Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Invisible Man Research
Invisible Man Research
A thesis submitted
by
May 2016
© Copyright
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Thesis written by
Kenton Butcher
______________________________________ Advisor
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TABLE OF CONTENTS...............................................................................................................iii
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS............................................................................................................iv
CHAPTERS
WORKS CITED............................................................................................................................68
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Acknowledgements
I would first like to thank my wife for her love and support. There are no words. Thanks to
Babacar M’Baye for his advice and infinite patience over the course of this project. I also wish to
thank Don-John Dugas, Tammy Clewell, and Jennifer Larson for their help and insight. Finally, I
would like to than the Kent State University English Department for taking a chance on me. This
program changed the course of my professional and academic future, and I am forever grateful.
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I. Introduction: Ellison’s (In)Visible Myth
I knew the trickster Ulysses just as early as I knew the wily rabbit
of Negro American lore, and I could easily imagine myself a pint-
sized Ulysses but hardly a rabbit, no matter how human and
resourceful or Negro.
In Ellison’s prose and interviews, he suggests that African American folklore, myth, and
rituals do not exist in a vacuum, separated from the wider American society—black and white
cultures are entwined and inseparable. The African-American experience is a fundamental part
of America and the West in general, and it is “as rich a body of experience as one would find
identify ourselves with it and recognize it as an important segment of the larger selves with it and
recognize it as an important segment of the larger American experience—not lying at the bottom
of it, but intertwined, diffused in its very texture” (Collected Essays 214). In other words, one
cannot be removed without fundamentally changing the other. Herman Beavers notes that
Ellison’s comments on the cross cultural engagement between black and white American
cultures are “richly problematic” in that Ellison argues for “an American identity that issues from
cultural collaboration, even in instances where the participants are less than willing to
acknowledge it as such” (Beavers 1). American culture arises from “collisions between different
racial groups” (Beavers 1), and Ellison works to bring this fact to the surface of his novel,
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Ellison acknowledges that myths, rites, and traditions obfuscate America’s integrated
cultural history because individual and group participants perpetuate the spurious notion of racial
separatism and a brutal racial caste system. However, Ellison shows over the course of Invisible
Man that two cultures as culturally, historically, and politically entwined as the cultures of
African Americans and European Americans unavoidably inform and influence one another.
Ellison provides an example of this inevitable cross-cultural identification from his own life,
reminiscing that as a child, he and his playmates “fabricated [their] own heroes and ideals catch-
as-catch-can, and with an outrageous and irreverent sense of freedom” (Collected Essays 53). In
the minds of Ellison and his schoolmates, unhampered by rules of decorum or social constraints,
characters from their lives permeated and merged with characters they discovered throughout the
Gamblers and scholars, jazz musicians and scientists, Negro cowboys and soldiers
from the Spanish-American and first world wars, movie stars and stunt men,
figures from the Italian Renaissance and literature, both classical and popular,
were combined with the special virtues of some local bootlegger, the eloquence of
some Negro preacher, the strength and grace of some local athlete, the
Ellison’s imaginative practice of cultural integration did not cease when he reached adulthood;
Invisible Man emphasizes this shared and integrated cultural history on an individual and societal
level, and I will show that Ellison’s accomplishment rests on a narrative method that seeks to
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Invisible Man’s two epigraphs from Herman Melville’s Benito Cereno and T. S. Eliot’s
Family Reunion, respectively, speak to this narrative method. Thomas Volger suggests that the
first epigraph from Melville “suggests the nature of the change the invisible man undergoes in
the novel” and the second, from Eliot, “suggests the discovery of [Invisible’s] invisibility which
is an essential part of the change” (129). Although Volger’s assertion is certainly edifying, I
would add that the title of Eliot’s work, Family Reunion, suggests a (re)unification of entities
with a shared history. The context of the epigraph is that Harry is addressing a distant relative,
In addition to the notion of invisibility, Harry’s words call forth several taboos—i. e., traditions
which govern human interaction, such as necrophilia and cannibalism. The epigraph foregrounds
Ellison’s fixation with myth as it functions in everyday events throughout Invisible Man.
Myths and traditions in Invisible Man work in such a way that Invisible and the other
characters participate in these rites both consciously and unconsciously. Invisible is reluctant to
bring such traditions to the forefront of consciousness, “given the large numbers of people who
wish to adhere to illusion” (Beavers 23). Initially, Invisible was one of the individuals who
adhered to illusion, and as a result, the traditions structuring American society cause Invisible to
“accept the rigid and restraining role imposed on [him] as true identity” (Tanner 83). Invisible is
not the only one with misapprehensions about his existential reality, as representatives of social
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power in Invisible Man like “teacher[s], preacher[s], doctor[s], factory-owner[s], [or] Party
member[s]” spuriously attempt to “control reality, and they believe that they can run it according
to their plan” (Tanner 83). In Invisible Man, traditions mechanize consciousness and cause
individuals to act without considering why they act in such a way, and the narrator discovers that
the cyclical, repetitive traditions that undergird society perpetuate mindless adherence to social
practices that victimize subaltern groups, “the manner by which African Americans became a
resource whose purpose was one of providing white Americans with the raw materials necessary
In “The Art of Fiction” (1954), Ellison defines myth and its significance for American
(or any other) culture and society. For Ellison, myth and folklore address a specific question:
[W]hat in our background is worth preserving or abandoning? The clue to this can
be found in folklore, which offers the first drawings of any group’s character. It
preserves mainly those situations which have repeated themselves again and again
in the history of any given group. It describes those rites, manners, customs, and
so forth, which insure the good life or destroy it, and it describes those boundaries
of feeling, thought and action which that particular group has found to be the
In other words, myths and folktales initially arise as an instinct to preserve cultural values, and
certain American traditions encourage the mindless repetition of customs that perpetually
provide white society with the “raw materials to formulate a contingent identity” based on the
status of subaltern groups. As a result of the inherently cyclical nature of these traditions, the
events of Invisible’s life bear the mark of Absurdist repetition in that they occur over and over
again, and the Absurdity of Invisible’s existence accounts for what William Schafer calls
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Invisible Man’s “cumulative plot”: “The novel […] [develops] the same basic episode over and
commandments of his immediate social group, then is undone by the hypocrisy built into the
social structure and is plunged into despair” (117). Invisible and the other characters accept this
innate hypocrisy of the social structure because of mindless adherence to myth, but first, I will
examine where Ellison derives his conception of myth and how to integrate it in his fiction.
Ellison attributes his conception of myth to the twentieth century Modernists, James
Joyce and T. S. Eliot. In “Change the Joke and Slip the Yoke” (1963), Ellison writes, “I use
folklore in my work not because I am Negro, but because writers like Eliot and Joyce made me
conscious of the literary value of my folk inheritance” (Collected Essays 111-112). For Ellison,
Joyce and Eliot’s oeuvres are artistic exemplars regarding the use of myth and folklore in his
own fiction. Ellison continues: “When I started writing, I knew that in both The Waste Land and
Ulysses ancient myth and ritual were used to give form and significance to the material, but it
took me a few years to realize that the myths and rites which we find functioning in our everyday
lives could be used in the same way” (Collected Essays 216). Ellison discovers that Eliot and
Joyce use classical myth to give structure to their literature, and he also learned how to draw
from mythological and folkloric sources with which he was familiar from the time of his youth:
Critics such as Schafer and George Kent have explored Ellison’s use of myth and
folklore, and Kent goes as far as to claim that Ellison’s use of folk tradition “provides a veritable
textbook which can be adapted, according to one’s own sensibility and outlook” (170). However,
studies thus far have been essentially segregated considerations of the functions of African-
American folklore, Western myth, and canonical literature within Invisible Man. However,
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scholars such as Patrice Rankine (Ulysses in Black, 2006) and Justine McConnell (Black
Odysseys, 2013) identify Ellison’s parsing of Greco-Roman myth and indicate that the classics
need not be considered exclusively Eurocentric, but these studies stop short of considering the
wide range of Ellison’s use of Western literature within Invisible Man. I will show that, in spite
of the clarity with which Ellison acknowledged his artistic debt to Joyce and Eliot, the
provenance of this oversight is that we have yet to consider that Ellison’s understanding of how
an artist may appropriate myth and foundational works of literature largely comes from Joyce
and Eliot.
According to Ellison, Eliot’s Waste Land has a uniquely American sensibility regarding
literature of the past in that The Waste Land “assumes possession, it abstracts, it recasts in terms
of Eliot’s sense of life and his sense of the possibility of language, of poetry, and of culture”
(Conversations 91). Ellison also notes that in “Fragment of an Agon” (1933), Eliot makes use of
“Under the Bamboo Tree,” a 1902 ragtime song co-written by James Weldon Johnson, and this
“was another connection which provided some sense of the complexity of the American identity”
(Conversations 314). Beavers explicates the significance of Ellison’s understanding of jazz upon
his artistry, and incidentally, this explains Ellison’s fixation with Eliot’s work, specifically The
his or her predecessors, and what crystalizes is a coherent tradition, not only in
terms of technical invention but also in the levels of virtuosity he or she must
achieve to stand as a watershed in the tradition. This dialogue assumes guises that
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In other words, a jazz musician engages in a discourse where the individual asserts his or her
identity within a musical group, and yet simultaneously seeks to distinguish him or herself “as
individual, as member of the collectivity and as a link in the chain of tradition” (Collected Essays
267). In Eliot, Ellison finds a writer who engages with literature of the past and recasts it
however he sees fit and in so doing becomes a “link in the chain” of literary convention.
In addition to Eliot’s artistic influence, Ellison frequently credits Joyce as one of his
artistic predecessors. In fact, Ellison embeds a reference to Stephen Dedalus and A Portrait of
the Artist as a Young Man directly within Invisible Man when Invisible recalls a literature lesson.
The teacher lectures his students that “Stephen’s problem, like ours, was not actually one of
creating the uncreated conscience of his race, but of creating the uncreated features of his face”
(Invisible Man 274). Tanner writes that, in this moment of the novel, “[t]he narrator has
discovered […] that he is not free to reorganize and order the world, but he can at least exercise
the freedom to arrange and name his perceptions of the world” (89). As Invisible uses the
example of Stephen Dedalus to recognize his freedom to “arrange and name his perceptions of
the world,” Ellison uses Joyce as a model for how an artist can arrange his fictional world: what I
According to Eliot’s essay, “Ulysses, Order, and Myth” (1923), the “mythical method” is
“simply a way of controlling, of ordering, of giving shape and significance to the immense
panorama of futility and anarchy which is contemporary history” (“Ulysses”). As various critics
have noted, beginning with Stuart Gilbert, Joyce uses Homer’s Odyssey as an organizing
structure for the events of his novel. Ellison coalesces Joyce’s use of classical literature as
narrative scaffolding and Eliot’s parsing of classical texts to suit Ellison’s own artistic objectives
in Invisible Man. Ellison’s modifies the mythical method to riff on fragments of classical
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mythology, western literature and philosophy, and African-American artistic traditions, and he
blends them seamlessly into a cohesive narrative with the structure garnered from Dante’s
Inferno and the classical trope of the heroic descent to the Underworld. Although scholars have
noted the aspects of Ellison’s mythical method—the appropriation of classical texts, the use of
African-American and Western myth, and the artistic influence of the modernists Joyce and
Eliot—they have discussed them as independent concepts that are unrelated, and I will bring
In Chapter One, I will draw from Ellison’s prose and interviews and critical works such
as W. B. Stanford’s Ulysses Theme (1954), Rankine’s Ulysses in Black, and Otto Rank’s The
Myth of the Birth of the Hero (1914) to elucidate Ellison’s understanding of myth as it pertains to
his mythical method and integration of various cultural figures and narrative forms. Chapter Two
will examine Ellison’s writings and comments regarding Eliot and Joyce and I will examine the
most edifying instances of Joyce and Eliot’s artistic impact within Invisible Man. And finally,
Chapter Three will analyze Ellison’s katabatic narrative structure based on Dante’s Inferno—a
method he derives from Joyce—and I will examine his parsing and appropriation Greco-Roman
myth, African American folklore, and the Western literary canon within each rung of society—
With this study, I hope to revive Ellison’s attempt to bring to the forefront the role myth
and tradition play in structuring human interaction along racial lines. This notion has been lost in
Ellisonian scholarship, as evinced by the largely segregated considerations of myth and authorial
influence upon Ellison and Invisible Man. However, as Ellison writes, defining the relationship
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Indeed, it [is] quite complex, involving as it does a ceaseless questioning of those
fate and its relation to the larger society and the culture which we share.
