Action & Adventure
![Ralph Ellison - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B000AP7ZM6.jpg)
Invisible Man
Both a deeply compelling bestselling novel and an epic milestone of American literature.
Originally published in 1952 as the first novel by a then unknown author, it remained on the bestseller list for sixteen weeks, won the National Book Award for fiction, and established Ralph Ellison as one of the key writers of the century.
The book's nameless narrator describes growing up in a black community in the South, attending a Negro college from which he is expelled, moving to New York and becoming the chief spokesman of the Harlem branch of "the Brotherhood", before retreating amid violence and confusion to the basement lair of the Invisible Man he imagines himself to be.
The book is a passionate and witty tour de force of style, strongly influenced by T.S. Eliot's The Waste Land, James Joyce, and Dostoevsky.
Originally published in 1952 as the first novel by a then unknown author, it remained on the bestseller list for sixteen weeks, won the National Book Award for fiction, and established Ralph Ellison as one of the key writers of the century.
The book's nameless narrator describes growing up in a black community in the South, attending a Negro college from which he is expelled, moving to New York and becoming the chief spokesman of the Harlem branch of "the Brotherhood", before retreating amid violence and confusion to the basement lair of the Invisible Man he imagines himself to be.
The book is a passionate and witty tour de force of style, strongly influenced by T.S. Eliot's The Waste Land, James Joyce, and Dostoevsky.
Editorial Reviews
"A book of the very first order, a superb book."-Saul Bellow
Readers Top Reviews
DaniloReadaholic
This book is was an absolute classic for me and it will be forever one of my favourite ones. The concept of invisibility is one that speaks volumes to me- in this age of narcissistic self-centred personalities, who are not concerned with knowing one's world-view or what defines an individual. I cannot even begin to explain the depths of this book. Ideally, the best thing will always be to read it and to make their own conclusions. For me, this book is a 5/5.
Robert Welbournbic
A really powerful book about race in America in the 1950s. Strong themes of the trickster make this a compelling read, though it does drag on at times. Worth reading as a snapshot of history and historical literature - don't expect it to be easy though.
Kindle
This belongs up there with Boccaccio, Rabelais, Cervantes and yes Chaucer. It is an absolute romp through black America, as if someone had asked the author to tell them about what it meant to be black and he'd said to them and to himself "I'LL show you...' And in the showing there is a great reserve of humour though as with The Sellout one could never be sure of the intention of humour, as though it were an unconscious product of the skin colour interface. Yet in the end it is common humanity in an existential quandary that comes to the fore, or rather takes a back seat. On the way we are treated to various religious, political and downright tragic scenarios and strategies for each of which the orator in Ellison has a rip roaring speech. Great stuff!
Denise B.Tom Gray
There are a whole sections missing out of the book the pages are not in order
Mikey_and_Jenn02
With my being so finicky about the books I choose to read, I have relatively high expectations for what lies within each one. I've seen this book for awhile now, and on many recommended reads within Black Literature. With such a vague cover and an even more ambiguous title, I found myself constantly overlooking it without realizing that I had seen this book right in front of me time and time again, as I searched for my next enlightening piece of history. I realize now with the book being so inconspicuous, that the title itself is actually quite fitting. Prior to reading Invisible Man, I hadn't heard much about it. No recommendations or opinions from others. So there was no way for me to foresee the impact the story would have on me. No way to envisage how eventful and substantial this book would be. No way to anticipate the perspective given to me, from the author, of this black man in America. No way for me to expect the change made to MY perspective as a Black American. After experiencing this painful truth, there was no way I could have conceived that the very people in my life may be "Invisible," and that I myself am invisible as well. The protagonist did not expect to experience the harsh realities of his existence. More specifically, to experience a journey that he had not planned for, but had plans for him; to meet with a number of individuals that would alter his perspective on being black in a white country; not expecting to ultimately realize that he never accurately knew himself in the first place. The Invisible Man struggles to live in a world where people choose to see him as THEY want to see him, and not for who he truly is. I felt deeply connected with both the mental plight of the protagonist, and his lonesome walk of life. Author Ralph Ellison paints the most vivid picture of an incredible story. With it's outstanding descriptiveness, and incredible symbolism, this book is nothing short of a masterpiece. While it may be tough to grasp all of it's messages and comprehend each metaphor in one read, it's a page turning experience that unforgivably takes a hold of your emotions without ever letting go. This book is an essential read for a number of reasons, however, two of them strike me as the most palpable. The first being its accurate portrayal of racism in America. Ellison takes us inside the mind of the protagonist as he experiences and discovers hateful discrimination in many forms. As well as many perspectives on racism though multiple characters in the book. And second, though it goes without saying how well written and beautiful the novel is, I was astounded by the overall genius of Ellison's vision. With how meticulous and well crafted this work of art is, it came as no surprise when I learned that it took Ellison roughly seven years to complete this book. The ideas presented in this book, though writt...
