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.