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----Xm;yzwo;dhi Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison a.b.e-book v3.0 / Notes at EOF Back Cover: Winner of the National Book Award for fiction. . . Acclaimed by a 1965 Book Week poll of 200 prominent authors, critics, and editors as "the m ost distinguished single work published in the last twenty years. " Unlike any novel you've ever read, this is a richly comic, deepl y tragic, and profoundly soul-searching story of one young Negro' s baffling experiences on the road to self-discovery. From the bizarre encounter with the white trustee that results in h is expulsion from a Southern college, to its powerful culmination in New York's Harlem, his story moves with a relentless drive: -- the nightmari sh job in a paint factory -- the bitter disillusionment with the "Brothe rhood" and its policy of betrayal -- the violent climax when screaming tensio ns are released in a terrifying race riot. This brilliant, monumental novel is a triumph of story-tellin g. It reveals profound insight into every man's struggle to find his t rue self. "Tough, brutal, sensational. . . it blazes with authentic tal ent." -- New York Times "A work of extraordinary intensity -- powerfully imagined and wri tten with a savage, wryly humorous gusto." -- The Atlantic Monthly "A stunning block-buster of a book that will floor and flabbe rgast some people, bedevil and intrigue others, and keep everybody readin g right through to its explosive end." -- Langston Hughes "Ellison writes at a white heat, but a heat which he manipulate s like a veteran." -- Chicago Sun-Times TO IDA COPYRIGHT, 1947, 1948, 1952, BY RALPH ELLISON All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. For information address Random House, Inc., 457 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10022. This is an authorized reprint of a hardcover edition published by Random House, Inc. THIRTEENTH PRINTING SIGNET BOOKS are published by The New American Library, Inc., 1301 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10019 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA "You are saved," cried Captain Delano, more and more astonished a nd pained; "you are saved: what has cast such a shadow upon you?" Herman Melville, Benito Cereno HARRY: I tell you, it is not me you are looking at, Not me you are grinning at, not me your confidential looks Incriminate, but that other person, if person, You thought I was: let your necrophily Feed upon that carcase. . . T. S. Eliot, Family Reunion Prologue I am an invisible man. No, I am not a spook like those who haunte d Edgar Allan Poe; nor am I one of your Hollywood-movie ectopla sms. I am a man of substance, of flesh and bone, fiber and liquids -- and I might even be said to possess a mind. I am invisible, understand, simply bec ause people refuse to see me. Like the bodiless heads you see sometimes in c ircus sideshows, it is as though I have been surrounded by mirrors of hard, distorting glass. When they approach me they see only my surround ings, themselves, or figments of their imagination -- indeed, eve rything and anything except me. Nor is my invisibility exactly a matter of a bio-chemical acc ident to my epidermis. That invisibility to which I refer occurs because of a peculiar disposition of the eyes of those with whom I come in contact. A matter of the construction of their inner eyes, those eyes with which th ey look through their physical eyes upon reality. I am not complaining, nor am I protesting either. It is sometimes advantageous to be unseen, although i t is most often rather wearing on the nerves. Then too, you're constantly being bumped against by those of poor vision. Or again, you often doubt if y ou really exist. You wonder whether you aren't simply a phantom in other people 's minds. Say, a figure in a nightmare which the sleeper tries with all his s trength to destroy. It's when you feel like this that, out of resentment, y ou begin to bump people back. And, let me confess, you feel that way most o f the time. You ache with the need to convince yourself that you do exist in the real world, that you're a part of all the sound and anguish, and you stri ke out with your fists, you curse and you swear to make them recognize y ou. And, alas, it's seldom successful. One night I accidentally bumped into a man, and perhaps becaus e of the near darkness he saw me and called me an insulting name. I sp rang at him, seized his coat lapels and demanded that he apologize. H e was a tall blond man, and as my face came close to his he looked insolentl y out of his blue eyes and cursed me, his breath hot in my face as he struggled. I pulled his chin down sharp upon the crown of my head, butting him as I had seen the West Indians do, and I felt his flesh tear and the blood gus h out, and I yelled, "Apologize! Apologize!" But he