Invisible’s journey “examines the process by which American identities are formed,” and
Beaver’s claim can also describe Ellison’s mythical method; Ellison’s mythical method is a way
of “examining the codes and mores of the dominant culture and how the past configures life in
the present” (Beavers 4). Ellison’s engagement with the literatures of the past show that classical
literature can describe and enlighten the experiences of a young African American male. The
inverse, then, must also be true; Invisible’s experiences potentially resonate with all Americans
because “Ellison’s work speaks to (or for?) a shared destiny, a plight Americans, black and white
alike (among other groups who fit neither of these designations) must ponder within the context
of an ongoing experiment characterized as much by its failures as its successes” (Beavers 2).
identification, readers and critics alike have disparaged him for political complacency. James
Alan McPhearson writes that the source of Ellison’s problems arises from the matter of self-
definition: “At a time when many blacks, especially the young, are denying all influences of
product of the blending of both cultures” (44). Categorization, especially racial categorization, is
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[t]o rely solely on racial categories as a way of establishing an aesthetic
complexity, the cultural hybridity that American life affords. That [Ellison] (and
thus, his protagonist) seeks to formulate kinship ties outside the African American
tradition intimates his belief in the dynamic nature of American culture. (Beavers
15)
I hope to bring these kinship ties to the fore by examining Ellison’s mythical method as it works
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II. Myth, Folklore, and Canonical Literature
In Invisible Man, Ralph Ellison recognizes violence towards African Americans in the early to
mid-twentieth century, particularly in the Southern United States, as a brutal tradition. Ellison
refers to the “Battle Royal” passage of Invisible Man and claims that this scene portrays a “vital
part of behavior pattern in the South, which both Negroes and whites thoughtlessly accept. It is a
ritual in preservation of caste lines, a keeping of taboo to appease the gods and ward off bad
luck. It is also the initiation ritual to which all greenhorns are subjected; […] the patterns were
already there in society, so that all I had to do was present them in a broader context of meaning”
(Collected Essays 216). In other words, Ellison merges modern American behavioral patterns
with what he sees as traditional, Manichean beliefs regarding the motifs of black and white
throughout Western literature and culture: good and evil, enlightenment and ignorance, pure and
polluted, virtue and sin, and so on. Furthermore, Ellison shows that cultural patterns, folklore,
and myth all arise from repeated human action, and appropriates and synthesizes these forms
within Invisible Man through his appropriation of the Western canon to construct his narrative.
Western literature, and Ellison made no qualms about recognizing the literature and authors he
found most useful. Ellison’s studies began under Richard Wright’s tutelage and Ellison
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reminiscences about the moment when Wright recommended Ellison study canonical literature:
“You must learn how Conrad, Joyce, Dostoevsky, get their effects” (Collected Essays 73-74). It
is clear that Ellison did precisely this, as there are traces from diverse literary figures and works
from America and Europe within Invisible Man. Although there is no shortage of criticism on
Ellison and intertextuality with the Western canon, no scholar has identified that his narrative
method may have come from his study of James Joyce and T. S. Eliot.
Scholars such as Patrice Rankine and Justine McConnell have argued that, like Eliot and
Joyce, Ellison incorporates into Invisible Man the foundational literature of the Western canon
such as the Greco-Roman myth. Although traditionally denied access to classical mythology and
entry into the Western literary canon, African Americans have traditionally engaged with these
texts, and Rankine uses Ellison’s Invisible Man as one example among others of African
American participation in the classical tradition. Accordingly, Rankine suggests that African
American engagement with the classics can enlighten the study of Greco-Roman mythology and,
specifically regarding Ellison’s engagement with classicism, observes: “[W]e find that, origins
not withstanding, black and white Americans alike share common cultural and literary models
that can be called upon to shape and reform our understanding of ourselves and the world around
us. Without this vernacular, there is no meeting of the minds, no shared meaning, no common
culture” (11). This is precisely the point Ellison seeks to illuminate in his work by saying that he
“was taken very early with a passion to link together all [he] loved within the Negro community
and all those things I felt in the world which lay beyond” (Collected Essays 71).
Moreover, Rankine and McConnell show that the classics need not be marked or rejected
as a Eurocentric field of study. In fact, Rankine shows that Ellison, among other authors,
engaged with the classics as a unique form of protest and subversion. Rankine argues that “to
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study Ulysses, or Greek and Roman myth and folklore more broadly, is not to privilege [them]
[…] A black author’s use of the classics is not necessarily an esthetic concession and black
classicism can in fact be part of a radical cultural identity” (42). Although Rankine emphasizes
Ellison’s engagement with the classics, this same argument can be applied to Ellison’s
engagement with the whole Western canon. Ellison’s synthesis of African American literature,
traditions, and folklore with Western literature and motifs in Invisible Man is in fact a part of a
“radical cultural identity,” with which all Americans engage regardless of race and in spite of
various attempts to conceal or outright deny this fact, such as critical oversight or blatant
rejection of intercultural influence. For Ellison, learning to compose his novel forced him “to
relate [himself] consciously and imaginatively to [his] mixed background as American, as Negro
American, and as a Negro from what in its own belated way was a pioneer background” as an
early resident of Oklahoma (Collected Essays 56). Accordingly, Ellison relates himself and his
work to the Western canon and, as a result, uncovers the dialectical nature of narrative and
culture between African American tradition and the larger American culture in which it plays a
crucial role. In the preface to the 1980 edition of Invisible Man, Ellison reminisces that during
the composition of the novel, “creatures from Afro-American fables—Jack-the-Rabbit and Jack-
the-Bear—blended in my mind with figures of myth and history about whom I’d been reading:
those tracings of the sinister ties which bind the generations in that basic parade of human vision
whereby the sighted are often blind and the sightless most perceptive, the son his own father-in-
law, and the dedicated and self-righteous detective his own elusive criminal” (Collected Essays
353). The coupling of African American forms with Western myth and literature is how Ellison
gains entry into the canon of Western literature “to make some small contribution, and to whose
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composite picture of reality [he] was obligated to offer some necessary modifications” (Collected
Essays 56).
novel in the context of the Western narrative tradition. In The Nature of Narrative (1966), Robert
Scholes and Robert Kellogg seek to clarify that the novel is not the “ideal” form of narrative as is
often implied in criticism, but only one of many narrative forms. Scholes and Kellogg trace the
evolution of narrative from ancient and sacred myth to contemporary fiction and liken the
phenomena to biological evolution. They write: “It is a kind of cross between a biological and a
dialectical process, in which different species sometimes combine to produce new hybrids, which
can in turn combine with other old or new forms; and in which one type will beget its antitype,
which in turn may combine with other forms or synthesize with its antitypical originator”
(Scholes and Kellogg 23). For Scholes and Kellogg, written narratives from across the globe
follow the same approximate developmental path of divergence and reintegration. For them,
“[a]ll art is traditional in that artists learn their craft from their predecessors [and] conceiving of
the possibilities open to them in terms of the achievements they are acquainted with” (Scholes
and Kellogg 17). Ellison’s appropriation of the forms with which he is familiar, such as the
Western canon, classical myth, and African American folklore, gives Invisible Man grounding
and cohesiveness in the chaotic form of the novel, and he achieves a (re)unification of apparently
Although I argue that Ellison’s integration of various cultural forms in Invisible Man is
egalitarian, critics such as Houston Baker in Blues, Ideology, and Afro-American Literature
(1984) suggest that Ellison’s literary criticism relegates African American folklore below other
art forms, writing that it seems “mere evasion to shy from the assertion that Ellison’s criticism
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ranks folklore below literary art” (175). Although Baker continues that Ellison’s “critical
practice collapses in his creative practice” (175), the charges he levels against Ellison for
relegating African American folklore is spurious because Ellison considers both art forms
essential to his identity and his artistry. McConnell notes that “Ellison’s novel, in fact, positions
itself at the centre [sic] of a triangle formed by ancient classical literature, the canon of
writers, given the barriers surrounding the endowment of canonical status) and African American
folklore” (76) because these are the (seemingly incongruous) traditions which he inherited.
Before highlighting the Odyssean nature of Ellison’s narrative as does Rankine, McConnell
notes the diverse sources of Ellison’s narrative. In addition to noting Ellison’s clear study of
Joyce, Hemingway, and Stein, McConnell notes that the “framing prologue and epilogue of the
novel are clearly indebted to Dostoevsky’s Notes from Underground (1864), as well as to
Richard Wright’s novella, ‘The Man Who Lived Underground’ (1942). Furthermore, the
prologue and epilogue align Invisible Man with the ‘why do I write?’ theme of slave narratives,
in which literacy is equated with freedom” (McConnell 76). In other words, McConnell, like
Ellison, sees connections and similarities where others see disparate traditions—Ellison merely
uses the tradition within which he works in order to highlight the resemblances.
Ellison’s description of his engagement with classical and European literature left him
open to the criticisms of perpetuating the hierarchical relationship between African American
and European American culture, and, upon initial consideration, these charges appear valid. For
instance, although Ellison aligns his protagonist with trickster figures such as Brer Rabbit and
Odysseus, he also associated himself with Odysseus because it is easier or more logical for him
to identify with a human than with a rabbit (Collected Essays 112). This coupling of cultural
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forms endows Ellison’s protagonist and other characters with a “unique perspective on human
affairs” that draws from various cultural forms by nature (Rankine 154). Take, for instance,
Ellison’s description of Invisible’s struggle against Monopolated Light & Power. Invisible uses
“their service and [pays] them nothing at all, and they don’t know it” (Invisible Man 5). Invisible
describes the intentionally superfluous waste of electricity in his hole in the ground, saying
“there are exactly 1,369 lights. I’ve wired 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” (Invisible Man 7). Like Armstrong, Invisible takes an instrument of
power and turns it into whatever he wants: light, warmth, music, and so on. Although identifying
Invisible with Odysseus indicates that white society is identified with the gods, this instance is
not black and white, so to speak. In African American folklore, “God” is not necessarily an
indicator of divinity and goodness since he or she is sometimes perceived as an ordinary being
In her collection of African American folklore, Mules and Men (1935), Zora Neale
Hurston recounts the tale “How Jack Beat the Devil.” However, in this tale and in others, the
devil is not cast as the prince of darkness and paragon of evil, locked in futile battle upon the
planes of heaven, as described by Milton. Hurston characterizes the Devil as a trickster figure,
akin to Brer Rabbit and Odysseus: “The devil is not the terror that he is in European folk-lore.
He is a powerful trickster who often competes successfully with God. There is a strong suspicion
that the devil is an extension of the story-makers while God is the supposedly impregnable white
masters, who are nevertheless defeated by the Negroes” (Mules and Men 248). Perhaps
indicative of Rank’s claim that the purloiners of myth will utilize what corresponds to their
current situation, the Devil does not become a figure of evil as much as one who maintains
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stubborn defiance in the face of overwhelming odds. Pockets of resistance are possible even
under oppressive conditions and Ellison weaves together myths and characters that emphasize
stubborn tenacity and wisdom in confronting the economically, politically, and culturally
powerful rather than crying foul. Accordingly, Ellison integrates the inherited myths, forms, and
other traditions of his society to describe it from his vantage point. Using Western narrative
traditions to describe the West from a subaltern point of view is bound to be revealing. As
Rankine notes, in Invisible Man and other African American texts that engage with the classics,
“[w]estern myth works in tandem with African and African American folklore to form the
correlatives […] In many cases, and particularly in the case of Ralph Ellison, the objective
correlative of classicism in African American literature merged with local idiom to form
W. B. Stanford’s Ulysses Theme (1954) demonstrates the wide spectrum of uses of the
Homeric character Ulysses throughout Western literature due to Ulysses’s greatest trait:
adaptability. Stanford accounts for discrepancies between the original Homeric myth and modern
authors’ appropriations of the characters and themes from the Odyssey, saying,
a professional writer rarely has time or patience to sift a complex tradition in its
entirety. He will usually rely on some fragmentary information and invent the
rest. Here chance may cause a revolution. If Dante had known the Odyssey he
might not have conceived his epoch-making portrait of Ulysses in the Inferno. If
James Joyce had not first met Ulysses in Charles Lamb’s Adventures of Ulysses
Theme 3)
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Stanford continues, saying that when an author latches onto a traditional character, “his
imagination can make a sudden mythopoeic leap beyond the slow tide of normal literary
development: then, quite unpredictably, a new conception of an ancient hero, a new major figure
in the annals of European literature, may spring into life” (Ulysses Theme 6). A proof of
characters, which causes a new, “invisible,” figure to spring into life in Western literature.
