Invisible Man Rhetorical Analysis
Empty Rhetoric and Theory in Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man Invisible Man, Ralph Ellison’s seminal work, is the first person narrative of an unnamed African-American protagonist who falls victim to various forces throughout his journey. Despite the novel’s reputation as a racial work, it is also a bildungsroman in which the narrator struggles to understand the nature of his existence. The philosophical overtones of the novel gain clarity when analyzed in tandem with a relevant motif: that of empty or impractical rhetoric—from the mouths of those around him and later himself. The narrator’s recurrent interactions with such idealistic rhetoric and theory shift from blind acceptance to awareness, and eventually to revolt. His altering attitudes
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reflect two conversions: first, from ignorant servility to a Kierkegaardian suspension of reason; and second, to a rejection of faith in the Absurd and a Camusian affirmation of the self. To Ellison, enlightenment therefore consists not only of an awareness of the Absurd but also of a persistent revolt against its lure of comfort. To understand Ellison’s concept of enlightenment, it is first key to understand the concept of the Absurd, which is closely related to existentialism. Invisible Man, as a work written in a time period in which Modernism was gaining momentum, emphasizes the search for identity. The absurdity that the narrator must face in this search is tied to the ideas of two past existentialist thinkers: Søren Kierkegaard and Albert Camus. The former philosopher Kierkegaard preceded the latter. He first conceived of the idea of the Absurd; in his work Philosophical Fragments, he writes, “The supreme paradox of all thought is the attempt to discover something that thought cannot think. This passion is at bottom present in all thinking” (Kierkegaard). The paradox, or the Unknown, is the Absurd; the unknowable thing that man yearns to understand. To Kierkegaard this refers to God, because of his Christian faith. Yet rather than despair in the absurdity of God, he holds that by subordinating reason to passion, man can find faith in that which he cannot understand. He explains this, saying, “… when I let the proof go, the existence is there … this little moment, brief as it may be – it need not be long, for it is a leap” (Kierkegaard). By decrying attempts to defy the Absurd and resolve its contradictions, Kierkegaard claims that a courageous “leap” of faith results in clarity of spirit. Camus, on the other hand, generalizes the Absurd beyond the concept of a deity and applies it to all of existence’s indefensible paradoxes. His essay, The Myth of Sisyphus, describes it as “the confrontation of this irrational and wild longing for clarity whose call echoes in the human heart… [it] depends as much on man as on the world” (Camus). Thus he universalizes the reach of the Absurd, yet it is in concept the same. Where he truly differs from Kierkegaard is in his reaction to the paradox. Camus rejects the Kierkegaardian leap of faith as “still absurd. In so far as it thinks it solves the paradox, it reinstates it intact” (Camus). He views such faith as a cop-out, a way to avoid confronting the Absurd in earnest. Kierkegaard, on the other hand, writes in Fear and Trembling that “the movement of faith must be ever made by virtue of the absurd” (Kierkegaard). Whereas Kierkegard views the Absurd as something to be embraced despite its contradictions—by its “virtue,” Camus considers it something to denounce in order to come to terms with reality. Both reactions to the Absurd play a role in Ellison’s novel, specifically in regards to the motif of idealistic rhetoric and theory, due to the constancy of the idea of the Absurd: the true awareness of the inability to rationalize and comprehend existence. The rhetoric which repeatedly appears before the protagonist is repeatedly vague and impractical. Essentially it is absurd. Its recurrence thus represents the narrator’s continual encounter with the Absurd, and reflects his development concerning its existence. His reactions to such rhetoric change in three significant ways, showing three primary phases of intellectual development. The first is split into two parts because although they both represent an ignorant blindness to the Absurd, the protagonist views himself differently in each: first as a subordinate to others, and second as an enlightened fisher of men. He is at the core equally blind in both parts. The second phase is marked by a true awareness of the Absurd, but with Kierkegaard’s approach; he suspends reasonable disbelief so as to keep his life meaning intact. In the third and final phase, the protagonist’s faith is deconstructed chaotically, and he comes to follow the more internally violent approach of Camus. The invisible man decides to revolt continuously against the Absurd and decries reliance on anything other than himself. To Ellison, as this is the final stage in his journey, this is enlightened self-reliance. In the narrator’s first half of his life as a man blinded to the Absurd, he sees the strangeness of the rhetoric he encounters at university in the South, yet forces himself to be unaware because of his subservience to academia. He first encounters abstract theory during the opening chapters, when he drives for a man named Mr. Norton who is closely connected to his university. Norton, speaking of African-Americans as a ideological group, speculates, “’I felt … your people were somehow closely connected with my destiny. Do you understand?’” (Ellison 41). Understandably, the protagonist replies, “’Not so clearly, sir.’” Norton’s conception of “destiny” is never concretely defined; in this sense it is absurd. Yet the narrator is slave to the whims of those he considers his superiors, such as Norton, whom he respects as “sir.” He therefore compels himself to accept Norton’s vague theory. When asked again if he “understands,” the narrator replies, “’I think I do, sir.’” (42). He pretends he does grasp and believe in a concept which may make sense in Norton’s head, but is indefensible to the protagonist—who through this theory is generalized into a group subordinate to a vague concept of “destiny”—the fate of a man he has never met! Yet, like a committed vet tells Norton, the narrator “registers with his senses but short-circuits his brain” (94). The narrator refuses to spend time reflecting on Norton’s possibly absurd statements, lest he lose his conviction in the value of becoming educated on the white man’s terms and find success; he decides not to think about