continued to curse an d struggle, and I butted him again and again until he went down heavily, on his k nees, profusely bleeding. I kicked him repeatedly, in a frenzy becaus e he still uttered insults though his lips were frothy with blood. Oh yes, I kicked him! And in my outrage I got out my knife and prepared to slit his throat, right there beneath the lamplight in the deserted street, holding him by the collar with one hand, and opening the knife with my teeth -- when it oc curred to me that the man had not seen me, actually; that he, as far as he k new, was in the midst of a walking nightmare! And I stopped the blade, sl icing the air as I pushed him away, letting him fall back to the street. I stare d at him hard as the lights of a car stabbed through the darkness. He lay th ere, moaning on the asphalt; a man almost killed by a phantom. It un nerved me. I was both disgusted and ashamed. I was like a drunken man mysel f, wavering about on weakened legs. Then I was amused. Something in this man's thick head had sprung out and beaten him within an inch of his life. I began to laugh at this crazy discovery. Would he have awakened at the point of death? Would Death himself have freed him for wakeful livin g? But I didn't linger. I ran away into the dark, laughing so hard I feared I m ight rupture myself. The next day I saw his picture in the Daily News, b eneath a caption stating that he had been "mugged." Poor fool, poor bl ind fool, I thought with sincere compassion, mugged by an invisible man! Most of the time (although I do not choose as I once did to deny the violence of my days by ignoring it) I am not so overtly violen t. I remember that I am invisible and walk softly so as not to awaken the sleeping ones. Sometimes it is best not to awaken them; there a re few things in the world as dangerous as sleepwalkers. I learned in time thoug h that it is possible to carry on a fight against them without their realizi ng it. For instance, I have been carrying on a fight with Monopolated Lig ht & Power for some time now. I use their service and pay them nothing at all, and they don't know it. Oh, they suspect that power is being drained off , but they don't know where. All they know is that according to the master m eter back there in their power station a hell of a lot of free current is disap pearing somewhere into the jungle of Harlem. The joke, of course, is that I don't live in Harlem but in a border area. Several years ago (before I discovered the advantage of being invisible) I went through the routine proces s of buying service and paying their outrageous rates. But no more. I gave up all that, along with my apartment, and my old way of life: That way based u pon the fallacious assumption that I, like other men, was visible. N ow, aware of my invisibility, I live rent-free in a building rented strictly to w hites, in a section of the basement that was shut off and forgotten during the ninet eenth century, which I discovered when I was trying to escape in the n ight from Ras the Destroyer. But that's getting too far ahead of the story , almost to the end, although the end is in the beginning and lies far ahead. The point now is that I found a home -- or a hole in the ground, as you will. Now don't jump to the conclusion that because I call my home a "hole" it is damp and cold like a grave; there are cold holes and wa rm holes. Mine is a warm hole. And remember, a bear retires to his hole for the w inter and lives until spring; then he comes strolling out like the Eas ter chick breaking from its shell. I say all this to assure you that it is inc orrect to assume that, because I'm invisible and live in a hole, I am dea d. I am neither dead nor in a state of suspended animation. Call me Ja ck-the-Bear, for I am in a state of hibernation. My hole is warm and full of light. Yes, full of light. I doubt if t here is a brighter spot in all New York than this hole of mine, and I do n ot exclude Broadway. Or the Empire State Building on a photographe r's dream night. But that is taking advantage of you. Those two spots are among the darkest of our whole civilization -- pardon me, our whole cultu re (an important distinction, I've heard) -- which might sound like a hoax, or a contradiction, but that (by contradiction, I mean) is how the w orld moves: Not like an arrow, but a boomerang. (Beware of those who speak of th e spiral of history; they are preparing a boomerang. Keep a steel hel met handy.) I know; I have been boomeranged across my head so much that I now c an see the darkness of lightness. And I love light. Perhaps you'll think it strange that an invisible man should need light, desire light, love li ght. But maybe it is exactly because I am invisible. Light confirms my reality, g ives birth to my form. A beautiful girl once told me of a recurring nightmare in which she lay in the center of a large dark