Short Excerpt Teaser
Chapter One
It goes a long way back, some twenty years. All my life I had been looking for something, and everywhere I turned someone tried to tell me what it was. I accepted their answers too, though they were often in contradiction and even self-contradictory. I was na?ve. I was looking for myself and asking everyone except myself questions which I, and only I, could answer. It took me a long time and much painful boomeranging of my expectations to achieve a realization everyone else appears to have been born with: That I am nobody but myself. But first I had to discover that I am an invisible man!
And yet I am no freak of nature, nor of history. I was in the cards, other things having been equal (or unequal) eighty-five years ago. I am not ashamed of my grandparents for having been slaves. I am only ashamed of myself for having at one time been ashamed. About eighty-five years ago they were told that they were free, united with others of our country in everything pertaining to the common good, and, in everything social, separate like the fingers of the hand. And they believed it. They exulted in it. They stayed in their place, worked hard, and brought up my father to do the same. But my grandfather is the one. He was an odd old guy, my grandfather, and I am told I take after him. It was he who caused the trouble. On his deathbed he called my father to him and said, "Son, after I'm gone I want you to keep up the good fight. I never told you, but our life is a war and I have been a traitor all my born days, a spy in the enemy's country ever since I give up my gun back in the Reconstruction. Live with your head in the lion's mouth. I want you to overcome 'em with yeses, undermine 'em with grins, agree 'em to death and destruction, let 'em swoller you till they vomit or bust wide open." They thought the old man had gone out of his mind. He had been the meekest of men. The younger children were rushed from the room, the shades drawn and the flame of the lamp turned so low that it sputtered on the wick like the old man's breathing. "Learn it to the younguns," he whispered fiercely; then he died.
But my folks were more alarmed over his last words than over his dying. It was as though he had not died at all, his words caused so much anxiety. I was warned emphatically to forget what he had said and, indeed, this is the first time it has been mentioned outside the family circle. It had a tremendous effect upon me, however. I could never be sure of what he meant. Grandfather had been a quiet old man who never made any trouble, yet on his deathbed he had called himself a traitor and a spy, and he had spoken of his meekness as a dangerous activity. It became a constant puzzle which lay unanswered in the back of my mind. And whenever things went well for me I remembered my grandfather and felt guilty and uncomfortable. It was as though I was carrying out his advice in spite of myself. And to make it worse, everyone loved me for it. I was praised by the most lily-white men of the town. I was considered an example of desirable conduct-just as my grandfather had been. And what puzzled me was that the old man had defined it as treachery. When I was praised for my conduct I felt a guilt that in some way I was doing something that was really against the wishes of the white folks, that if they had understood they would have desired me to act just the opposite, that I should have been sulky and mean, and that that really would have been what they wanted, even though they were fooled and thought they wanted me to act as I did. It made me afraid that some day they would look upon me as a traitor and I would be lost. Still I was more afraid to act any other way because they didn't like that at all. The old man's words were like a curse. On my graduation day I delivered an oration in which I showed that humility was the secret, indeed, the very essence of progress. (Not that I believed this-how could I, remembering my grandfather?-I only believed that it worked.) It was a great success. Everyone praised me and I was invited to give the speech at a gathering of the town's leading white citizens. It was a triumph for our whole community.