it, “short-[circuiting] his brain.” Such blind faith is not validated under Kierkegaard’s criteria because it does not arise from a recognition of the paradox. He cannot truly subordinate reason to passion if he does not understand the purpose. Rather, he blinds himself to the existence of the paradox and remains ignorant. Further idealistic rhetoric comes from the mouth of Bledsoe, the de facto president of the university, who lectures the protagonist upon his expulsion. He believes himself supremely powerful despite being African-American, saying, “’This is a power set-up, son, and I’m at the controls’” (142). He idealistically believes himself beyond manipulation, as possessing the “controls” of his situation. However, his power exists only because others believe in it—his idea of power is therefore lacking substance—and arguably, the white members of the university board could easily remove him from power. His rhetoric is idealistic and ultimately paradoxical as a result. But predictably, the narrator shuts off his rage. As he narrates, “’I no longer listened,” thus refusing to think about Bledsoe’s absurdly idealistic theory of power comprehensively (144). He instead becomes concerned with his educational future rather than contemplating the absurdity behind Bledsoe’s words. He lapses into a resigned acceptance: “I was so completely part of that existence that in the end I had to make my peace… I had violated the code and thus would have to submit to punishment” (147). The narrator gives up critical thought because his sense of security is deeply tied to the “existence” to which he is bound: the educational sphere in which the whims of white men are supreme. Because this is of ultimate importance to him, he again stays an ignorant servant to meaningless ideas, and again fails to see the absurdity of his superiors’ rhetoric. And it is the fact that he is servile to something, anything, whether it be Norton’s infalibility or Bledsoe’s ideal of power or anything else, that is the crux of his ignorant state of being, the barrier which impedes a true awareness of the Absurd. The protagonist’s ignorance persists in full in New York despite his perceived enlightenment as a member of the Brotherhood, because though he may no longer be slave to white academia, he is still slave to an empty ideology that promises an impossible control of the world through science. So he remains wholly blind to the Absurd, as he has done nothing but switched masters. The basis of this switch precedes his entry into the Brotherhood, when he realizes that Bledsoe’s letters of recommendation are intended to prevent him from finding employment. Still, the narrator is not truly freed from his blinds, as he says, “I felt numb and I was laughing. When I stopped, gasping for breath, I decided that I would go back and kill Bledsoe. Yes, I thought, I owe it to the race and to myself. I’ll kill him” (194). While his “laughing” may appear initially to represent a recognition of the Absurd, it is preceded by “[numbness]” and followed by an intense hate for Bledsoe. He does not understand the absurdity of his general situation nor of the universe as a whole, and instead channels his discontent toward a meaningless killing intent. A slight spark of understanding through incredulous laughter is squashed out by misdirected passion. Now he is lost. He does not know what to follow, and in the ideology of the Brotherhood, he finds sanctuary. Soon enough the protagonist buys into their rhetoric. The leader of the organization, Brother Jack, justifies their movement by saying, “Because, brother, the enemies of man are dispossessing the world! Do you understand?’”; and the narrator responds, “’I’m beginning to’”; he is “greatly impressed” (307). The word “dispossession” afterward reoccurs countless times, but ironically it is never made clear what exactly it means. Who is being dispossessed of what, and why is it important? The protagonist surely does not know. Yet he buys into it regardless and is moved by its force. He feigns understanding because it gives him meaning within the Brotherhood, and in this he demonstrates his profound ignorance of its absurdity. Despite failing to grasp the Brotherhood’s abstract ideas in full, being constantly rebuked, the narrator maintains a reliance on an ideal he believes can dam the tides of fate: “The organization had given the world a new shape, and me a vital role. We recognized no loose ends, everything could be controlled by our science” (Ellison 382). His reliance stems from a need to have a “vital role” in the world; with a purpose for living, his view of the world is given a “new shape,” one the Brotherhood’s abstract theory of “science” is supposedly able to “[control]” as it pleases with no unforeseen vicissitudes. This is a submission to the Brotherhood’s meaningless rhetoric, and a reliance on an inadequate sense of reason to make sense of the world. As Kierkegaard writes, one must “always reason from existence, not toward existence” (Kierkegaard). The protagonist’s attempt to impose the supposedly reasonable “science” upon the world is a vain attempt to make sense of that which exceeds thought, much like the conventional proofs of God which Kierkegaard regarded as an incorrect use of reason. He is trying to move “toward [the] existence” of the Brotherhood’s deified universe, but from a reasoning that does not acknowledge its absurdity beforehand. Therefore, in all his assumed enlightenment, the narrator remains blind by ignoring the absurdity of “existence.” Despite being capable of delivering speeches that move entire crowds, he is not the originator of his ideas. He is servile to the empty theories and scientific rhetoric of the Brotherhood because they provide him comfort. The sum of his experiences in Harlem have given him an awareness of the world’s vastness and complicated nature, yet he avoids true reflection in favor of oversimplification through meaningless, supposedly rational theories. That which he now follows leaves him chained to the idea of life meaning, of a lofty purpose, preventing him from seeing the Absurd. The protagonist is shocked into the second phase of his philosophical development as a result of the events following Brother Clifton’s sudden death. He painfully recognizes that he deifies an idealistic theory that is absurdly incomprehensible, and finds temporary peace by taking a Kierkegaardian leap of faith toward the Absurd. The protagonist’s relationship to Clifton is interesting; on the surface, Clifton is a devoted member of the Brotherhood, something he strives to be. And this is why his death affects him so greatly—Clifton appears to him as an