Building upon Stanford’s study, Rankine reads Ellison’s appropriation of the “Ulysses
theme” in Invisible Man as a way of understanding Greco-Roman myth from a new vantage
point and thus enriching its literary value. Rankine argues this point eloquently and
American folklore in Ellison’s fiction. Rankine shows that, rather than an esoteric, Eurocentric
subject, “Greek and Roman literature are part of a broad nexus of images and icons that served
the artists who handled them as material for esthetic, political, and social expression. The
classics are as diverse as any literature, and some of the ideas and icons that come out of Greco-
Roman culture are among the most persistent known to any society […] Ulysses, as a symbol of
the classics, is as much the voice of the oppressed as he is the oppressor” (65). Stanford’s study
of the Ulysses theme corroborates Rankine’s thesis that the classics, and the character of
Odysseus in particular, contain salient points of identification with African American culture.
Although he does not classify it as such, Stanford describes the character of Odysseus as
epics:
In the Iliad Odysseus lives among open friends and open enemies. All are heroes
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in war and peace. In most of the Odyssey, on the contrary, Odysseus is generally
either alone or else accompanied only by some panicky followers and goes among
rule of conduct in such circumstances. Odysseus needs every atom of his inherited
Stanford’s dichotomy of Odysseus’s experiences between the Iliad and the Odyssey, between
being a member of in- and out-groups, both majority and minority, is an apt description of
Invisible. Being in, but not of, American society, “Invisible Man here [develops] an Odyssean
cunning in his ‘desire to hide’ and be duplicitous, but more tellingly, Brer Rabbit (or Buckeye as
Although Ellison’s use of the “literature of the oppressor” left Ellison open to charges
hierarchy that [Houston A.] Baker suggests, of black folklore with the Ulysses theme […] If he is
to achieve the mastery of self that is emblematic of Ulysses, he must come to terms both with his
broader (classically influenced) context and with his identity in an African American texture of
time, place, and circumstance” (137). Ellison’s notion of appropriating the larger Western culture
and its traditions, of which his own culture was a part, holds political significance and comes
largely from his study of James Joyce, who coupled Irish culture (that at the time existed within
The specific point of connection between Joyce and Ellison’s use of classical literature is
visible in the specific works they use to structure Ulysses and Invisible Man. David Weir’s
Ulysses Explained: How Homer, Dante, and Shakespeare Inform Joyce’s Modernist Vision
(2015) argues that any understanding of Ulysses must pass through the literary figures of
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“Homer, because he provides the narrative, Shakespeare because he supplies the plot, and Dante
because he inspires the structure” (1). Weir’s description of Joyce’s narrative deserves emphasis
because it could be related to Invisible Man. For instance, Weir shows that Dante and Joyce both
“write about an earlier stage of their lives from the perspective of maturity. They also write about
their homelands from the perspective of exile—forced in the case of Dante and voluntary in the
case of Joyce” (Weir 3). Significantly, Ellison’s narrator, Invisible, also writes about an earlier
stage of his life after his transformative experiences have occurred. Invisible writes from forced
and voluntary exile: forced in terms of African American political and social oppression and
voluntary because of his retreat into an underground lair. Perhaps most significantly, Weir claims
that Eliot’s “Waste Land employs something resembling a mythical rather than a narrative
method” (5), and although it is beyond the scope of this project to elucidate the disparity between
Joyce’s and Eliot’s mythical methods, what is significant is that as Eliot composes his poem
piecemeal from fragments of previous works, and Ellison composes his novel piecemeal from
Rankine traces Ellison’s understanding of myth to James Gordon Frazer’s Golden Bough
(1890), saying,
Frazer’s contribution [to the study of myth] was that of encouraging readers to
examine these tales across cultures so as to tap into their universal, transcultural
themes. The ritual approach to myth came to influence Sigmund Freud, who used
symbolic overthrow of the father-figure […] The ritual approach to myth was
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Although Rankine correctly identifies Ellison’s inclination to find fundamental similarities and
patterns of human thought in myth, he overlooks one of Ellison’s most important, self-
proclaimed influences upon his study and understanding of mythology: Otto Rank’s Myth of the
Ellison directly alludes to Rank’s study of heroic archetypes in two separate interviews.
In a 1972 discussion with the author, John O’Brien compares a speech of Ellison’s character, a
blind preacher with the Hellenic name Homer A. Barbee, to the sermon of Father Arnall, who is
a character in Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Ellison confirms that he read
Portrait, but emphasizes that his main concerns transcended that particular moment in Joyce’s
novel, saying, “I was also concerned with the problem of heroism and with the mythology of the
hero. I had read Rank’s The Myth of the Birth of the Hero. I wasn’t using these things
consciously, but they are just a part of my sense of how myth structures certain human activities”
(Conversations 231). Two years later, in an interview with John Hersey (1974), Ellison discusses
several characters’ speeches and claims that, “I realized consciously, or I discovered as I wrote,
that I was playing variations on what Otto Rank identified as the myth of the birth and death of
the hero. So in the rewriting that conscious knowledge, that insight, made it possible to come
back and add elements to the design which I had written myself into under the passion of telling
a story” (Conversations 280-281). Clearly, Ellison’s understanding of the ritual approach to myth
is at least partially, if not heavily, influenced by Rank’s study which emphasizes the thematic
Rank’s analysis of heroic myths from disparate epochs, cultures, and geographic
examines. He states: “The history of the birth and of the early life of these personalities came to
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be especially invested with fantastic features, which in different nations even though widely
separated by space and entirely independent of each other present a baffling similarity, or in part
a literal correspondence” (Rank 1). In other words, Rank’s study (which is psychoanalytic in
nature) reveals threads of similarities running through heroic myths, and the fundamental
similarities of heroic ideals and themes across time and space is akin to what Ellison seeks to
demonstrate in his coupling of African American folklore with the larger body of Western
As Ellison later uses to elucidate the relationship between African American mythical
structures and Western culture, Rank argues that one potential reason for the thematic similarities
between the myths of different cultures is that of borrowing because “[n]othing new is ever
discovered as long as it is possible to copy” (3). According to Rank, this practice of borrowing
and copying is one potential cause of the thematic commonalities between characters from
Babylonian, Greek, Hindi, Roman, Hebrew, and Norse myths such as Sargon, Moses, Oedipus,
Paris, Gilgamesh, Romulus and Remus, Hercules, and Jesus among others. After a cursory
review of these myths and plotlines, Rank identifies a “series of uniformly common features,
with a typical ground work, from which a standard saga, as it were, may be constructed” (61) of
the heroic archetype. However, this is not to say there is a strict adherence to this prototype and
that variations to the basic theme do not occur. Rank also points out that “the appropriation of
mythical contents always represents at the same time an independent mythical construction;
because only that can be permanently retained which corresponds to the purloiner’s stage of
mythological ideation. […] [S]uch motives may produce new contents, which agree in their
fundamental motives” (3-4), and this back and forth borrowing are how Ellison understands
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As Ellison understands them, African American myth and folklore are distinct from their
white and Western counterparts, but the two traditions inevitably bled and permeated into one
another. In a 1965 interview with Richard Kostelanetz, Ellison derides the misuse of the term
“ghetto,” as it implies, in its original European context, a traditional, social, and linguistic
distance from the majority culture, which, for African Americans and the majority white
Americans, has never been the case. Ellison argues that misused concepts such as these
Negroes. Language for one thing, for another the patterns of myth—of universal
embodiment in terms of Negro patterns. It’s not too difficult to look at John
Henry and see the Hercules myth. If you are aware of the connections, if you
know where to look. It’s not too unusual to see that the rhetoric of a Negro
sermon, for instance, can be traced back to Shakespeare, if you know where to
look, or to the metaphysical poets. I’m not saying that these very often unlettered
ministers have read John Donne, but on the other hand they are possessors of a
And later, in a 1973 interview with Hollie West, Ellison gives a hypothetical account of how
It’s a dialectical process. You tell me a story, or I hear you telling your child a
story. I’m a cook or a maid or a butler. I go back home and tell my kids the story.
background of my child, and then I enspirit it with my own motives for freedom
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or my own sense of humanity, my own sense of the complexity of human
You can look and say, ‘This is a Negro story.” You look at ‘John
Henry’—that seems absolutely black. But you look a little closer and you
remember the tales of Hercules, you recognize the modification. I’m not saying
it’s not ours. But I’m saying it was not created out of the empty air but out of the
Ellison considers that the demands of the African American sociocultural milieu transform the
heroic archetype of Hercules to suit its own needs. A derivative of this myth, John Henry
becomes a black man of legendary strength and determination, destined for victory yet doomed
to death at the “hands” of a physical entity ostensibly more powerful than a human: the modern
machine. From the earliest stages of European colonialism through language, music, and other
cultural forms such as folk tales and religious practices, Ellison’s novel seeks to bring to the
surface the permeation between Western and African American literature and cultural forms.
literary tradition. Dennis Looney’s excellent book, Freedom Readers: The African American
Reception of Dante Alighieri and the Divine Comedy (2011), examines the long-standing
tradition of African American engagement with Dante. Looney highlights Ellison’s use of Dante
as a literary figure and emphasizes the structural similarities between the Divine Comedy and
Invisible Man. Looney suggests that Ellison uses Dante in order to “highlight a new kind of
mobility, not literal, not social, but the literary mobility of a new kind of American writer who
signals his arrival among the canonical writers of old Europe with an energized allusion to
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Dante. Ellison […] enters the territory of European culture via the literary tradition Dante
represents” (94). Although Looney identifies the long standing engagement of African American
artists with canonical European literature, he fails to note the significance of Ellison’s coupling
of classical European artists with Invisible and one of the most well-known African American
artists of the twentieth century, Louis Armstrong, and I will examine this point further in chapter
two.
Like Scholes and Kellogg, who emphasize the Novel’s integrated forms (historical,
mimetic, didactic, and romantic), Northrup Frye also examines the synthesis of styles and
techniques in narrative in his Anatomy of Criticism (1957), and he too considers Joyce’s Ulysses
as the epitome of this amalgamation. “Ulysses,” Frye argues, “is a unity and not an aggregate,”
and this unity comes from “an intricate scheme of parallel contrasts. The romantic archetypes of
Hamlet and Ulysses are like remote stars in a literary heaven looking down quizzically on the
shabby creatures of Dublin obediently intertwining themselves in the patterns set by their
influences” (Frye 41). Ellison, looking at the same literary celestial bodies, charts his own
narrative course and uses Joyce as his guide. Ellison’s use of myth and Western canon is not a
direct copy of these traditions, but is, instead, a borrowing of motifs, tropes, and forms for his
own artistic aims. Ellison’s study of Joyce sharpened his critical and literary imagination like the
study of science and math sharpens logic, as I will reveal in the next chapter, which explores
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III. Joyce and Eliot: Ellison’s Antecedents
In the Irish pantomime, Turko the Terrible, King Turko sings a song “anticipating the delights to
be derived from his magic rose, where he thinks ‘Invisibility is just the thing for me’” (Thornton
17). Stephen Dedalus recalls in Ulysses that his mother was fond of the song and “laughed with
the others when the actor sang “I am the boy / That can enjoy / Invisibility’” (Ulysses 10).
Joyce’s cultural reference within the first episode of Ulysses’s suggests Ellison’s narrative style
not only for the allusion to invisibility, but also due to the farrago of illusions embedded within a
larger framework. Although it is unlikely that Ellison conceived of his notion of invisibility from
a passing reference in Joyce’s Ulysses, Joyce’s influence upon Ellison is palpable. Robert List’s
book Dedalus in Harlem: The Joyce-Ellison Connection (1982) explores the connection between
the two authors. List’s study examines the extent to which Joyce influenced Ellison (as well as
Richard Wright) as Ellison learned his craft. List argues that Ellison “[was] profoundly
influenced by Joyce’s treatment of ‘race’ and ethnicity when [he] observed unsettling analogies
existing among oppression in Ireland, the United States, and Africa” (6). Furthermore, List
argues that Ellison’s portrayal of “invisibility” derives from diverse mythical, literary, religious,
and philosophical sources such as the story of Noah’s ark, Homer, sleeping warriors of European
folklore residing in middle earth, Hegelian discourse, William James, Andre Malraux, and
26
Fyodor Dostoevsky among others (64). However, “from Joyce,” List claims, “more than from
these diverse sources, Ellison gleaned the most” (65). List adumbrates Joyce’s “complex
improvisations on the invisibility of the Irish” including the reference to “Turko the Terrible”
among other allusions to invisibility and distorted imagery throughout Joyce’s oeuvre.
