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I was sorting through books to be donated today when I came across my copy of Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man, chock-full of my earnest markings from AP English in 11th grade. Anyway, the first two paragraphs of that novel hit me like a brick to the stomach when I first read them five years ago--and to a certain extent, especially in my current funk, they still do now. I thought I'd post them here, for future reference.
I am an invisible man. No, I am not a spook like those who haunted Edgar Allan Poe; nor am I one of your Hollywood-movie ectoplasms. 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 because people refuse to see me. Like the bodiless heads you see sometimes in circus sideshows, it is as though I have been surrounded by mirrors of hard, distorting glass. When they approach me they see only my surroundings, themselves, or figments of their imagination--indeed, everything and anything except me.
Nor is my invisibility exactly a matter of a biochemical accident 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 they look through their physical eyes upon reality. I am not complaining, nor am I protesting either. It is sometimes advantageous to be unseen, although it 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 you 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 strength to destroy. It's when you feel like this that, out of resentment, you begin to bump back. And, let me confess, you feel that way most of 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 strike out with your fists, you curse and you swear to make them recognize you. And, alas, it's seldom successful.
I remember having this persistent feeling through most of eleventh grade that I could stand in the middle of the main hallway of school during the busiest time of day, that I could stretch out my hands and feet as far as they would go, block as much of the hallway as possible, and people would walk through me as if I wasn't even there. That feeling still comes back to haunt me from time to time. It's disconcerting. It happens a lot when I realize that I'm sitting in a group talking to people who have completely failed to notice that I even opened my mouth, or when I get a haircut or new glasses or whatever and no one notices. I think that's part of why I got the crazy cartoon character bleach job on my hair-- because even if people think I look like a freak, at least they see me.
Sorry for the continuing whininess, folks. The already depressing time of year coupled with intense PMS is wreaking havoc with my mood. I promise to return to my usual sardonic, slightly more cheerful self once I make it through the holiday season in one piece. In the mean time, it is far too late to be awake and thinking depressing thoughts. Time to give up and go to bed, I think.
I am an invisible man. No, I am not a spook like those who haunted Edgar Allan Poe; nor am I one of your Hollywood-movie ectoplasms. 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 because people refuse to see me. Like the bodiless heads you see sometimes in circus sideshows, it is as though I have been surrounded by mirrors of hard, distorting glass. When they approach me they see only my surroundings, themselves, or figments of their imagination--indeed, everything and anything except me.
Nor is my invisibility exactly a matter of a biochemical accident 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 they look through their physical eyes upon reality. I am not complaining, nor am I protesting either. It is sometimes advantageous to be unseen, although it 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 you 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 strength to destroy. It's when you feel like this that, out of resentment, you begin to bump back. And, let me confess, you feel that way most of 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 strike out with your fists, you curse and you swear to make them recognize you. And, alas, it's seldom successful.
I remember having this persistent feeling through most of eleventh grade that I could stand in the middle of the main hallway of school during the busiest time of day, that I could stretch out my hands and feet as far as they would go, block as much of the hallway as possible, and people would walk through me as if I wasn't even there. That feeling still comes back to haunt me from time to time. It's disconcerting. It happens a lot when I realize that I'm sitting in a group talking to people who have completely failed to notice that I even opened my mouth, or when I get a haircut or new glasses or whatever and no one notices. I think that's part of why I got the crazy cartoon character bleach job on my hair-- because even if people think I look like a freak, at least they see me.
Sorry for the continuing whininess, folks. The already depressing time of year coupled with intense PMS is wreaking havoc with my mood. I promise to return to my usual sardonic, slightly more cheerful self once I make it through the holiday season in one piece. In the mean time, it is far too late to be awake and thinking depressing thoughts. Time to give up and go to bed, I think.