honest apostle of the Brotherhood’s idealistic rhetoric—a man who believes in it with all his heart, subscribes to it with all his mind, and fights for it with all his body. But with trinity of mind, heart, and soul, he still is no God; he inexplicably disappears and resurrects as a peddler of dolls which evoke racist Sambo imagery, becoming a mockery of his former self. Then he is shot by a police officer because of his race. The absurdity of these events confuses the protagonist, who reacts in the only way he knows how: by following the rhetoric implanted into his spirit and creating a logical meaning out of his death. He decides to organize a large funeral, saying, “… it was necessary that we make it known that the meaning of his death was greater than the incident or the object that caused it” (Ellison 444). It appears that the narrator will lapse again into an avoidance of the clear “object” Absurd through abstract “meaning” and empty speeches to blind crowds. Yet instead of moving the people in a scientific direction, he speaks only of what he knows for sure is true—Clifton’s name and his various features. Likely, his confusion from the vast absurdity of a meaningless death has shocked his conviction in the ability of theory to control all “loose ends,” as he stated previously. In fact, he is working, as Kierkegaard promoted, “from existence” rather than toward it, by beginning with the concrete existence of Clifton’s name. This is the key step to his awareness of the Absurd. In his subsequent reflection, the motif of idealistic rhetoric finally shifts in focus, from something abstract yet supposedly understood to that which is revealed to be meaningless and false. The protagonist notices that the crowd is “listening intently, and as though looking not at me, but at the pattern of my voice upon the air” (Ellison 455). What here is the idealistic rhetoric? It is his “voice,” as his sense of expression has become fused with that of the Brotherhood’s. It draws its listeners “intently” with its lofty lures, yet the narrator now realizes that in truth, it is comprised of nothing more than a “pattern… upon the air.” It is utterly ineffectual, acting on nothing visible and igniting no change. The protagonist recognizes the grand paradox of the Brotherhood—that it preaches itself to better the people in a rational manner, yet possesses theories so abstract as to be meaningless. The paradox is the Absurd, and so he confronts the organization’s leaders in an effort to reconcile it. This is the Kierkegaardian striving for understanding that precedes the leap of faith. First, Brother Jack rebukes the protagonist for failing the directives of the Brotherhood. He says, “’Under your leadership, a traitorous merchant of vile instruments of anti-Negro, anti-minority racist bigotry has received the funeral of a hero’” (Ellison 456). Here the narrator is confronted with several buzzwords that evoke abstractness, such as “anti-Negro” and “anti-minority.” This time, instead of being convinced of the existence of meaning behind Jack’s preaching, he immediately recognizes the paradox. The people whom the Brotherhood acts upon, as he says, simply “don’t think in such abstract terms” (Ellison 468). No longer is he ignorantly servile to idealistic rhetoric. He reacts to it with an awareness of the absurdity of its “abstract” nature. It is incomprehensible, like Jack in his furious attempt to draw the protagonist back into ignorance. The absurd rhetoric no longer holds any meaning, as Jack is seen “spluttering and lapsing into a foreign language” (Ellison 473). It is entirely “foreign” and beyond understanding, a convolution of “spluttering” that holds no real meaning. Although the protagonist now is fully aware of the Absurd and its nature, he cannot truly let it go. Instead, he lets go of reason, as Kierkegaard does, in favor of passion for the “only historically meaningful life that [he] [can] live” (478). The Absurd grants him security and so he accepts it on its virtue. Note Kierkegaard’s words in regards to trusting in the Absurd:
Or have we not here an analogy to the behavior of the little Cartesian dolls? As soon as I let go of the doll it stands on its head. As soon as I let it go – I must therefore let it go. So also with the proof. As long as I keep my hold in the proof, i.e., continue to demonstrate, the existence does not come out, if for no other reason than that I am engaged in proving it; but when I let the proof go, the existence is there. (Kierkegaard)
In a nutshell, Kierkegaard is affirming that reason must be let go because it is inadequate when applied to the paradox.
A key connection exists between the “little Cartesian dolls” and one of Clifton’s Sambo dolls that the protagonist has held onto. It represents his need for proof, which he abandons, saying, “I felt for the doll in the shadow and dropped it on the desk” (Ellison 478). Like the doll of Kierkegaard does the improbable and “stands on its head” once the burden of proof is released, so does the narrator’s attitude toward the Brotherhood contort itself as he lets go of Clifton’s doll and distances himself from Sambo i.e. the uncomfortable nature of the Absurd. Instead, he lets go of that pain and leaps in faith to the “existence” of a world in which the Brotherhood’s ideals and rhetoric apply. This is why he continues to defend the Brotherhood against the accusations of Ras the Destroyer, who tries to destroy his faith. Fully understanding the absurdity of his own words, the protagonist, speaking of Clifton, claims that the organization is “determined that his death shall be the beginning of profound and lasting changes … to create something lasting of his death takes time and careful planning” (Ellison 480). The narrator has seen the futility of trying to create “profound and lasting changes,” and he knows that he is spouting the empty rhetoric and theory that has thus far controlled him through promises of “lasting,” historically, through “careful planning.” …show more content…
He suspends reason in favor of such life meaning, a Kierkegaardian slant that recognizes the Absurd, the lack of meaning behind idealistic rhetoric, but trusts in it regardless. To Ellison this is not sufficient enlightenment. The remainder of the novel, therefore, consists of various forces which work to break apart his belief in the virtue of the absurd and bring him to a truly enlightened state. In his final phase of development, the motif of idealistic theory vanishes and becomes nonsensical, reflecting the effect of key experiences that erode his Kierkegaardian faith in the Absurd, bringing him to a Camusian acceptance of pain and freedom.