Although List makes salient insights and connections between Joyce and Ellison, he
relegates the significance of myth in Invisible Man and Ulysses to a five-page appendix. List
concedes that “[a]nother aspect of the Joyce-Ellison connection involves the deliberate yet highly
ambiguous parodies of classical sources these writers undertake with such analogous
improvisation” (281) and he briefly discusses Ellison in regards to Eliot’s analysis of Joyce’s
“mythical method.” However, List misaligns Ellison with Joyce’s use of “mythic frames to
evoke confusion rather than [with] Eliotic order” (281). List is correct in arguing that Joyce and
Eliot’s use of myth have dissimilar aesthetic impetuses, but he is incorrect in assuming that
Ellison’s use of myth favors one author’s method over the other. I will show in this chapter the
extent to which Eliot and Joyce are fundamental to the development of Ellison’s artistry and the
Ulysses and The Waste Land serve as blueprints for how Ellison would use folklore,
myth, and traditional literature as a means to organize Invisible Man. In several interviews,
Ellison alludes Eliot and Joyce as the sources for the importance he attaches to myth and folklore
as well as other literature of the past and their ability to make readers aware of how tradition
functions in everyday life. When discussing his Modernist influences, Ellison claimed that Eliot
and Joyce showed him the impact of myth and ritual upon the creative process (Conversations
12), and he claims that studying Eliot’s use of Ulysses and other myths showed him the artistic
potential of the myths and traditions he saw functioning around him. In his studies leading to the
27
composition of Invisible Man, Ellison considered that “perhaps [he] could do the same thing [as
Joyce and Eliot] if [he] studied the significance of little social forms which we usually engage
ourselves in but not too consciously” (Conversations 261). Similarities between moments in
Joyce’s Ulysses, Eliot’s Waste Land, and Ellison’s Invisible Man suggest that Joyce and Eliot’s
work informed Ellison’s method of appropriating myth and canonical literature in his novel.
The eviction scene of Invisible Man is perhaps the clearest example of Ellison’s
amalgamation of ritual and emblems of the past. When Invisible sees an elderly couple being
“knocking bones,” used to accompany music at country dances, used in black face
minstrels […] a straightening comb, switches of false hair, a curling iron […]
rock candy and camphor […] a small Ethiopian flag, a faded tintype of Abraham
Lincoln […] In my hand I held three lapsed life insurance policies with perforated
seals stamped “Void”; a yellowing newspaper portrait of a huge black man with
known to all men that my negro Primus Provo, has been freed by me on this sixth
Schafer writes: “These bits of folk myth and history permeate the novel” (124), and I add that
they also coalesce with the allusions to Greco-Roman myth and canonical Western literature
Ellison embeds throughout the novel in a method he derives from Joyce and Eliot.
Asked about how literary influences manifest themselves in his work, Ellison said that he
learned to adapt and appropriate material through his study of Eliot and Joyce.
Joyce and Eliot, for instance, made me aware of the playful possibilities of
language. You look at a page of Finnegans Wake and see references to all sorts of
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American popular music, yet the context gives it an extension from the popular
back to the classical and beyond. This is just something that Joyce teaches you
that you can do, and you can abstract the process and apply it to a frame of
reference which is American and historical, and it can refer to class, it can refer to
the fractions and frictions of color, to popular and folk culture—it can do many
Ellison considers Joyce and Eliot’s use of myth and popular culture as a vehicle through which
an artist can connect various points of culture: contemporary and historical, popular and esoteric,
idiosyncratic and universal, black and white, and so on. Furthermore, he indicates that his study
of myth not only showed him how it might be used in his fiction, but also expanded his
consideration of what precisely constitutes such traditions, saying, “[w]hen I started writing, I
knew that in both The Waste Land and Ulysses ancient myth and ritual were used to give form
and significance to the material; but it took me a few years to realize that the myths and rites
which we find functioning in our everyday lives could be used in the same way” (Conversations
12). Ellison sees social mores as mythic because they give form and structure to societal
interactions, and, like myth and folklore, these traditions—often brutal—arise from continual
Like Joyce uses the Odyssey to structure his overall narrative (with considerable artistic
license), Ellison too uses Homeric myth to structure moments of Invisible Man. Patrice Rankine
is one of the only critics to recognize that the “folkloric motifs of the drunken ogre […] permeate
Ellison’s narrative” and that this “reveals a skillful deployment comparable to James Joyce’s use
of the Ulysses theme in his novel” (150). Although Rankine correctly argues that Ellison’s
narrative method is reminiscent of Joyce and that Ellison structures his narrative around classical
29
myth, Rankine only considers the Homeric allusions within Invisible Man’s overarching katabic
structure.
In a letter to his literary agent, Ellison clearly states that the overall theme of his novel is
Invisible’s simultaneous ascent through the social circles of American society and concurrent
decent into the Underworld. Ellison wrote that while “invisible man will move upward through
Negro life, coming into contact with its various forms and personality types; [and] will operate in
the Negro middle class, in the leftwing movement” only to “descend again into the disorganized
atmosphere of the Harlem underworld” (qtd. in Rich). As Rankine notes, Invisible indeed
descends into the Underworld, but it is a journey of stages rather than one continuous descent.
Ellison uses Joyce’s method of using a classical text to structure his narrative and substitutes
Joyce’s use of The Odyssey for his own use of Dante’s Inferno.
Be so Black and Blue” and fantasizes about having five phonographs simultaneously playing the
song. Invisible admires Armstrong’s ability to appropriate the trumpet, a symbol of power,
authority, and oppression (for some) and his ability to “bend that military instrument into a beam
of lyrical sound” (Invisible Man 8). Invisible identifies with Armstrong’s artistry “because he has
made poetry out of being invisible” (Invisible Man 8). “Gin, jazz and dreams were not enough”
to satisfy Invisible’s mind, and he concludes that, like his artistic predecessors, his purpose is to
create art from his experiences: “Why should I be dedicated and set aside,” Invisible wonders,
“—yes, if not to at least tell a few people about it?” (Invisible Man 579). In the fashion of Virgil
guiding Dante to enlightenment, Armstrong’s music guides Invisible on his descent to the
30
One night, Invisible accidentally smokes marijuana while listening to Armstrong’s song
and says, “I not only entered the music but descended, like Dante, into its depths” (Invisible Man
9). Invisible, with Armstrong’s music as his guide, descends through various levels of musical
forms that are entwined with this jazz and finds within it “a cave and I entered it and looked
around and heard an old woman singing a spiritual as full of Weltschmerz as flamenco”
(Invisible Man 9). As with other artistic forms like myth and folklore, African American music
does not arise from thin air; it engages with a long, living tradition and, inevitably, new forms
such as jazz contain traces of the older forms such as flamenco. Invisible continues his descent
through the music and, reminiscent of Odysseus’s nekyia where he meets his deceased mother,
sees “a beautiful girl the color of ivory pleading in a voice like my mother’s as she stood before
a group of slaveowners who bid for her naked body” (Invisible Man 9). The ugly history of
slavery and brutal practices associated with it underlie and continue to structure American
society.
Invisible continues his Dante-esque descent until he reaches the bedrock of Armstrong’s
music. Invisible finds a sobbing woman at the lowest level of his descent, and she tells him that
she loved her master because he gave her several sons, “and because I loved my sons I learned to
love their father though I hated him too” (Invisible Man 10). The woman speaks more about her
“He promised to set us free but he never could bring hisself to do it. Still I
loved him…”
“What more?”
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“Freedom.”
“Naw, son, it’s in loving. I loved him and give him the poison and he
withered away like a frost-bit apple. Them boys woulda tore him to pieces with
Invisible’s journey ends with his flight from the woman’s sons who are angry because Invisible
somehow I came out of it, ascending hastily from this underworld of sound to
What did I do
To be so black
Beneath Armstrong’s art, one finds layers of tradition and history where black and white cultures
intertwine. As Invisible discovers, this history is not necessarily pleasant to uncover. However,
Ellison argues that until we recognize that black and white cultures are not Manichean opposites
but intimately intertwined, we will never know the answer to Armstrong’s innocent question:
What did I do to be so black and blue? Why do we as a society interact with each other in the
ways we do? Invisible seeks to bring to the surface this entwined identity and shared cultural
history, and, like Dante, he will eventually emerge from the Underworld to relate his voyage to
the people on the surface. This descent, or katabasis, in the prologue combined with Invisible’s
clear identification with Dante signifies that Invisible Man is the protagonist’s account of his
passage through the various circles of American society; he begins in the rural south and,
ironically, “descends” northwards into the chaos of urban America where he discovers the
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relationship between black and white identity and uncovers American traditions and myths that
Ellison’s prose and fiction argue that myth, folklore, and classical literature tap into
foundational human experiences regardless of race or culture, transcending racial and cultural
distance to emphasize a shared humanity. Rather than valuing classical myth more than African
American culture or folklore, “Ellison demonstrates a desire to make the classical heritage, and
myth in particular, speak for him” (Rankine 123) like Joyce, his artistic predecessor, who also
made classical heritage and myth speak for him by appropriating the Odyssey, one of the
foundational texts in the Western tradition to give form to his novel. In addition to the Joycean
structure of Invisible Man, Ellison’s prose and interviews suggest that he combines Joyce’s
narrative method with Eliot’s ordered use of fragments within Invisible Man.
Leonard Deutsch’s short but illuminating article “The Waste Land in Ellison’s Invisible
Man” (1977) shows the extent to which Ellison finds The Waste Land’s “jazz rhythms
(“discontinuities”), its organization, its range of allusion, and its use of ritual and myth” (5)
useful, and Deutsch also notes several allusions to Eliot’s poem within Invisible Man itself.
Building upon Deutsch’s brief article, I argue that Ellison’s deliberate parsing of the literatures
of the past to create a new narrative is a clear homage to his interpretation of Eliot’s narrative
method in The Waste Land. Ellison attributes the beginnings of his literary education to Eliot,
and he recalls that while at Tuskegee, “I found myself reading The Waste Land, and for the first
time I was caught up in a piece of poetry which moved me but which I couldn’t reduce to a
logical system. I didn’t know quite why it was working on me, but being close to the jazz
experience—that is, the culture of jazz—I had a sense that some of the same sensibility was
being expressed in poetry” (Collected Essays 524). Ellison considers Eliot’s Waste Land to be
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cut from the same artistic cloth as jazz, and Ellison recalled the strong impact that Eliot’s poems
had on him when he first read The Waste Land. Ellison writes:
The Waste Land seized my mind. I was intrigued by its power to move me while
jazz than were those of the Negro poets, and even though I could not understand
then, its range of allusion was as mixed and varied as that of Louis Armstrong
[…] There was nothing to do but look up the references in the footnotes to the
203)
Jazz engages with and synthesizes musical styles and forms of the past and recasts them into a
new, American aesthetic, and Ellison considers Eliot as achieving the same effect through
literature. Eliot’s variegated use of existing texts within his own informs Ellison’s own use of
intertextuality in Invisible Man. Ellison asserts that The Waste Land is as American as jazz “in
the rather ruthless assault it makes upon the literature of the past. It assumes possession, it
abstracts, it recasts in terms of Eliot’s sense of life and his sense of the possibility of language, of
poetry, and of culture” (Conversations 91). In addition to the dismantling and appropriation of
the literature of the past, Ellison recalls a significant lesson regarding folklore that he learns from
reading Eliot as opposed to other African American writers at the time. Ellison says, “I was
reading [African American poets] very intensely and I felt something missing in them that I ran
into in Eliot, the folk tradition they had and didn’t know what to do with’” (Conversations 67).
Put another way, Ellison learns from Eliot how to use the myth, folklore, and traditions—
including the Western narrative tradition—with which he engaged over the course of his life “to
give form and significance to the material” in his novel (Conversations 12). Ellison sees in Eliot
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the rhythms and traditions of jazz, the “discontinuities” of merging various cultural fragments
into a unified whole, and he imitates Eliot’s artistic practice in Invisible Man.