room and felt her face expand until it filled the whole room, becoming a formless mass while her eyes ran in biliou s jelly up the chimney. And so it is with me. Without light I am not only in visible, but formless as well; and to be unaware of one's form is to live a death . I myself, after existing some twenty years, did not become aliv e until I discovered my invisibility. That is why I fight my battle with Monopolated Light & Power. Th e deeper reason, I mean: It allows me to feel my vital aliveness. I also fight them for taking so much of my money before I learned to protect mys elf. In my hole in the basement there are exactly 1,369 lights. I've wire d the entire ceiling, every inch of it. And not with fluorescent bulbs, but with the older, more-expensive-to-operate kind, the filament type. An act of sabotage, you know. I've already begun to wire the wall. A junk man I know, a man of vision, has supplied me with wire and sockets. Nothing, storm o r flood, must get in the way of our need for light and ever more and brighter lig ht. The truth is the light and light is the truth. When I finish all four w alls, then I'll start on the floor. Just how that will go, I don't know. Yet when y ou have lived invisible as long as I have you develop a certain ingenui ty. I'll solve the problem. And maybe I'll invent a gadget to place my coffeepot o n the fire while I lie in bed, and even invent a gadget to warm my bed -- like the fellow I saw in one of the picture magazines who made himself a g adget to warm his shoes! Though invisible, I am in the great American tradi tion of tinkers. That makes me kin to Ford, Edison and Franklin. Call me, since I have a theory and a concept, a "thinker-tinker." Yes, I'll warm m y shoes; they need it, they're usually full of holes. I'll do that and more. Now I have one radio-phonograph; I plan to have five. There is a certain acoustical deadness in my hole, and when I have music I want to feel its vibration, not only with my ear but with my whole body. I'd l ike to hear five recordings of Louis Armstrong playing and singing "What Did I Do to Be so Black and Blue" -- all at the same time. Sometimes now I list en to Louis while I have my favorite dessert of vanilla ice cream and sloe gin . I pour the red liquid over the white mound, watching it glisten and the va por rising as Louis bends that military instrument into a beam of lyrical sou nd. Perhaps I like Louis Armstrong because he's made poetry out of being invi sible. I think it must be because he's unaware that he is invisible. And my own grasp of invisibility aids me to understand his music. Once when I aske d for a cigarette, some jokers gave me a reefer, which I lighted when I got home and sat listening to my phonograph. It was a strange evening. Invis ibility, let me explain, gives one a slightly different sense of time, you're n ever quite on the beat. Sometimes you're ahead and sometimes behind. Instead o f the swift and imperceptible flowing of time, you are aware of its nodes, those points where time stands still or from which it leaps ahead. And you slip int o the breaks and look around. That's what you hear vaguely in Louis' music. Once I saw a prizefighter boxing a yokel. The fighter was swift and amazingly scientific. His body was one violent flow of rapid rh ythmic action. He hit the yokel a hundred times while the yokel held up his arms i n stunned surprise. But suddenly the yokel, rolling about in the g ale of boxing gloves, struck one blow and knocked science, speed and footwo rk as cold as a well-digger's posterior. The smart money hit the canvas. The lon g shot got the nod. The yokel had simply stepped inside of his opponent's se nse of time. So under the spell of the reefer I discovered a new analytical way o f listening to music. The unheard sounds came through, and each melodic line e xisted of itself, stood out clearly from all the rest, said its piece, and w aited patiently for the other voices to speak. That night I found myself hearin g not only in time, but in space as well. I not only entered the music but desc ended, like Dante, into its depths. And beneath the swiftness of the hot t empo there was a slower tempo and a cave and I entered it and looked around and he ard an old woman singing a spiritual as full of Weltschmerz as flamenc o, and beneath that lay a still lower level on which I saw a beautiful girl the color of ivory pleading in a voice like my mother's as she stood before a group of slave owners who bid for her naked body, and below that I found a lower level and a more rapid tempo and I heard someone shout: "Brothers and sisters, my text this morning is the 'Blackness of Blackness.' " And a congregation of voices answered: "That blackness is most https://bpi.edu/ourpages/auto/2010/5/11/36901472/Ralph Ellison - Invisible Man v3_

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