Soon after re-entering Harlem with an awareness of the Absurd, the narrator dons green-tinted sunglasses and a hat. In doing so, he accidentally assumes the identity of a con artist named Rinehart, who has multiple identities within the city. His experience as Rinehart undermines his idealistic faith because he is forced to confront the existence of a man who has found an identity through absolute freedom and deception. It brings him to a realization of the freedom of action he could have without a devotion to the Absurd. The narrator reflects, “The world in which we lived was without boundaries”; he also sees the inadequacy of faith in the Brotherhood’s rhetoric: “What did their theory tell them of such a world?” (498). Throughout his entire life the protagonist has been slave to abstract theory he does not recognize is absurd, and upon becoming aware, a brief stint as Rinehart is all that is necessary to open his eyes to possibility, an entire world that the Brotherhood’s “theory” is blind to. Rinehart’s freedom, therefore, is one force that pulls him away from his Kierkegaardian faith. It broadens his perspective. A more destructive force is his encounter with Brother Hambro, whom he speaks to in a final attempt to shed
light on the Brotherhood’s ideas. But all he encounters is further absurdity in a paradoxical idea of sacrifice. Hambro justifies sacrifice for that which cannot fully be understood as a matter of faith, which he calls integrity. This infuriates the narrator: “’Integrity! He talks to me of integrity! … I’d tried to build my integrity upon the role of Brotherhood and now it had changed to water, air’” (Ellison 503). An identity whose integrity is based upon something absurd becomes absurd itself—it becomes “air,” another meaningless buzzword. Like Camus observes, Kierkegaard’s leap of faith does not resolve the absurdity problem: “it reinstates it intact” (Camus). The narrator’s integrity cannot be based on a faith in the paradoxical Brotherhood lest it become another indefensible paradox. As a newly aware individual, he wishes above all else to avoid the lures and recognize the guises of the Absurd, and his conversation with Hambro serves to reveal the falseness of the Kierkegaard lure, which is in itself absurd. Absolved from deceptive faith, the protagonist is almost at the completion of his journey. His final rite of passage is a physically and mentally destructive force, a violent cleansing of illusion. It consists of a massive riot in Harlem which the most overtly absurd experience of the protagonist’s journey. The riot is caused by Ras, but the narrator eventually believes it to be the Brotherhood’s machinations. All in all that is not significant. What is significant is his deep recognition of the absurdity of all things: “I looked at Ras on his horse and at their handful of guns and recognized the absurdity of the whole night and of the simple yet confoundingly complex arrangement of hope and desire, fear and hate” (Ellison 559). What is the night? It is, in fact, the truth of the entire world. In confronting such a night, Camus writes that it must be one “of despair, which remains lucid—polar night, vigil of the mind, whence will arise perhaps that white and virginal brightness” (Camus). Camus’ night and Ellison’s night are one and the same. It is a “vigil,” an ironic “brightness” which brings to light the whole depth of the world’s “absurdity”—of desires “confoundingly complex” and altogether meaningless. But in the face of such a night’s “despair,” must the protagonist give up on life, as it has no clear meaning? No: he passes the hurdle of contemplating suicide after contemplating the value of letting Ras execute him. He realizes dying would accomplish nothing and would sacrifice his newfound independence. As he says, “I knew that it was better to live out one’s absurdity than to die for that of others” (Ellison 559). There is no focus on abstraction here nor on vague rhetoric. Instead there is a focus on life. A self-reliance in the face of the Absurd, and a realization that death is a cop-out, because as Camus states, “Suicide, like the leap, is acceptance at its extreme … in order to keep alive, the absurd cannot be settled” (Camus). True vitality is reliant on intense living, because suicide is an acceptance of the Absurd as cheap as Kierkegaard’s leap. The narrator can never be “settled” or complacent. He must remain socially conscious and vigilant. Then occurs the surrealist, italic dream in which the protagonist finally demonstrates his full enlightenment through Absurdism: HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE FREE OF ILLUSION . . . And now I answered, “Painful and empty,” as I saw a glittering butterfly circle three times around my blood-red parts . . . I gave a Bledsoe laugh, startling them. . . . “What does he think he sees?” they said. . . . “That there hang not only my generations wasting upon the water—” . . . “But your sun . . . And your moon . . Your world . . . “ “I knew he was a mystic idealist!” Tobitt said. “Still,” I said, “there’s your universe, and that drip-drop upon the water you hear is all the history you’ve made, all you’re going to make. Now laugh, you scientists. Let’s hear you laugh!” (Ellison 569-570)
First in his enlightenment is the freedom from “illusion,” which is understandably “painful and empty,” as it is symbolized by a castration of his “blood-red parts.” But in the loss of his manhood, his “generations,” and his historical significance which he once valued so deeply, he sees that he is also freed from the “universe” of those who spout empty theory. Tobitt, a slave to the Absurd, calls the narrator a “mystic idealist,” perhaps because of how lofty the imagery he prescribes to the castration appears. But what is truly absurd is the emptiness behind all the abstractions and fancy rhetoric of Tobitt and all those who enslave the invisible man ideologically. And the invisible man recognizes this absurdity, which is why he laughs—that is his revolt, the crux of Camus’ belief. Laughter is his enlightenment, the transition from the Kierkegaardian leap of faith to a down-to-earth Camusian rejection of meaning. All he can do in the face of such absurdity is laugh. It is an assertion of himself that represents his final understanding of the Absurds and a freedom from blind faith’s noose. No more is he slave to the whims of recurrent, empty theories. And still, despite his intense pain, he can find beauty in the “glittering butterfly.” That is the beauty of the Absurd, and what Ellison intends to convey. Is there more to life than visceral enjoyment? Of course, but a useless attempt to rationalize the paradoxes of life only leads to torture and self-enslavement. The mundane in contrast is known surely to be true and is independent from the false rhetoric of others. That is why the protagonist’s behavior in the prologue is rational, when the absurdity of his entire journey is considered. His regression into his cave of light bulbs is actually a mature rejection of the absurdity around him. The narrator’s journey to such a state of enlightenment is a great progression, in stages; first, he is servile to the idealistic theories of others, despite supposed enlightenment; second, he becomes aware of the absurd nature of said theories, yet trusts in the anyway by following Kierkegaard’s leap of faith; and third, he rejects his faith and understands that only through constant revolt can he remain his own man. Each stage is extensive in detail and expansive in scope, but each is equally important to comprehend the overall bildungsroman. The narrator matures, from a child-like state of idealistic delusion and enslavement to sensationalist rhetoric, to a painful awareness of the world. It stems from the destruction of illusions, the illumination of contradictions, and above all, the rebellion against the Absurd.