Harold Bloom describes The Waste Land as “a grand gathering of great fragments” (1),
and Grover Smith’s essay “The Structure and Mythical Method of The Waste Land” (1983)
explains how Eliot uses these fragments of myth, folklore, religious figures, and literature to give
the poem unity. Similar to Ellison’s notion that myth, traditions, and rituals are a way of
Eliot contrived […] a recipe for literature which should transcend narrative and
incorporate the hypotheses of the social sciences, and such discoveries as those
the primitive, the savage and unconscious; they fathomed the regions from which
myth arose, the impulses that gave rise to ritual, and the process in premodern
For Eliot, traditional stories and epics like the Grail legend, the Fisher King, Greco-Roman myth,
and Dante’s Commedia among others can be traced back to the magical and religious traditions
and customs of ancient European societies. Incidentally, Ellison comes to interpret the traditions
and rites that organize modern American society as having roots in the colonization of America
In Invisible Man’s prologue, Invisible aligns himself with various cultural figures and
traditions; however, this is not merely a way for Ellison to gain cultural capital. It allows him to
connect African American culture with the Western literary tradition. Within his underground
lair, Invisible compares his situation to a hibernating bear who “retires to his hole for the winter
and lives until spring; then he comes strolling out like the Easter chick breaking from its shell”
35
(Invisible Man 6). He also compares himself with “Jack-the-Bear”, a character from African
American folklore, “for I am in a state of hibernation” (Invisible Man 6). Allusions to springtime
and its concomitant images and tropes foreshadow Invisible’s Dante-esque emergence from the
abyss, which he asserts in the epilogue: “The hibernation is over. I must shake off the old skin
and come up for breath. There’s a stench in the air, which, from this distance underground, might
be the smell either of death or of spring—I hope spring. But don’t let me trick you, there is a
In addition to the rituals, traditions, and images associated with the perpetual cycle of life
and death and the seasons, Ellison subtly connects Invisible to Greco-Roman mythological
figures that embody eternities of perpetual labor. Invisible’s grandfather prophesizes his
grandchild endless punishment in a nightmare Invisible has after the Battle Royal. Invisible says
That night I dreamed I was at a circus with him and that he refused to laugh at the
clowns no matter what they did. Then later he told me to open my brief case and
read what was inside and I did, finding an official envelope stamped with the state
seal; and inside the envelope I found another and another, endlessly, and I thought
I would fall of weariness. “Them’s years,” he said. “Now open that one.” And I
Invisible’s life is filled with repetitive labor; he attempts to assert his humanity and
simultaneously accept the identities society ascribes to him only to find the two are irreconcilable
time and time again. Like Sisyphus, Invisible’s existence is filled with futile labor and endless
36
punishment. Like the Greek figures who are punished in perpetuity in the Underworld, Invisible
is punished as an African American in a racist society, and the punishment becomes more acute
as he descends through the various levels of society until his self-imposed exile.
Repetition, however, is not a hopeless prospect for Invisible once he comes to terms with
his existential reality and recognizes his invisibility. Like Albert Camus, who elevates Sisyphus
to his “Absurd hero” in Le Mythe de Sisyphe (1942), Invisible reaches Sisyphean recognition and
acceptance of his Absurd circumstances: because he did not recognize his invisibility, he had
been living a death. Camus conceives of Sisyphus as engaging in a revolt against the gods by
embracing his futile task of rolling his boulder up a mountain. Invisible, too, engages in a revolt
against the gods, Monopolated Light & Power. Both Sisyphus and Invisible’s victories lie in
their clear perspective of their existential situation. Sisyphus knows he has no hope of reprieve
from his task, and Invisible has no expectation of the end of his invisibility. Invisible recalls,
“after existing some twenty years, [I] did not become alive until I discovered my invisibility”
(Invisible Man 7). Now, he is aware of his form, and no longer has to live a death
Ellison couples Invisible with chastised mythological figures as a means of revealing the
Invisible’s experiences and his clear perspective have helped him “develop a certain ingenuity”
to solve the problems of the world above his underground lair. “Though invisible,” or, perhaps
because he knows he is invisible, Invisible is “in the great American tradition of tinkers. That
makes [him] kin to Ford, Edison and Franklin,” and Invisible says, “call me, since I have a
theory and a concept, a ‘thinker-tinker’” (Invisible Man 7). Beavers claims that Invisible chooses
to align himself with Edison, Ford, and Franklin “because each bears the title of ‘inventor’” and
continues to emphasize that their discoveries, like Invisible’s will soon do, leads “to the
37
‘democraization’ of these products: they were successful in producing them cheaply enough for
the masses to acquire them” (24). Invisible’s discovery is of the same magnitude as electricity,
the light bulb, or the automobile because it has potential to be of the same transformative power
as these industrialists and scientists. After Invisible’s descent through Armstrong’s music, he
aligns himself with Ford, Edison, and Franklin to emphasize that his discovery will have
Ellison uses the integration of forms in Invisible Man to examine the results of the
fundamental gap in America’s democratic promises and oppressive social practices: the
emotional and psychological damage of the oppressed and the guilt and anxiety of the
oppressors. Ellison’s mythical method enables him to show “that the American novel had long
concerned itself with the puzzle of the one-and-the-many; the mystery of how each of us, despite
his origin in diverse regions, with our diverse racial, cultural, religious backgrounds, speaking
his own diverse idiom of the American in his own accent, is, nevertheless, American” (Collected
Essays 207). In the next chapter, I will demonstrate how Ellison uses Dante’s Inferno to structure
his narrative, draws from folkloric and literary fragments to populate the subsequent layers, and
how he couples Western literature and myth with African American narrative forms.
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IV. Ellison’s Mythical Method in Invisible Man
The scholarship that examines the connection between Ellison, Joyce, and Eliot is scarce.
However, a few critics examine the pivotal link between Invisible Man and The Waste Land.
Two of these critics are Steven Helmling and Mary Walsh who have both analyzed Ellison’s
aesthetic connections to Eliot and Joyce. Helmling’s article, “T. S. Eliot and Ralph Ellison—
Insiders, Outsiders, and Cultural Authority” (1989), explores Ellison’s self-study of Eliot; but the
essay then delves into comparisons of the authors’ unexpected accolades regarding The Waste
Land and Invisible Man. Another example is Walsh’s edifying article, “Invisible Man: Ralph
Ellison’s Wasteland” (1984), which notes allusions to Eliot that Ellison embeds throughout his
novel. But Walsh does not fully study Eliot’s impact upon Ellison’s narrative method. Helmling
and Walsh either limit their discussions to traces of Eliot’s poem within Invisible Man or they
draw from Ellison’s comments on Eliot and Joyce but do not provide an in-depth textual analysis
of the novel. In this chapter, I will analyze Invisible Man’s juxtaposition and synthesis of African
American folklore with classical Western literature and his use of classical literature to structure
Inferno, I do not propose a direct mapping of Invisible Man upon the works of Homer, Virgil,
Dante, or any other text. I suggest instead that as Joyce uses myth to give form and structure to
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Ulysses, Ellison uses Dante’s Inferno and the classical trope of katabasis—the heroic descent to
the underworld—to give structure and unity to Invisible Man. As discussed in the previous
chapter, Ellison signals that his structural model is Dante’s Inferno. Ellison divides Invisible
Man’s twenty-seven chapters between nine significant locations as Invisible journeys from South
to North, descending through layers of American society, reminiscent of Dante’s descent through
juxtaposition of cultural forms inhabiting each level. Within each locale and rung of society,
Invisible finds amalgamations of European and African culture, folklore, and myth in addition to
the American rites and traditions that arise out of this cultural fusion. Similar to his unveiling of
integrated traditions and histories beneath the surface of Louis Armstrong’s music, Invisible
continually uncovers the integrated cultural history of American society. As he recounts his
heroic descent beneath the surface of contemporary American society, Invisible helps us
question the rites and traditions—which Ellison equates with myths—that continue to govern
Invisible brings to the surface the shared yet obfuscated cultural history between black
and white Americans through the farrago of allusions and references in his prologue. The novel’s
first sentence, “I am an invisible man,” recalls the opening line of Dostoyevsky’s Notes from
Underground, “I am a sick man…I am a nasty man” (3). In the following sentence, Invisible
refers to Edgar Allan Poe, the “Hollywood-movie ectoplasm,” and a “biochemical accident to
[the] epidermis” (3), alluding to the H. G. Wells novel. Invisible’s allusions are numerous and
variegated, drawing from novels, films, music, philosophy, myth, and folklore.
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In addition to deliberately coupling African American and Western cultural forms
throughout the prologue (and the rest of the novel), Invisible identifies the rites and traditions
that rendered him oblivious to his existential predicament. For the first part of his life, he was
unaware that he was “unseen,” and that “to be unaware of one’s form is to live a death” (7).
Here, Invisible recasts a theme from Dante’s Inferno and later in Eliot’s Waste Land. In Canto
III, Dante finds souls of people who lived a moral life but did not proclaim Jesus’s Gospel to be
in limbo. These souls share this dwelling with the angels who did not rebel with Satan, but who
also did not join God’s side. According to Cleanth Brooks’s article “The Waste Land: Critique of
the Myth” (1939), Eliot recognizes these neutral souls in the Inferno as embodying “almost
perfectly the secular attitude which dominates the modern world” (43) because “[w]ithout a faith
their life is in reality a death” (44). According to Brooks, Eliot employs Dante’s theme of living
death which results from acting with no purpose: “So far as we do evil or good, we are human;
and it is better, in a paradoxical way, to do evil than to do nothing: at least, we exist” (Eliot qtd.
in Brooks 44). Ellison takes up this thematic mantle in Invisible Man and considers that
mindlessly participating in rituals and traditions leads to a similar state of living death which is
Invisible’s folly lies in his mechanically allowing others to dictate his actions, be they
benevolent or malicious. In chapter one of Invisible Man, Invisible relates for us the Battle Royal
where he encounters brutal rituals that govern race relations in his hometown. In the first layer of
Invisible’s descent into hell, the leading white men of his community invite Invisible to give an
address at a hotel. However, before he is able to give the speech, the white men force Invisible to
fight with nine other young African American men for the evening’s entertainment. They first
bring out a naked blonde woman with an “American flag tattooed upon her belly” (19), and she
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begins to dance for the men in the room. As she dances, the men watch, and Invisible notes that a
merchant “followed her hungrily, his lips loose and drooling […] his posture clumsy like an
intoxicated panda […] This creature was completely hypnotized” (20). Rankine suggests Ellison
riffs on the “drunken ogre” motif and likens it to Odysseus’s confrontation with Polyphemus. I
add that not only is Ellison improvising on this theme, but also that his use of the drunken ogre
motif emphasizes the mythical nature of rites and traditions that function in Invisible’s everyday
life, including the taboo of miscegenation, anxiety regarding sexuality between black males and
white females, mob violence towards the black body, and the human sacrifice that concludes the
“ceremony.”
The Battle Royal suggests Ellison’s depiction of Southern traditions as mythic, arbitrary,
and hypocritical. By recasting the brutal Southern ritual of white violence upon the black body to
an organized, formal event, he emphasizes the incongruity between this practice and the tradition
of Southern gentility. The “town’s big shots” garb themselves in “their tuxedoes” (17) for the
ritual. In a ritualistic fashion, they bring out a white female to arouse the African American
males, and Invisible and the other fighters are caught between their biological urges to look and
the knowledge that black sexuality directed towards a white female is grounds for death.
Invisible describes his physical sensations and those of the other males, saying, “I felt a wave of
irrational guilt and fear. My teeth chattered, my skin turned to goose flesh, my knees knocked.
Yet I was strongly attracted and looked in spite of myself. Had the price of looking been
blindness, I would have looked” (19). He also notes the effect of the sexual arousal upon the
other fighters: “I saw one boy faint […] Another boy began to plead to go home. He was the
largest of the group, wearing dark red fighting trunks much too small to conceal the erection
which projected from him as though in answer to the insinuating low-registered moaning of the
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clarinet” (20). The scene is set for all participants to play their “proper” roles in the ritual. Once
the African American men are aroused, due to the snake charming ceremony, the white men
move to the next stage of the rite; some of the “more sober” men help the girl escape, and the
The African American boys are blindfolded and made to fight one another for the
entertainment of the white men. Invisible describes the brawl as “complete anarchy. Everybody
fought everybody else. No group fought together for long” (23) because the rite demands
disunity among the black males. After the fight, Invisible finally delivers his speech. The men
praise Invisible’s speech for its humility in spite of its deliverer’s slip of the tongue about “social
responsibility” (30), which has no place in the night’s ritual. At this point, Invisible’s role is to
embody sacrificial animal, not moral conscience. Therefore, he opens his reward for sacrificing
his dignity and finds a “gleaming calfskin brief case” containing a scholarship to the “state
college for Negroes” (32). The conclusion of Invisible’s sacrifice normalizes relations between
the groups: Invisible feels fortunate; the African American fighters receive payment for their
services; the white men become “philanthropists” and all participants come away from the
evening suppressing the evening’s events into the depths of their subconscious. Although he was
unaware of the mythical nature of the night’s events, Invisible will soon uncover the impetus
behind the ritual as he descends through the various layers of American society. The rite of the
Battle Royal returns “like a boomerang” in the lower circles of Invisible’s descent, and he finds
similar rites structuring race relations in the second circle of the American underworld: the
Invisible initially describes the landscape as picturesque, verdant, and luscious: “It was a
beautiful college. The buildings were old and covered with vines and the roads gracefully
43
winding, lined with hedges and wild roses that dazzles the eyes in the summer sun. Honeysuckle
and purple wisteria hung heavy from the trees and white magnolias mixed with their scents in the
bee-humming air” (34). However, in hindsight, Invisible regards the landscape as a wasteland,
connecting the campus to the barren world of Eliot’s poem. Invisible is convinced that the
campus’s appearance was “the product of a subtle magic, the alchemy of moonlight; the school a
flower-studded wasteland, the rocks sunken, the dry winds hidden, the lost crickets chirping to
yellow butterflies” (37). The campus is a place of decay and torment of a more subtle variety
than in the previous circle. However, rites and traditions govern this lower layer as well.
