midterm, Advanced Pre-Calculus Midterm, Latin project (gigantic poster/sculpture), Roman Mythology Test, English Transcendentalism/Anti-Transcendentalism/Poetry Test, US History Objective Midterm, English Literature Midterm, Physics Midterm, Biology Midterm, Faith Midterm Project.
Hm... perhaps the stress is somewhat justified, then.

I feel as if I should now establish some important, controlling point and wrap this up with a simple, yet deep lesson about life.

Sorry.

Ouch

So. it's been a tough week. A really tough week. And so, to cheer myself, when I came home today I began to work on a project I've been doing that I quite love. One part of this, which I started today, involves carving out part of a wood block to fit a rather large magnet. I carefully measured and scored the block, hoping to be as precise as I could. Several minutes into this, however, the scythe-shaped tool I was using slipped off of the block and plunged into the center of my left hand.
Sudden pain. Excruciating. Why did this hurt so bad? Had I severed nerves? I ran to the sink, turned on the cold water, and thrust my hand beneath. After a second or so, the icy fluid felt suddenly warm. Panic. Had I somehow injured myself beyond distinguishing warm from cold? I felt the water with my right hand, and found to my great relief that the warmth was no hallucination. Quickly grabbing a rag to dry my hand and staunch the bleeding, I sprinted upstairs to get a numbing/disinfecting spray and, after returning downstairs, covered my hand with it. Then, still in pain but slightly calmer, I filled my rag with ice and held it to my palm.
It was then that I commenced pacing. I always pace to calm myself down. But no-- I thought how, at such a generally good time of my life, I got constantly injured. There was a time I would have appreciated that. I thought of telling someone-- I knew I wouldn't be heard. I'm never heard. I thought how I was in pain, and no one else in the entire world knew or cared. I paced faster. I thought about my week, and as tears finally broke over my eyelids and rolled down my face, the phrase, "the straw that broke the camel's back" slipped deviously into my mind, haunting me. And I knew that somehow, despite all my growth, I was where I'd always been-- completely and utterly alone, even among loved ones. Through my quiet sobbing I flexed the fingers of my left hand slightly, looking to make sure they did as they were told. But even as relief flooded through me once again, I cried a little harder at the thought that I had to check at all. Pathetic, lonely and helpless. I've come so far.
Just as I was ready to begin calming myself down, the phone rang. I ran upstairs to it, picked it up. "Hello, Jacquie!" Betty. About 70 years old, she was a sweet woman with a big heart and a tendency to talk a lot. As she told me she had a cold/flu/bug/etc., I sighed to myself. My last tears had not yet fallen from my face and still I held my bleeding hand... and already I was listening to someone else's problems. It seemed ridiculous. It also characterized my life.

Now, as I was unable to find medical tape for use with gauze, I have two Band-Aids on my hand.

Life is fabulous.

2010

It's been a while since I've posted.
Everything has changed... 2009 was more a year of change than I ever expected.
And now it's over. A new year full of potential awaits, and I plan to use it to the best of my ability.
I don't know what I'll do as far as writing. I haven't written much lately. I just have to figure out my life. My interests. My future. And run with it. Take it to the extreme.
2010 will be beautiful.