reflect two conversions: first, from ignorant servility to a Kierkegaardian suspension of reason; and second, to a rejection of faith in the Absurd and a Camusian affirmation of the self. To Ellison, enlightenment therefore consists not only of an awareness of the Absurd but also of a persistent revolt against its lure of comfort. To understand Ellison’s concept of enlightenment, it is first key to understand the concept of the Absurd, which is closely related to existentialism. Invisible Man, as a work written in a time period in which Modernism was gaining momentum, emphasizes the search for identity. The absurdity that the narrator must face in this search is tied to the ideas of two past existentialist thinkers: Søren Kierkegaard and Albert Camus. The former philosopher Kierkegaard preceded the latter. He first conceived of the idea of the Absurd; in his work Philosophical Fragments, he writes, “The supreme paradox of all thought is the attempt to discover something that thought cannot think. This passion is at bottom present in all thinking” (Kierkegaard). The paradox, or the Unknown, is the Absurd; the unknowable thing that man yearns to understand. To Kierkegaard this refers to God, because of his Christian faith. Yet rather than despair in the absurdity of God, he holds that by subordinating reason to passion, man can find faith in that which he cannot understand. He explains this, saying, “… when I let the proof go, the existence is there … this little moment, brief as it may be – it need not be long, for it is a leap” (Kierkegaard). By decrying attempts to defy the Absurd and resolve its contradictions, Kierkegaard claims that a courageous “leap” of faith results in clarity of spirit. Camus, on the other hand, generalizes the Absurd beyond the concept of a deity and applies it to all of existence’s indefensible paradoxes. His essay, The Myth of Sisyphus, describes it as “the confrontation of this irrational and wild longing for clarity whose call echoes in the human heart… [it] depends as much on man as on the world” (Camus). Thus he universalizes the reach of the Absurd, yet it is in concept the same. Where he truly differs from Kierkegaard is in his reaction to the paradox. Camus rejects the Kierkegaardian leap of faith as “still absurd. In so far as it thinks it solves the paradox, it reinstates it intact” (Camus). He views such faith as a cop-out, a way to avoid confronting the Absurd in earnest. Kierkegaard, on the other hand, writes in Fear and Trembling that “the movement of faith must be ever made by virtue of the absurd” (Kierkegaard). Whereas Kierkegard views the Absurd as something to be embraced despite its contradictions—by its “virtue,” Camus considers it something to denounce in order to come to terms with reality. Both reactions to the Absurd play a role in Ellison’s novel, specifically in regards to the motif of idealistic rhetoric and theory, due to the constancy of the idea of the Absurd: the true awareness of the inability to rationalize and comprehend existence. The rhetoric which repeatedly appears before the protagonist is repeatedly vague and impractical. Essentially it is absurd. Its recurrence thus represents the narrator’s continual encounter with the Absurd, and reflects his development concerning its existence. His reactions to such rhetoric change in three significant ways, showing three primary phases of intellectual development. The first is split into two parts because although they both represent an ignorant blindness to the Absurd, the protagonist views himself differently in each: first as a subordinate to others, and second as an enlightened fisher of men. He is at the core equally blind in both parts. The second phase is marked by a true awareness of the Absurd, but with Kierkegaard’s approach; he suspends reasonable disbelief so as to keep his life meaning intact. In the third and final phase, the protagonist’s faith is deconstructed chaotically, and he comes to follow the more internally violent approach of Camus. The invisible man decides to revolt continuously against the Absurd and decries reliance on anything other than himself. To Ellison, as this is the final stage in his journey, this is enlightened self-reliance. In the narrator’s first half of his life as a man blinded to the Absurd, he sees the strangeness of the rhetoric he encounters at university in the South, yet forces himself to be unaware because of his subservience to academia. He first encounters abstract theory during the opening chapters, when he drives for a man named Mr. Norton who is closely connected to his university. Norton, speaking of African-Americans as a ideological group, speculates, “’I felt … your people were somehow closely connected with my destiny. Do you understand?’” (Ellison 41). Understandably, the protagonist replies, “’Not so clearly, sir.’” Norton’s conception of “destiny” is never concretely defined; in this sense it is absurd. Yet the narrator is slave to the whims of those he considers his superiors, such as Norton, whom he respects as “sir.” He therefore compels himself to accept Norton’s vague theory. When asked again if he “understands,” the narrator replies, “’I think I do, sir.’” (42). He pretends he does grasp and believe in a concept which may make sense in Norton’s head, but is indefensible to the protagonist—who through this theory is generalized into a group subordinate to a vague concept of “destiny”—the fate of a man he has never met! Yet, like a committed vet tells Norton, the narrator “registers with his senses but short-circuits his brain” (94). The narrator refuses to spend time reflecting on Norton’s possibly absurd statements, lest he lose his conviction in the value of becoming educated on the white man’s terms and find success; he decides not to think about it, “short-[circuiting] his brain.” Such blind faith is not validated under Kierkegaard’s criteria because it does not arise from a recognition of the paradox. He cannot truly subordinate reason to passion if he does not understand the purpose. Rather, he blinds himself to the existence of the paradox and remains ignorant. Further idealistic rhetoric comes from the mouth of Bledsoe, the de facto president of the university, who lectures the protagonist upon his expulsion. He believes himself supremely powerful despite being African-American, saying, “’This is a power set-up, son, and