Invisible discovers this fact through his interaction with the white philanthropist, Mr. Norton,
whom Invisible introduces in another allusion to Eliot as follows: “oh, oh, oh, those
multimillionaires!” (37).
Norton indicates the role of myth and tradition in the structure of the American social
order. Norton speaks of his “pleasant fate” that allowed him to “organize human life” by helping
the college Founder transform the “barren land” into its current form (39). Invisible is puzzled
since he asks. “How could anyone’s fate be pleasant? I had always thought of it as something
painful,” adding that his teacher recently made his class “read Greek plays” (40). Norton elevates
himself to the status of a god when he says that he feels his life’s work has been his “first-hand
organizing of human life;” but, as Invisible knows, fate rules gods and humans alike. The winds
of fate carry Invisible and Norton to the old slave quarter where they meet the hermit, Trueblood
who, like the white philanthropist , had an incestuous relationship with his daughter.
In Sophocles’s Oedipus Rex, Oedipus’s violation of the taboo of incest brings a curse
upon Thebes, and Trueblood’s violation of the same taboo curses the African American
community with paranoia that Trueblood’s actions will reflect poorly upon the entire race. In
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addition to the myth of Oedipus, Trueblood’s story connects to various myths and folkloric
figures. Trueblood’s description of his heinous act recalls the Brer Rabbit story of the Tar Baby,
where the more Brer Rabbit struggles to free himself from a tar-covered doll, the more ensnared
he becomes: “The more wrigglin’ and twistin’ we done tryin’ to git away, the more we wanted to
stay” (60). Furthermore, Trueblood’s wife describes the impregnation of Trueblood’s daughter as
a “black ‘bomination” (67) and this couples with Milton’s epic, Paradise Lost and Satan’s
incestuous relationship with his daughter, creating an unholy trinity. Trueblood concludes his
story waiting for retribution from God like Adam and Eve after taking a bite of the forbidden
fruit, but finds that nothing happens. In fact, Trueblood notes that things actually get better for
him because “the white folks treat [him] fine,” and Norton punctuates this fact by giving him a
Again, tradition insidiously structures race relations in this layer of society. Norton plays
his role as a white philanthropist seeking to help African Americans, but his actions maintain the
racial status quo. Invisible performs the role of chauffeur and works hard hoping for a tip or
reward of some sort; however Trueblood receives the reward ostensibly for committing incest.
Norton’s desire to “organize and structure” human life seeks to keep African Americans in a
subaltern position even though he deludes himself into thinking that he is promoting racial
harmony. On the other hand, Invisible denies an important aspect of humanity to Trueblood and
himself. As Trueblood tells Norton the incestuous story, Invisible wonders: “How can
[Trueblood] tell this to white men, I thought, when he knows they’ll say that all Negroes do such
things?” (58). Although Invisible’s condemnation of Trueblood’s action is reasonable and his
fear that Trueblood will be taken as evidence of African American inferiority is understandable,
his anxiety denies African Americans the space for error and folly. Although Trueblood’s
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incestuous relationship is a sordid example of moral decay, traditions influence both Invisible
and Norton to relegate African American humanity to incomplete considerations. Norton feels
faint after hearing Trueblood’s story, Invisible takes him to get a drink of whiskey at the bar-
The Golden Day refers to Lewis Mumford’s classic work, Golden Day (1926), which is
largely credited with establishing many American transcendentalist authors from the 1830s to the
1860s (Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau, and Walt Whitman among others) firmly
in the American literary canon (Nadel 94). Yet, for Alan Nadel, Mumford’s representation of the
“Golden Day” as a historical period is problematic because “[w]ere it not for the slave question,
we could perhaps write it off as a period of naïve and fanatical tunnel vision. But slavery was the
one question which absorbed all others, the most obvious proof of which is the Civil War” (93).
Mumford’s portrayal of the “Golden Day” as a time of prosperity and hope for the individual is a
gross oversight of “the obvious polarization of America” in that period. However, if Mumford is
guilty of letting his own bias for transcendental art cloud his critical judgment, Nadel is also
guilty of displacing his criticism of Mumford’s work onto Ellison’s use of the Golden Day in
Invisible Man. Ellison may have been critical of Mumford’s work, but criticizing Mumford is not
Regarding American Romantic authors and transcendentalists, Ellison held them all in
high esteem for their direct confrontation of slavery in the nascent American democracy. Ellison
there was a conception of democracy current in this country that allowed the
writer to identify himself with the Negro; and that had such an anthology of
writings on the Negro situation as seen by both white and Negro authors been
46
conceivable during the nineteenth century it would have included such writers as
Whitman, Emerson, Thoreau, Hawthorne, Melville and Mark Twain. For slavery
(it was not termed a “Negro problem” then) was a vital issue in the American
writer’s reality. Only after the Emancipation and the return of the Southern ruling
class to power in the counter-revolution of 1876, was the Negro issue pushed into
the underground of the American conscience and ignored. (Collected Essays 147-
148)
Ellison’s Golden Day seeks to bring forward the fact that the subjugation of African Americans
is deep-rooted in American society and impacts all Americans; it is only recently that questions
The Golden Day is the inverse of the Battle Royal. The African American patients at the
insane asylum are allowed to visit the Golden Day periodically, and many of them had been
“doctors, lawyers, teachers, Civil Service workers; there were several cooks, a preacher, a
politician and an artist. One very nutty one had been a psychiatrist” (74). The men humiliate
Norton and Invisible for their entertainment as the big shots used Invisible and the other fighters’
for their entertainment during the Battle Royal. However, the white men brought their cathartic
ritual to a conclusion; but the patients have a chaperone, Supercargo, to ensure they do not bring
the ritual to conclusion. However, in spite of their “insanity” and exile from society, the patients
possess some of the most salient insight into race relations of any characters in the novel. The
patients are outside the control of social traditions and rituals that structure human interaction.
Invisible thinks that “it speared as though [the patients] played some vast and complicated game
with me and the rest of the school folk, a game […] whose rules and subtleties I could never
47
grasp” (74). The game is that the world of the inmates is chaotic and without form; they identify
traditions, but do not buy into them. They do not attempt to impose rules and forms upon society
with arbitrary rites and traditions. The Golden Day and the patients embrace truths that will
disrupt the “order” that traditional race relations impose on Norton’s and Invisible’s lives.
First, the patients show that the taboo of “miscegenation” that Southern rites, traditions,
and even laws seek to prohibit has persisted in American society for generations. Upon seeing
Norton for the first time, a patient says to his fellow inmate, “Look, Sylvester, it’s Thomas
Jefferson!” (77) and insists, to Invisible’s surprise, that “[Norton is] Thomas Jefferson and I’m
his grandson—on the ‘field-nigger’ side” (78). Again, the past bears a mark on modern society.
Upon hearing the patient’s words, Norton’s condition worsens, and the Golden Day further
descends into chaos. One of the patients, formerly an army doctor, takes Norton and Invisible to
an upstairs bedroom with a prostitute, Hester, “a great humanitarian […] the possessor of a
healing touch” (92), and evocative of the Greek goddess of domesticity, Hestia.
After the patients unveil the similarity between Norton’s philanthropy and Jefferson’s
oppression, America’s historical violation of racial “taboos,” the vet reveals to Norton and
Invisible “[t]hings about life. Such things as most peasants and folk peoples almost always know
through experience, though seldom through conscious thought” (91). The vet attempts to show
Invisible and Norton the paternalism and oppression underlying the rites and traditions in which
they unwittingly participate. The vet says that Norton is, to some, “the great white father, to
others the lyncher of souls, but for all, you are confusion” (93). Norton, perhaps unwittingly, is
an oppressor in a philanthropist’s clothing. Like the big shots in the Battle Royal, Norton
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Finally, the vet reprimands Invisible and acts as Anchises in Virgil’s Aeneid by predicting
Invisible’s future. Unlike Anchises, however, the vet does not predict the glorious founding of a
new city. He predicts that both Norton and Invisible will continue blindly following the
traditions that society lays out for them: “You cannot see or hear or smell the truth of what you
see—and [Norton], looking for destiny! It’s classic! And the boy, this automaton, he was made
of the very mud of the region and he sees far less than you. Poor stumblers, neither of you can
see the other. To you he is a mark on the scorecard of your achievement, a thing and not a man; a
child or even less—a black amorphous thing. And you, for all your power, are not a man to him,
but a God, a force” (95). The vet’s words suggest that traditional American race relations will
continue to dictate Invivible’s social interactions as he navigates the rest of his katabasis. The vet
becomes furious with Invisible and Norton for their ignorance, and he commands them to leave
the Golden Day and “descend the stairs into chaos” (95) to the next level of society.
The third layer of Ellison’s American underworld is the college campus, and it is the
realm of Dr. A. Herbert Bledsoe. When Invisible and Norton arrive at his office, Bledsoe dotes
on Norton, promising to discipline Invisible for irresponsibly taking him to see Trueblood and
the Golden Day. However, before Bledsoe doles out the punishment, they all attend the campus-
wide chapel meeting where Invisible recalls that visiting speakers informed the students “of how
fortunate we were to be a part of the ‘vast’ and formal ritual” of life on the campus. Invisible’s
identity is so entwined with societal rituals that he is unable or unwilling to heed the advice of
the vet from the Golden Day. In fact, Invisible dreads the thought of leaving the campus on
Bledsoe’s orders perhaps due to his dependence upon traditions to define his identity.
Fortunately, the lessons Invisible learns during his descent to the underworld are beginning to
take hold, and as he watches from a pew in the chapel, he sees “the platform and its actors as
49
through a reversed telescope; small doll-like figures moving through some meaningless ritual”
(117). The rituals give Invisible comfort and clarity regarding his social station; however their
arbitrariness becomes apparent to him. One of the guests rises to speak to the congregation to
reinforce the role of tradition in the students’ collective identity as young African Americans in
the post-bellum South. This guest is the blind preacher, Homer A. Barbee.
Influenced by Homer’s depiction of the ideal Greek in the Odyssey, Homer A. Barbee
weaves a mythic narrative regarding the birth and life of the college’s Founder to reinforce
notions of “proper” African American identity and decorum. Barbee’s sermon draws from
various sources to construct the Founder’s narrative, the first of which is the story of the Fisher
King from the Grail legends. According to Jessie Weston’s analysis of the folkloric elements
embedded within the Fisher King Grail legend, there is a close connection between the “vitality
of a certain King, and the prosperity of his kingdom; the forces of the ruler being weakened or
destroyed, by wound, sickness, old age, or death, the land becomes Waste, and the task of the
hero is that of restoration” (23). Barbee’s narrative begins after the end of the Civil War and the
moment when the American president was slain. He says: “…this barren land after Emancipation
[…] this land of darkness and sorrow, of ignorance and degradation, where the hand of brother
had been turned against brother, father against son, and son against father; where master had
turned against slave and slave against master; where all was strife and darkness, an aching land.
And into this land came a humble prophet, lowly like the humble carpenter of Nazareth” (118).