It was in the main ballroom of the leading hotel. When I got there I discovered that it was on the occasion of a smoker, and I was told that since I was to be there anyway I might as well take part in the battle royal to be fought by some of my schoolmates as part of the entertainment. The battle royal came first.
All of the town's big shots were there in their tuxedoes, wolfing down the buffet foods, drinking beer and whiskey and smoking black cigars. It was a large room with a high ceiling. Chairs were arranged in neat rows around three sides of a portable boxing ring. The fourth side was clear, reveali...
It goes a long way back, some twenty years. All my life I had been looking for something, and everywhere I turned someone tried to tell me what it was. I accepted their answers too, though they were often in contradiction and even self-contradictory. I was na?ve. I was looking for myself and asking everyone except myself questions which I, and only I, could answer. It took me a long time and much painful boomeranging of my expectations to achieve a realization everyone else appears to have been born with: That I am nobody but myself. But first I had to discover that I am an invisible man!
And yet I am no freak of nature, nor of history. I was in the cards, other things having been equal (or unequal) eighty-five years ago. I am not ashamed of my grandparents for having been slaves. I am only ashamed of myself for having at one time been ashamed. About eighty-five years ago they were told that they were free, united with others of our country in everything pertaining to the common good, and, in everything social, separate like the fingers of the hand. And they believed it. They exulted in it. They stayed in their place, worked hard, and brought up my father to do the same. But my grandfather is the one. He was an odd old guy, my grandfather, and I am told I take after him. It was he who caused the trouble. On his deathbed he called my father to him and said, "Son, after I'm gone I want you to keep up the good fight. I never told you, but our life is a war and I have been a traitor all my born days, a spy in the enemy's country ever since I give up my gun back in the Reconstruction. Live with your head in the lion's mouth. I want you to overcome 'em with yeses, undermine 'em with grins, agree 'em to death and destruction, let 'em swoller you till they vomit or bust wide open." They thought the old man had gone out of his mind. He had been the meekest of men. The younger children were rushed from the room, the shades drawn and the flame of the lamp turned so low that it sputtered on the wick like the old man's breathing. "Learn it to the younguns," he whispered fiercely; then he died.
But my folks were more alarmed over his last words than over his dying. It was as though he had not died at all, his words caused so much anxiety. I was warned emphatically to forget what he had said and, indeed, this is the first time it has been mentioned outside the family circle. It had a tremendous effect upon me, however. I could never be sure of what he meant. Grandfather had been a quiet old man who never made any trouble, yet on his deathbed he had called himself a traitor and a spy, and he had spoken of his meekness as a dangerous activity. It became a constant puzzle which lay unanswered in the back of my mind. And whenever things went well for me I remembered my grandfather and felt guilty and uncomfortable. It was as though I was carrying out his advice in spite of myself. And to make it worse, everyone loved me for it. I was praised by the most lily-white men of the town. I was considered an example of desirable conduct-just as my grandfather had been. And what puzzled me was that the old man had defined it as treachery. When I was praised for my conduct I felt a guilt that in some way I was doing something that was really against the wishes of the white folks, that if they had understood they would have desired me to act just the opposite, that I should have been sulky and mean, and that that really would have been what they wanted, even though they were fooled and thought they wanted me to act as I did. It made me afraid that some day they would look upon me as a traitor and I would be lost. Still I was more afraid to act any other way because they didn't like that at all. The old man's words were like a curse. On my graduation day I delivered an oration in which I showed that humility was the secret, indeed, the very essence of progress. (Not that I believed this-how could I, remembering my grandfather?-I only believed that it worked.) It was a great success. Everyone praised me and I was invited to give the speech at a gathering of the town's leading white citizens. It was a triumph for our whole community.
It was in the main ballroom of the leading hotel. When I got there I discovered that it was on the occasion of a smoker, and I was told that since I was to be there anyway I might as well take part in the battle royal to be fought by some of my schoolmates as part of the entertainment. The battle royal came first.
All of the town's big shots were there in their tuxedoes, wolfing down the buffet foods, drinking beer and whiskey and smoking black cigars. It was a large room with a high ceiling. Chairs were arranged in neat rows around three sides of a portable boxing ring. The fourth side was clear, reveali...