I’m at the controls’” (142). He idealistically believes himself beyond manipulation, as possessing the “controls” of his situation. However, his power exists only because others believe in it—his idea of power is therefore lacking substance—and arguably, the white members of the university board could easily remove him from power. His rhetoric is idealistic and ultimately paradoxical as a result. But predictably, the narrator shuts off his rage. As he narrates, “’I no longer listened,” thus refusing to think about Bledsoe’s absurdly idealistic theory of power comprehensively (144). He instead becomes concerned with his educational future rather than contemplating the absurdity behind Bledsoe’s words. He lapses into a resigned acceptance: “I was so completely part of that existence that in the end I had to make my peace… I had violated the code and thus would have to submit to punishment” (147). The narrator gives up critical thought because his sense of security is deeply tied to the “existence” to which he is bound: the educational sphere in which the whims of white men are supreme. Because this is of ultimate importance to him, he again stays an ignorant servant to meaningless ideas, and again fails to see the absurdity of his superiors’ rhetoric. And it is the fact that he is servile to something, anything, whether it be Norton’s infalibility or Bledsoe’s ideal of power or anything else, that is the crux of his ignorant state of being, the barrier which impedes a true awareness of the Absurd. The protagonist’s ignorance persists in full in New York despite his perceived enlightenment as a member of the Brotherhood, because though he may no longer be slave to white academia, he is still slave to an empty ideology that promises an impossible control of the world through science. So he remains wholly blind to the Absurd, as he has done nothing but switched masters. The basis of this switch precedes his entry into the Brotherhood, when he realizes that Bledsoe’s letters of recommendation are intended to prevent him from finding employment. Still, the narrator is not truly freed from his blinds, as he says, “I felt numb and I was laughing. When I stopped, gasping for breath, I decided that I would go back and kill Bledsoe. Yes, I thought, I owe it to the race and to myself. I’ll kill him” (194). While his “laughing” may appear initially to represent a recognition of the Absurd, it is preceded by “[numbness]” and followed by an intense hate for Bledsoe. He does not understand the absurdity of his general situation nor of the universe as a whole, and instead channels his discontent toward a meaningless killing intent. A slight spark of understanding through incredulous laughter is squashed out by misdirected passion. Now he is lost. He does not know what to follow, and in the ideology of the Brotherhood, he finds sanctuary. Soon enough the protagonist buys into their rhetoric. The leader of the organization, Brother Jack, justifies their movement by saying, “Because, brother, the enemies of man are dispossessing the world! Do you understand?’”; and the narrator responds, “’I’m beginning to’”; he is “greatly impressed” (307). The word “dispossession” afterward reoccurs countless times, but ironically it is never made clear what exactly it means. Who is being dispossessed of what, and why is it important? The protagonist surely does not know. Yet he buys into it regardless and is moved by its force. He feigns understanding because it gives him meaning within the Brotherhood, and in this he demonstrates his profound ignorance of its absurdity. Despite failing to grasp the Brotherhood’s abstract ideas in full, being constantly rebuked, the narrator maintains a reliance on an ideal he believes can dam the tides of fate: “The organization had given the world a new shape, and me a vital role. We recognized no loose ends, everything could be controlled by our science” (Ellison 382). His reliance stems from a need to have a “vital role” in the world; with a purpose for living, his view of the world is given a “new shape,” one the Brotherhood’s abstract theory of “science” is supposedly able to “[control]” as it pleases with no unforeseen vicissitudes. This is a submission to the Brotherhood’s meaningless rhetoric, and a reliance on an inadequate sense of reason to make sense of the world. As Kierkegaard writes, one must “always reason from existence, not toward existence” (Kierkegaard). The protagonist’s attempt to impose the supposedly reasonable “science” upon the world is a vain attempt to make sense of that which exceeds thought, much like the conventional proofs of God which Kierkegaard regarded as an incorrect use of reason. He is trying to move “toward [the] existence” of the Brotherhood’s deified universe, but from a reasoning that does not acknowledge its absurdity beforehand. Therefore, in all his assumed enlightenment, the narrator remains blind by ignoring the absurdity of “existence.” Despite being capable of delivering speeches that move entire crowds, he is not the originator of his ideas. He is servile to the empty theories and scientific rhetoric of the Brotherhood because they provide him comfort. The sum of his experiences in Harlem have given him an awareness of the world’s vastness and complicated nature, yet he avoids true reflection in favor of oversimplification through meaningless, supposedly rational theories. That which he now follows leaves him chained to the idea of life meaning, of a lofty purpose, preventing him from seeing the Absurd. The protagonist is shocked into the second phase of his philosophical development as a result of the events following Brother Clifton’s sudden death. He painfully recognizes that he deifies an idealistic theory that is absurdly incomprehensible, and finds temporary peace by taking a Kierkegaardian leap of faith toward the Absurd. The protagonist’s relationship to Clifton is interesting; on the surface, Clifton is a devoted member of the Brotherhood, something he strives to be. And this is why his death affects him so greatly—Clifton appears to him as an honest apostle of the Brotherhood’s idealistic rhetoric—a man who believes in it with all his heart, subscribes to it with all his mind, and fights for it with all his body. But with trinity of mind, heart, and soul, he still is no God; he inexplicably disappears and resurrects as a peddler