In addition to the Fisher King Grail legend, Ellison (through Barbee) draws from Rank’s
analysis of the transcultural heroic archetype, Myth of the Birth of the Hero, to construct the
Founder’s biography. According to Rank, the typical hero myth follows a typical groundwork
and contains minor variations (Rank 61). “The hero,” Rank also writes,
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is the child of most distinguished parents; usually the son of a king. His origin is
female animal, or by a humble woman. After he has grown up, he finds his
distinguished parents, in a highly versatile fashion; takes his revenge on his father,
on the one hand, is acknowledged on the other, and finally achieves rank and
honors. (61)
Likewise, Barbee uses several common features of the hero archetype to portray the Founder.
Barbee couples the Founder’s birth directly with Jesus and describes the Founder’s “precarious
infancy” when a cousin splashed the baby with lye and “he lay nine days in a deathlike coma and
then suddenly and miraculously recovered” (119). Like Jesus and Moses, the Founder was a
precocious youth with an innate capability of “a moving orator,” and eventually returned to his
homeland to lead his people. According to Barbee, the Founder completed his hero quest to bring
fertility back to the land because, at his death, a “great seed had been planted. A seed which has
continued to put forth its fruit in its season […] my heart swelled to return to this great institution
to move among its wealth of green things, its fruitful farmland and fragrant campus” (132).
Therefore, tradition fulfills its role of edifying Invisible’s identity and life’s path and he finds his
emotions “woven into [Barbee’s] words as upon a loom” (120). However, in his meeting with
Bledsoe after the meeting, Invisible finds the myth of the Founder’s mission of racial uplift
For Bledsoe, a Machiavellian politician, hard work and humility—the backbone of the
Founder’s message—are illusions he employs in order to gain political power. Bledsoe portrays
an image of African American humility to the outside world and gains power and prestige
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through support from white patrons like Norton, who Bledsoe manipulates for his own purposes.
Bledsoe reprimands Invisible for not knowing that, as a black man in the South, his duty is to lie
to white folks like Norton and “tell them what they need to hear.” In an attempt to teach this
lesson to Invisible, Bledsoe expels the young man for the rest of the semester. Invisible resolves
to head North to find work and, while he is on a bus, meets the vet that treated Norton in the
Golden Day. Before the vet departs the bus, he reminds Invisible to “learn to look beneath the
surface” of society because it will teach him how to deal with “them.” The vet’s attendant asks
what he means by “they” and the vet replies, “the same they we always mean, the white folks,
authority, the gods, fate, circumstances—the force that pulls your strings until you refuse to be
pulled any more” (154). Invisible must learn Odyssean adaptability to navigate through his
American odyssey. But first, Invisible must recognize that the superficial appearance of the
social order is built upon an arbitrary mythic framework. He has not yet learned how and why
the social structure works the ways it does; however, his education continues in the fourth layer
As the rites and traditions that structure life in Harlem increase in subtlety and
complexity, Invisible descends from a rural, bucolic setting into an urban, capitalistic mecca, and
finds people befitting the souls which are punished in Dante’s fourth circle for the sin of greed.
Armored cars and men with briefcases shackled to their wrists, “chained to money,” (165) roam
the streets without stopping. Although Invisible hopes to find economic and social opportunities
that eluded him in the South, the insidious nature of hierarchical race relations persists in the
liberal North. Furthermore, they are more difficult to identify and understand. The rites and
traditions that structure Southern life are crude, brutal, and typically target the African American
body. As Invisible continues his descent through Northern society, the myths that structure
52
society persist but become more complex and subtle. Northern traditions bypass brutalizing the
African American body; but the psychological harm they cause is equally effective at
maintaining the racial status quo. Invisible senses this change, and as he sits in his rented room,
he feels more afraid “than [he] had ever been in the South. And all the more, because here there
was nothing concrete to lay it to” (170). But, as he was blinded by the hope of social progress in
the South, Invisible is again blinded by the hope of economic progress: “Never before had I been
so curious about money as now […] Perhaps I would get a job here and after a few years would
be sent up and down the streets with millions strapped to my arms” (166). Invisible thinks he will
get his first break when he receives a response to his job enquiry, and he goes to see about a
Invisible meets a sympathetic soul in Emerson, who aligns himself with the nineteenth
century American writers Whitman and Twain, in addition to his namesake, Ralph Waldo
Emerson. Emerson attempts to gently reveal to Invisible that the letters of introduction Bledsoe
gave to him are a sham, but he cannot be direct. He then tries to show Invisible that he
empathizes with Invisible’s subaltern status by alluding to his homosexuality. But again, he only
gives allusions to being “thwarted” and “frustrated,” and trying to break the tension, he asks
Invisible if he has been to “Club Calamus” (185)—a reference to the Calamus poems frequently
considered to be Whitman’s allusion to his sexual orientation. The conversation remains indirect,
and in a final attempt at tact, Emerson tells Invisible “I’m Huckleberry” (188), who is trying to
rid his black friend of a damning letter. This conversation suggests the subtleties that Invisible
will now face in the North; He must learn to look beneath the surface of things and read between
the lines of all interactions. Frustrated at their inability to communicate effectively, Emerson
shows Invisible the double-crossing letter from Bledsoe. Bitter and angry, Invisible leaves, but
53
Emerson tells him of a potential job opportunity. Invisible calls the company and they tell him to
report the next day. When he wakes up that morning, Invisible descends to the fifth level of
society, where he spends his first day of work at the Liberty Paint factory.
In the Inferno, the walls of Dis contain the lower levels of Hell, and Virgil and Dante
must cross the river Styx on their approach to this world. Likewise, the Liberty Paint plant is on
Long Island, and Invisible crosses “a bridge in the fog to get there and came down in a stream of
workers” (196). Liberty Paint’s logo is a screaming eagle, and their motto is to “Keep America
Pure” by “making [white] paint for the government” (196-197), and Invisible’s first assignment
is to mix drops of black liquid into every bucket of white paint. The paint represents the function
white paint is not complete until the black droplets are added to it, even though the black drops
Later, after accidentally stumbling into a union meeting, Invisible again witnesses an
example of the tradition at the core of American anxiety regarding race relations: the promise of
freedom at the simultaneous subjugation of minority populations. The union members ridicule
Invisible for being a “fink” when all he wants is lunch from the cafeteria. Invisible says, “I stood
trembling, afraid that they would ask me to join but angry that so many rejected me on sight.
And worst of all, I knew they were forcing me to accept things on their own terms, and I was
unable to leave” (222). Invisible wants to belong to the larger group, but he cannot reconcile its
hostile reception of him. His status in the union and American society is similar to that of the
the matter. Invisible is in a lose-lose situation; he is angry at being rejected for no reason, and he
fears joining a group that does not want him. Invisible is almost at a point where he can identify
54
the traditions that maintain this cultural and political imbalance, but his lesson is cut short after a
factory explosion catapults him into a “fall into space” and he “seemed to sink to the center of a
lake of heavy water” (230), before he awakes within an even lower level of society.
After the accident, Invisible further uncovers the permeation between black and white in
the sixth rung of society. Rankine suggests that the moment Invisible regains consciousness after
the explosion, the Odysseus and Polyphemus myth becomes central to the narrative. Invisible
wakes up in a hospital to find “a bright third eye” (231) in the center of the doctor’s head. Like
Odysseus, who uses his cunning to escape Polyphemus’s cave, Invisible relies on his wilyness to
escape the hospital. Rankine posits that, similar to Odysseus, “Invisible Man must arrive at self-
and cultural- awareness to escape confinement” (140), and resorts to folklore, “the central
symbol for cultural memory,” (140) in order to assert a cultural synthesis between the trickster of
Western literature, Odysseus, and the trickster of African and African American lore, Brer
Rabbit. The doctor shows Invisible a card with the question, “Who was buckeye the rabbit?”, and
Invisible recognizes the similarity between the two folkloric figures, Odysseus and Brer Rabbit,
saying, “I laughed, deep, deep inside me, giddy with the delight of self-discovery and the desire
to hide it. Somehow I was Buckeye the Rabbit…” (241). Invisible melds the figures of the Brer
Rabbit with that of Odysseus, thus identifying his hybrid identity—an identity that has always
After his electroshock treatment, Invisible leaves the hospital. Standing in the street,
Invisible compares his experience to that of a black servant he read about in a psychology class.
He remembers the servant as a figure who “during a trance, had recited pages of Greek
philosophy which she had overheard one day while she worked” (249). This example shows
Ellison strong belief that individuals engage with multiple cultures consciously and
55
unconsciously, and that to deny this fact is to refute reality. Invisible takes a subway home where
Odysseus’s men encounter the Lotus-eaters who feed the flower to the soldiers and “those who
ate of it left off caring about home” (Homer 86), and the soldiers lose their desire for nostos, or
the yearning to return home. After leaving the hospital, Invisible smells “the odor of baking
yams […] bringing a stab of swift nostalgia” (262). Invisible eats the yam, and as he enjoys the
treat, a growing sense of shame overtakes him. He muses that “you could cause [African
Americans] the greatest humiliation simply by confronting us with something we liked. Not all
of us, but so many. Simply by walking up and shaking a set of chitterlings or a well-boiled hog
maw at them during the clear light of day! What consternation it would cause!” (265). Like
Odysseus’s men who lose their desire for home, Invisible laughs about the fact that before his
epiphany in the hospital, he would have denied himself this treat of delicious food from home on
the grounds that it would hurt societal perceptions of race. He denies himself the chance to
Later, Invisible wanders the streets, witnesses the eviction of an elderly couple, and finds
himself descending to the seventh circle upon a solicitation from the Communist-like group, the
Brotherhood. The Brotherhood invites Invisible to a gathering in the group’s headquarters: the
his first encounter with Brother Jack, the namesake of Brer Rabbit’s nemesis: Jack the Bear.
Invisible ignores the “uncanny sense of familiarity” he feels upon entering the Chthoninan and
the intuition that he “had been through it all before” (300). Yet Invisible does not realize that he
is again entering Polyphemus’s cave; Brother Jack has only one eye, but this Cyclops fashioned a
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In spite of Brother Jack (-the-Bear)’s deception, the Brotherhood promises Invisible
genuinely egalitarian political policies, leading him to find the organization undeniable. As the
evening continues, Invisible finds out that the cost of joining the party is renouncing his new,
fused Brer Rabbit / Odyssean identity. Like Odysseus’s assertion of identity as “Noman,”
Invisible accepts a hollow “Brotherhood identity” written on a piece of paper, and he does not
becoming someone else” (335). Again, having his identity ascribed to him rather than asserting it
himself, Invisible transforms into a Cyclops when he begins his brotherhood assignment as an
orator, and he declares that Harlem residents are all equally Cyclopean: “Think about it, they’ve
dispossessed us each of one eye from the day we’re born […] We’re a nation of one-eyed
mice—Did you ever see such a sight in your life? […] You know, if we aren’t careful, they’ll
slip up on our blind sides and—plop! out goes our last good eye and we’re blind as bats!” (343).
Invisible blindly accepts the Brotherhood’s policies without recognizing the Absurdist repetition
during his descent through the underworld. Invisible’s grandfather believed that the principles of
freedom in the Constitution would apply to him after Emancipation; he was wrong. In college,
Invisible believed hard work and humility would secure his liberty in the American democracy;
he was wrong. Now, Invisible believes that the egalitarian principles of the Brotherhood
transcend race; he is wrong. The Brotherhood accuses Invisible of “individualism” to keep him
from gaining too much political power with the Harlem residents, and consequently, they
The Brotherhood assigns Invisible to lecturing on the “Woman Question,” and in this
level of society, Invisible uncovers the centrality of sexuality within the rites and traditions he
encounters throughout his journey. As Rankine notes, Frazer’s Golden Bough posits that stories
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like Aeneas’s quest for the Golden Bough are fundamentally about fertility and mortality (125).
Ellison suggests that an underlying principle of the rites and traditions that govern race relations
are anxieties and misconceptions regarding interracial fertility—first hinted at in the bizarre
sexual component of the Battle Royal ritual. After his first lecture, Invisible meets a woman who
“glows as though consciously acting a symbolic role of life and feminine fertility” (409).
Invisible goes to the nameless woman’s home, and inside, sexual imagery surrounds the couple,
such as a “life-sized painting of a nude, a pink Renoir” (411). The woman reveals her sexual
desire for Invisible and also her own adherence to American rites and traditions surrounding
I felt some of the air escape from the room, leaving it unnaturally quiet.
“Yes, primitive; no one has told you, Brother, that at times you have tom-
“My God,” I laughed, “I thought that was the beat of profound ideas.”
(413)
Echoing Frazer’s notion that sexuality structures the traditions that organize life, Invisible finds
that the Brotherhood’s ideology is “merely a superfluous veil for the real concerns of life” (420).
