How to Read Literature Like a Professor

(Axel Boer) #1


  1. crazy (redundant if also number 2)




  2. fictional




  3. a circus act, departing a cannon




  4. suspended on wires




  5. an angel




  6. heavily symbolic




Of course, just because we can’t fly doesn’t mean we don’t dream of it. We chafe at laws, particularly
when we feel they’re unfair or inhibiting or both, as with the law of gravity. The steady winner in magic
acts, since most magicians can’t afford an elephant for the vanishing act, is levitation. British imperialists in
the nineteenth century came back from the Eastern realms with tales of swamis who had mastered the art
of hovering above the ground. Our comic book superheroes defy gravity in various ways, whether
through flight directly (Superman), tethers (Spider-Man), or gadgets (Batman).


Culturally and literarily we have toyed with the idea of flight since earliest times. Few stories from Greek
mythology capture the imagination like that of Daedalus and Icarus: the ingenious father’s attempt to save
his son from a tyrant as well as from his own invention (the labyrinth) by coming up with an even more
marvelous creation; the solemn parental warning ignored in a burst of youthful exuberance; the fall from a
great height; a father’s terrible grief and guilt. Flight alone is a wonp. 127der; with these other elements, a
complete and compelling myth. Other cultures share this fascination. Toni Morrison has spoken of the
myth of the flying Africans. The Aztecs saw a particularly important god, Quetzalcoatl, as a snake with
feathered wings. Christian popular belief often sees new arrivals in heaven decked out with wings and a
harp—emblems of flight and music which are natural properties of the birds but denied humans.
Scripturally, flight is one of the temptations of Christ: Satan asks him to demonstrate his divinity by
launching himself from the promontory. Perhaps it is that episode that has associated witchcraft with flight
through so much of our history, or perhaps it is merely that our misplaced desire for flight has turned to
envy.


So what does it mean when literary characters fly? Take, for example, Morrison’s Song of Solomon
and its highly ambiguous airborne ending, with Milkman suspended in mid-leap toward Guitar, each of
them knowing only one can survive. Morrison’s use of the myth of the flying Africans introduces a
specific historical and racial reference that is outside the experience of most readers, but we recognize

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