of dolls which evoke racist Sambo imagery, becoming a mockery of his former self. Then he is shot by a police officer because of his race. The absurdity of these events confuses the protagonist, who reacts in the only way he knows how: by following the rhetoric implanted into his spirit and creating a logical meaning out of his death. He decides to organize a large funeral, saying, “… it was necessary that we make it known that the meaning of his death was greater than the incident or the object that caused it” (Ellison 444). It appears that the narrator will lapse again into an avoidance of the clear “object” Absurd through abstract “meaning” and empty speeches to blind crowds. Yet instead of moving the people in a scientific direction, he speaks only of what he knows for sure is true—Clifton’s name and his various features. Likely, his confusion from the vast absurdity of a meaningless death has shocked his conviction in the ability of theory to control all “loose ends,” as he stated previously. In fact, he is working, as Kierkegaard promoted, “from existence” rather than toward it, by beginning with the concrete existence of Clifton’s name. This is the key step to his awareness of the Absurd. In his subsequent reflection, the motif of idealistic rhetoric finally shifts in focus, from something abstract yet supposedly understood to that which is revealed to be meaningless and false. The protagonist notices that the crowd is “listening intently, and as though looking not at me, but at the pattern of my voice upon the air” (Ellison 455). What here is the idealistic rhetoric? It is his “voice,” as his sense of expression has become fused with that of the Brotherhood’s. It draws its listeners “intently” with its lofty lures, yet the narrator now realizes that in truth, it is comprised of nothing more than a “pattern… upon the air.” It is utterly ineffectual, acting on nothing visible and igniting no change. The protagonist recognizes the grand paradox of the Brotherhood—that it preaches itself to better the people in a rational manner, yet possesses theories so abstract as to be meaningless. The paradox is the Absurd, and so he confronts the organization’s leaders in an effort to reconcile it. This is the Kierkegaardian striving for understanding that precedes the leap of faith. First, Brother Jack rebukes the protagonist for failing the directives of the Brotherhood. He says, “’Under your leadership, a traitorous merchant of vile instruments of anti-Negro, anti-minority racist bigotry has received the funeral of a hero’” (Ellison 456). Here the narrator is confronted with several buzzwords that evoke abstractness, such as “anti-Negro” and “anti-minority.” This time, instead of being convinced of the existence of meaning behind Jack’s preaching, he immediately recognizes the paradox. The people whom the Brotherhood acts upon, as he says, simply “don’t think in such abstract terms” (Ellison 468). No longer is he ignorantly servile to idealistic rhetoric. He reacts to it with an awareness of the absurdity of its “abstract” nature. It is incomprehensible, like Jack in his furious attempt to draw the protagonist back into ignorance. The absurd rhetoric no longer holds any meaning, as Jack is seen “spluttering and lapsing into a foreign language” (Ellison 473). It is entirely “foreign” and beyond understanding, a convolution of “spluttering” that holds no real meaning. Although the protagonist now is fully aware of the Absurd and its nature, he cannot truly let it go. Instead, he lets go of reason, as Kierkegaard does, in favor of passion for the “only historically meaningful life that [he] [can] live” (478). The Absurd grants him security and so he accepts it on its virtue. Note Kierkegaard’s words in regards to trusting in the Absurd:
Or have we not here an analogy to the behavior of the little Cartesian dolls? As soon as I let go of the doll it stands on its head. As soon as I let it go – I must therefore let it go. So also with the proof. As long as I keep my hold in the proof, i.e., continue to demonstrate, the existence does not come out, if for no other reason than that I am engaged in proving it; but when I let the proof go, the existence is there. (Kierkegaard)
In a nutshell, Kierkegaard is affirming that reason must be let go because it is inadequate when applied to the paradox.
A key connection exists between the “little Cartesian dolls” and one of Clifton’s Sambo dolls that the protagonist has held onto. It represents his need for proof, which he abandons, saying, “I felt for the doll in the shadow and dropped it on the desk” (Ellison 478). Like the doll of Kierkegaard does the improbable and “stands on its head” once the burden of proof is released, so does the narrator’s attitude toward the Brotherhood contort itself as he lets go of Clifton’s doll and distances himself from Sambo i.e. the uncomfortable nature of the Absurd. Instead, he lets go of that pain and leaps in faith to the “existence” of a world in which the Brotherhood’s ideals and rhetoric apply. This is why he continues to defend the Brotherhood against the accusations of Ras the Destroyer, who tries to destroy his faith. Fully understanding the absurdity of his own words, the protagonist, speaking of Clifton, claims that the organization is “determined that his death shall be the beginning of profound and lasting changes … to create something lasting of his death takes time and careful planning” (Ellison 480). The narrator has seen the futility of trying to create “profound and lasting changes,” and he knows that he is spouting the empty rhetoric and theory that has thus far controlled him through promises of “lasting,” historically, through “careful planning.” …show more content…
He suspends reason in favor of such life meaning, a Kierkegaardian slant that recognizes the Absurd, the lack of meaning behind idealistic rhetoric, but trusts in it regardless. To Ellison this is not sufficient enlightenment. The remainder of the novel, therefore, consists of various forces which work to break apart his belief in the virtue of the absurd and bring him to a truly enlightened state. In his final phase of development, the motif of idealistic theory vanishes and becomes nonsensical, reflecting the effect of key experiences that erode his Kierkegaardian faith in the Absurd, bringing him to a Camusian acceptance of pain and freedom.