Invisible and the woman use the Brotherhood to act upon their desires and violate the taboo that
American rites and traditions forbid. The woman uses political ideology, but also the taboo of
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incest, as a euphemism for the taboo of interracial sexuality: “’Brotherhood darling,’ she said,
gripping my biceps with her little hands. ‘Teach me, talk to me. Teach me the beautiful ideology
of Brotherhood” (415). However, recalling Trueblood’s violation of the incest taboo, Invisible
and the nameless woman’s violation of interracial sexuality does not bring divine wrath. The
traditions that govern their actions are manmade and arise out of ruling-class anxieties about
Although violating this taboo can mean harm or even death for a black male, Invisible
recalls that violating this tradition is itself a tradition throughout American history—albeit a
largely unspoken one. When the woman leaves the room to answer the phone, Invisible’s mind
“whirled with forgotten stories of male servants summoned to wash the mistress’s back;
chauffeurs sharing the masters’ wives; Pullman porters invited into the drawing room of rich
wives headed for Reno” (416). The tradition of white male violence upon the black male body is
entwined with anxiety of black male sexuality towards white females, be it real or imagined.
Throughout the novel, Invisible is completely reactive; his actions are always responses
to preconceived notions about his identity. Another African American member of the
Brotherhood, Tod Clifton, reaches the same conclusion prior to Invisible. Clifton drops out of the
Brotherhood to assert control over his action and identity, but the police tragically shoot Clifton
dead in an altercation in the streets. Invisible organizes a memorial service for Clifton, but the
Brotherhood condemns the service as a display of individualism. Invisible, who is now fed up
with the Brotherhood, is insubordinate and asserts his individual identity in spite of the
organization. Removing himself from the Brotherhood and the other circles of society gives
Invisible the critical distance necessary to identify the rites and traditions he sees regulating
human relationships. He now sees the similar power structure that was historically organized
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along racial lines in slavery, in the Jim Crow South, and, now, in New York with the
Brotherhood.
Next, Jack and Invisible clash when Jack attempts to reestablish his role as a leader of the
movement that should not be questioned; when Jack claims that he knows what is best for all
members of the Brotherhood, Invisible jokes, “Wouldn’t it be better if [Harlem residents] called
you Marse Jack?” (473). Jack flies into a fury, and Invisible describes the scene. Representing
Jack as an ogre, who is drunk with rage, Invisible says that Jack was “spluttering and lapsing into
a foreign language, choking and coughing and shaking his head […] as suddenly something
seemed to erupt out of his face […] A glass eye. A buttermilk white eye distorted by the light
rays […] He stopped, squinting at me with Cyclopean irritation” (473-474). Brother Jack / Jack
the Bear / Polyphemus reveals himself to Invisible / Brer Rabbit / Odysseus, and Invisible knows
he must leave to continue his journey. After his confrontation with the drunk ogre, Invisible
“went downstairs” (478) to the ninth and final rung of his Dante-esque journey: chaos.
When he reaches the ninth level, Invisible finds the shadowy figure of Reverend Bliss
Proteus Rinehart. As his name suggests, Rinehart changes form to suit his needs at any particular
moment. Rinehart is a gambler, preacher, musician, pimp, lover, con artist, and can fulfill any
other role society bestows upon him. He makes no qualms about this fact and does not attempt to
change perceptions; Rinehart is what he is. When Invisible doffs a hat and dark sunglasses,
Harlem residents mistake him for Rinehart. After several run-ins with people in the community,
[C]ould he be all of them: Rine the runner and Rine the gambler and Rine the
briber and Rine the lover and Rinehart the Reverend? Could he himself be both
rind and heart? […] It was as true as I was true. His world was possibility and he
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knew it. He was years ahead of me and I was a fool. I must have been crazy and
blind. The world in which we lived was without boundaries. A vast seething, hot
Rinehart is able to manipulate any situation he desires and use the rites and traditions that govern
the world around him to his own advantage because he recognizes their arbitrary nature: he can
be a pimp and a preacher, a gambler and a lover, because he recognizes that they are facets of
humanity, not his sole identity. Invisible realizes that this same concept secretly dominated his
life, and he recognizes the folly of his allegiances: “I had switched from the arrogant absurdity of
Norton and Emerson to that of Jack and the Brotherhood, and it all came out the same—except I
now recognized my invisibility” (508). Invisible decides to test his new theory as he imagines
Rinehart would do, and he tries to have a sexual relationship with the wife of a Brotherhood
member, Sybil.
Invisible’s experience with Sibyl is a failure, but he discovers the futility of allowing
identity characteristics to be ascribed upon him. Evoking Virgil’s Aeneid, Sybil accompanies
Invisible in the final rung of his descent through the underworld, having met him during
brotherhood meetings “at the Chthonian [where] she was usually slightly tipsy and wistful”
(515). Invisible knows the traditions that will structure their encounter, saying that he knows she
possible” (517). To Invisible’s surprise, Sybil “made a modest proposal that [he] join her in a
very revolting ritual” (517) of a simulated rape as a sex-game. When Sybil reveals she has
always secretly desired that someone rape her, Invisible evokes the D. W. Griffith film that
characterized white anxiety towards black male sexuality after Emancipation and the Civil War:
“’What’s happening here,’ I said, ‘a new birth of a nation?’” (522). Invisible cannot go through
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the act because “such games were for Rinehart” (523); but he learns from Sybil that tradition
structures all lives, not just African American ones. “Repression,” Sybil reminds Invisible, “Men
have repressed us [women] too much. We’re expected to pass up too many human things” (519).
Group characteristics can never adequately define an individual; casting African Americans as
rapist brutes is as limiting as casting white women as helpless victims. Sybil lashes out to affirm
her sexuality and her humanity, and on a larger scale, Invisible discovers that the Harlem
residents revolt against the oppressive American rites, traditions, and racial myths imposed upon
their humanity.
While with Sybil, Invisible receives a call that there is trouble in Harlem, and he finds a
macabre scene where “men seemed to rise up out of the sidewalks rushing into the store fronts”
(536). Invisible follows a young man named Scofield, and as they move through the streets, the
alcohol-fueled madness of the Golden Day has been spilled into the city: “Over there,” Scofield
says, “all you got to do is breathe, and you drunk, man. Drunk! Hundred proof bonded whiskey
flowing in all the gutters” (538). Scofield and Invisible meet with the group’s leader, Dupre,
who, in a Promethean moment, leads the group to steal coal oil to set fire to the decrepit
tenement where the rioters live. The residents evacuate the building, spread the kerosene
throughout, and set it on fire. Invisible is speechless: “They’ve done it, I thought. They organized
it and carried it through alone; the decision their own and their own action. Capable of their own
action…” (548). The residents revolt against the Absurd repetition of oppressive myths that
structure their world. In spite of the destruction, their world is one of possibility and action rather
than reaction; they affirm their humanity using their own criteria rather than having a narrow
conception of humanity bestowed upon them. Invisible runs from the fire, exhilarated, and
knows that he “had no longer to run for or from the Jacks and the Emersons and the Bledsoes
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and Nortons, but only from their confusion, impatience, and refusal to recognize the beautiful
absurdity of their American identity and mine” (559). However, Invisible knows that
sleepwalkers are dangerous and to spring such a revelation upon the world before it is ready can
be dangerous, so he retires to his underground lair to write his story and share his discovery.
In the epilogue, Invisible recognizes that we are all implicated in the ill-informed
traditions that structure society because we all play a role, and the only choice we have is to
identify them or remain ignorant of them. “Why do I write,” Invisible asks himself, “torturing
myself to put it down? Because in spite of myself I’ve learned some things. Without the
possibility of action, all knowledge comes to one labeled ‘file and forget,’ and I can neither file
nor forget” (579). Invisible’s hibernation is over, and he emerges from the depths to tell his
story. But, lest we file and forget this story because we feel that it does not apply to us, Invisible
reminds us that although he is on the lowest rung of the social ladder, we are all participating in a
shared cultural tradition: “Who knows but that, on the lower frequencies, I speak for you?”
(581). The experiences of an African American male under racism may seem to belong to a
small minority. However, as Invisible has shown through his uncovering and coupling of cultural
forms, the story of an African American male in a racist society is not entirely idiosyncratic to
Invisible’s character. On some level, rites, myths, and traditions structure all human life and
Ellison uses the experiences of a young, invisible male to make these traditions visible for us all.
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V. Conclusion: Recurring Traditions
The ratification of the Thirteenth Amendment of the United States constitution ended legalized
slavery at the end of the Civil War. However, as Michelle Alexander points out in her
illuminating book on American racial injustice, The New Jim Crow (2012), the amendment
contains a peculiar caveat: “Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude, except as a punishment for
crime whereof the party shall have been duly convicted, shall exist within the United States, or
any place subject to their jurisdiction” (Amend. XIII, Sec. 1). Although it is outlawed as a
societal practice, slavery is still a punishment for a crime. As Alexander demonstrates, this
seemingly minor legal caveat leaves an aperture through which the tradition of bondage can
permeate and regenerate in a new form: mass incarceration. Incidentally, the Sisyphean
repetition of legalized segregation, discrimination, and oppression has occurred time and time
since the colonial period of the American continent. “Since the nation’s founding,” writes
Alexander, “African Americans repeatedly have been controlled through institutions such as
slavery and Jim Crow, which appear to die, but then are reborn in new form, tailored to the needs
and constraints of the time” (21). In order to quell interracial unity among indentured servants in
the colonial period, the planter class “extended special privileges to poor whites in an effort to
drive a wedge between them and black slaves” (25) such as giving white settlers access to Native
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American lands, privileged jobs on plantations, and legal protection to ensure that slave labor
would not compete with free labor (Alexander 25). Interestingly, Alexander notes that “before
Democracy, chattel slavery in America was born” (25), and it is a tradition that has mutated in
order to perpetually structure American society along racial caste lines. The myth of race has
structured American society since the colonial period and has since become interwoven into the
fabric of everyday life. Legal slavery died; however, the traditions it spawned are still alive.
Preceding Alexander’s study by sixty years, Invisible Man effectively describes and
predicts the cyclical and insidious traditions of oppression that govern race relations in American
society, the “boomerang” of history (6). Ellison’s mythical method addresses these recurring yet
protean aspects of American society in three ways. First, Ellison seeks to show that the traditions
that have structured American society before the founding of the United States continue to
structure American society. His appropriation of historical myths, traditions, and folklore to
comment upon the present signals the theme of recurrence not just over Invisible’s life but over
those of generations of African Americans. Second, Ellison’s mythical method shows that
African American experience does not only relate to African Americans because “Negroes [are]
human, and thus being human, their experience [becomes] metaphors for the experiences of
other people” (Collected Essays 539), and vice versa. If African Americans can find a character
with which they can identify in Homer’s Odysseus, the African American folk character, Brer
Rabbit, and Ellison’s Invisible can reveal fundamental human truths for the African American
population and beyond. Finally, Ellison’s mythical method uncovers the shared and frequently
obfuscated history between all Americans. As a result, what impacts one individual or one select
group impacts the entire society “just as the stock market or fads in clothing or automobiles
affect the lives of sharecroppers, whether or not the sharecropper knows that the stock market
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exists” (Collected Essays 535-536) and vice versa. Ellison’s mythical method shows the
permeation between the various cultures that comprise American society, and the tension created
by the relationship between individuals and the social groups to which they belong.
In “Hidden Name and Complex Fate” (1964), Ellison alludes to his mythical method,
It is our fate as human beings always to give up some good things for other good
things, to throw off certain bad circumstances only to create others. Thus there is
a value for the writer in trying to give as thorough a report of social reality as
possible. Only by doing so may we grasp and convey the cost of change. Only by
considering the broadest accumulation of data may we make choices that are
based upon our own hard-earned sense of reality. Speaking from my own special
area of American culture, I feel that to embrace uncritically values which are
extended to us by others is to reject the validity, even the sacredness, of our own
experience. It is also to forget that the small share of reality which each of our
diverse groups is able to snatch from the whirling chaos of history belongs not to
One aspect of this shared American history is its Absurd repetition. Recurrence is integral to
Ellison’s method because tradition, by its nature, is repetitive, even if it superficially changes.
After accompanying Invisible through the depths of American society, we see that there is no
hierarchical relationship between black and white cultures, only the repetitive attempt to
structure society along racial lines through law and custom. Firmly engrained social traditions
and the concomitant cultural rites, like any habits, are hard to break. However, studying Ellison’s
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method is a means which can be used to identify and understand these social myths that continue
to structure everyday interaction, even when the myths inevitably change forms over time.
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