Soon after re-entering Harlem with an awareness of the Absurd, the narrator dons green-tinted sunglasses and a hat. In doing so, he accidentally assumes the identity of a con artist named Rinehart, who has multiple identities within the city. His experience as Rinehart undermines his idealistic faith because he is forced to confront the existence of a man who has found an identity through absolute freedom and deception. It brings him to a realization of the freedom of action he could have without a devotion to the Absurd. The narrator reflects, “The world in which we lived was without boundaries”; he also sees the inadequacy of faith in the Brotherhood’s rhetoric: “What did their theory tell them of such a world?” (498). Throughout his entire life the protagonist has been slave to abstract theory he does not recognize is absurd, and upon becoming aware, a brief stint as Rinehart is all that is necessary to open his eyes to possibility, an entire world that the Brotherhood’s “theory” is blind to. Rinehart’s freedom, therefore, is one force that pulls him away from his Kierkegaardian faith. It broadens his perspective. A more destructive force is his encounter with Brother Hambro, whom he speaks to in a final attempt to shed
light on the Brotherhood’s ideas. But all he encounters is further absurdity in a paradoxical idea of sacrifice. Hambro justifies sacrifice for that which cannot fully be understood as a matter of faith, which he calls integrity. This infuriates the narrator: “’Integrity! He talks to me of integrity! … I’d tried to build my integrity upon the role of Brotherhood and now it had changed to water, air’” (Ellison 503). An identity whose integrity is based upon something absurd becomes absurd itself—it becomes “air,” another meaningless buzzword. Like Camus observes, Kierkegaard’s leap of faith does not resolve the absurdity problem: “it reinstates it intact” (Camus). The narrator’s integrity cannot be based on a faith in the paradoxical Brotherhood lest it become another indefensible paradox. As a newly aware individual, he wishes above all else to avoid the lures and recognize the guises of the Absurd, and his conversation with Hambro serves to reveal the falseness of the Kierkegaard lure, which is in itself absurd. Absolved from deceptive faith, the protagonist is almost at the completion of his journey. His final rite of passage is a physically and mentally destructive force, a violent cleansing of illusion. It consists of a massive riot in Harlem which the most overtly absurd experience of the protagonist’s journey. The riot is caused by Ras, but the narrator eventually believes it to be the Brotherhood’s machinations. All in all that is not significant. What is significant is his deep recognition of the absurdity of all things: “I looked at Ras on his horse and at their handful of guns and recognized the absurdity of the whole night and of the simple yet confoundingly complex arrangement of hope and desire, fear and hate” (Ellison 559). What is the night? It is, in fact, the truth of the entire world. In confronting such a night, Camus writes that it must be one “of despair, which remains lucid—polar night, vigil of the mind, whence will arise perhaps that white and virginal brightness” (Camus). Camus’ night and Ellison’s night are one and the same. It is a “vigil,” an ironic “brightness” which brings to light the whole depth of the world’s “absurdity”—of desires “confoundingly complex” and altogether meaningless. But in the face of such a night’s “despair,” must the protagonist give up on life, as it has no clear meaning? No: he passes the hurdle of contemplating suicide after contemplating the value of letting Ras execute him. He realizes dying would accomplish nothing and would sacrifice his newfound independence. As he says, “I knew that it was better to live out one’s absurdity than to die for that of others” (Ellison 559). There is no focus on abstraction here nor on vague rhetoric. Instead there is a focus on life. A self-reliance in the face of the Absurd, and a realization that death is a cop-out, because as Camus states, “Suicide, like the leap, is acceptance at its extreme … in order to keep alive, the absurd cannot be settled” (Camus). True vitality is reliant on intense living, because suicide is an acceptance of the Absurd as cheap as Kierkegaard’s leap. The narrator can never be “settled” or complacent. He must remain socially conscious and vigilant. Then occurs the surrealist, italic dream in which the protagonist finally demonstrates his full enlightenment through Absurdism: HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE FREE OF ILLUSION . . . And now I answered, “Painful and empty,” as I saw a glittering butterfly circle three times around my blood-red parts . . . I gave a Bledsoe laugh, startling them. . . . “What does he think he sees?” they said. . . . “That there hang not only my generations wasting upon the water—” . . . “But your sun . . . And your moon . . Your world . . . “ “I knew he was a mystic idealist!” Tobitt said. “Still,” I said, “there’s your universe, and that drip-drop upon the water you hear is all the history you’ve made, all you’re going to make. Now laugh, you scientists. Let’s hear you laugh!” (Ellison 569-570)
First in his enlightenment is the freedom from “illusion,” which is understandably “painful and empty,” as it is symbolized by a castration of his “blood-red parts.” But in the loss of his manhood, his “generations,” and his historical significance which he once valued so deeply, he sees that he is also freed from the “universe” of those who spout empty theory. Tobitt, a slave to the Absurd, calls the narrator a “mystic idealist,” perhaps because of how lofty the imagery he prescribes to the castration appears. But what is truly absurd is the emptiness behind all the abstractions and fancy rhetoric of Tobitt and all those who enslave the invisible man ideologically. And the invisible man recognizes this absurdity, which is why he laughs—that is his revolt, the crux of Camus’ belief. Laughter is his enlightenment, the transition from the Kierkegaardian leap of faith to a down-to-earth Camusian rejection of meaning. All he can do in the face of such absurdity is laugh. It is an assertion of himself that represents his final understanding of the Absurds and a freedom from blind faith’s noose. No more is he slave to the whims of recurrent, empty theories. And still, despite his intense pain, he can find beauty in the “glittering butterfly.” That is the beauty of the Absurd, and what Ellison intends to convey. Is there more to life than visceral enjoyment? Of course, but a useless attempt to rationalize the paradoxes of life only leads to torture and self-enslavement. The mundane in contrast is known surely to be true and is independent from the false rhetoric of others. That is why the protagonist’s behavior in the prologue is rational, when the absurdity of his entire journey is considered. His regression into his cave of light bulbs is actually a mature rejection of the absurdity around him. The narrator’s journey to such a state of enlightenment is a great progression, in stages; first, he is servile to the idealistic theories of others, despite supposed enlightenment; second, he becomes aware of the absurd nature of said theories, yet trusts in the anyway by following Kierkegaard’s leap of faith; and third, he rejects his faith and understands that only through constant revolt can he remain his own man. Each stage is extensive in detail and expansive in scope, but each is equally important to comprehend the overall bildungsroman. The narrator matures, from a child-like state of idealistic delusion and enslavement to sensationalist rhetoric, to a painful awareness of the world. It stems from the destruction of illusions, the illumination of contradictions, and above all, the rebellion against the Absurd.