Toni Morrison’s Song of Solomon is not just a novel; it’s an experience. Reading it is akin to navigating a labyrinthine house filled with echoing whispers of the past, vibrant characters, and profound thematic resonance. When I first encountered this book, much like many readers, I was left in a state of awe and slight bewilderment. It became an instant favorite, yet one that defied easy understanding, a testament to Morrison’s masterful storytelling. Song of Solomon is immense in its scope, layering themes of identity, family, race, and the complexities of human relationships with a richness that demands multiple readings to even begin to grasp its depths.
“You wanna fly, you got to give up the shit that weighs you down.”
The sheer density of Song of Solomon is initially overwhelming. Its intricate plot, populated with complex characters speaking in authentic and compelling dialogue, unfolds in a way that challenges the reader to actively participate in piecing together the narrative. My initial reading was marked by annotations of “WTF?” and “WHAT IS GOING ON?”, as I struggled to discern the underlying structure and motivations driving the characters. Characters like Ruth, for instance, initially presented behaviors that were deeply unsettling until the layers of her story began to unravel. This initial disorientation, however, is part of the novel’s genius, drawing you deeper into its world.
Like Morrison’s earlier works, The Bluest Eye and Sula, Song of Solomon operates as a powerful coming-of-age narrative. However, it expands beyond this genre to become a sweeping family saga, uniquely centered around a male protagonist, Milkman Dead – Morrison’s first exploration of masculinity in a central role. This shift in perspective allows Morrison to delve into the specific challenges and expectations placed upon Black men in America.
The Indelible Women of Song of Solomon
Despite its focus on Milkman and masculinity, the women of Song of Solomon are the true anchors of the narrative, the figures that resonate most profoundly. Morrison portrays women in this novel as often being left behind, tethered to societal roles and marital expectations that stifle their individual growth. They are depicted as grounded, earthy figures, in stark contrast to the men who are often associated with flight and escape. We witness their pain and resilience in the face of loss, their struggles with denied sexual expression, and their often obsessive attachment to the men in their lives, whom they see as symbols of stability and home.
“You can’t own a human being. You can’t lose what you don’t own. Suppose you did own him. Could you really love somebody who was absolutely nobody without you? You really want somebody like that? Somebody who falls apart when you walk out the door? You don’t, do you? And neither does he. You’re turning over your whole life to him. Your whole life, girl. And if it means so little to you that you can just give it away, hand it to him, then why should it mean any more to him? He can’t value you more than you value yourself.”
Many of the women in Song of Solomon have, in a sense, sacrificed their own identities, their voices muted by their dependence on men for validation and self-worth. This silencing often leads to destructive expressions of self, or internalized pain. Interestingly, the women who achieve independence and autonomy are often those marginalized by society, highlighting a complex interplay between societal constraints and personal agency. The relationships between men and women in the novel are intrinsically linked to the social fabric they inhabit, reflecting broader societal power dynamics.
Lena’s Awakening Voice
In contrast to characters like Hagar and Ruth, Lena, or Magdalene, undergoes a significant transformation. Initially silenced alongside her sister, Corinthians, by their father, Lena’s journey is one of finding and asserting her voice. She avoids the passive fate of her mother, Ruth, by directly confronting her brother, Milkman. In a powerful moment of realization, Lena recalls her childhood activity of making artificial roses: “[Making roses] kept me quiet. That’s why they make those people in the asylum weave baskets and make rag rugs. It keeps them quiet. If they didn’t have the baskets they might find out what’s really going on and do something.”
This epiphany ignites Lena’s anger and empowers her to challenge the patriarchal dominance that has defined her life. She confronts Milkman with a fierce declaration of independence: “What do you know about somebody not being good enough for somebody else? You’ve been laughing at us all your life. Corinthians. Mama. Me. Using us, ordering us, and judging us: how we cook your food; how we keep your house. Who are you to approve or disapprove anybody or anything? I was breathing air in the world thirteen years before your lungs were even formed… Our girlhood was spent like a found nickel on you… Where do you get the right to decide our lives? I’ll tell you where. From that hog’s gut that hangs down between your legs. I didn’t go to college because of him… Now get out of my room.” Lena’s newfound awareness allows her to reclaim her identity, rejecting the subservient role imposed upon her. She emerges as a self-aware individual demanding autonomy, no longer a mere echo in the patriarchal structure of her family.
Pilate: The Embodiment of Independence
“Pilate can’t teach you a thing you can use in this world. Maybe the next, but not this one.”
Pilate stands apart from all other women in Song of Solomon. She is the epitome of independence, maintaining a strong sense of self throughout the novel, expressed through her songs and her direct, wise pronouncements. Pilate’s unique strength stems from two key sources. Firstly, her sense of identity is internally driven, not reliant on male validation or societal approval. Secondly, lacking a conventional, documented history common to many African Americans of her time, Pilate creates her own narrative and carries her history with her, literally. Her name, written by her father on a scrap of paper and kept in her earring – a brass snuffbox belonging to her mother – serves as a tangible link to her personal history and a source of unwavering strength.
Pilate’s lack of a navel, symbolizing her detachment from a conventional biological history, initially leads to isolation, particularly from men. However, she transcends this by essentially birthing herself, forging her own path and identity independent of societal norms and expectations.
Morrison’s Dedication and the Weight of Fathers
Morrison dedicated Song of Solomon to her father. She revealed that she could only write this novel after his death, perhaps even because of it. The novel’s epitaph, “The fathers may soar / And the children may know their names,” underscores the profound impact of fathers’ actions and beliefs on their children’s lives and identities. Morrison stated that with her father’s passing, she mourned “the death of that girl–the one that lived in his mind.” Her father’s belief in her potential, his vision of infinite possibilities, shaped her. Becoming an adult, Morrison suggests, is partly about internalizing that potential, recognizing it within oneself, and believing that others might see it too.
“What difference does it make if the thing you scared of is real or not?”
Morrison compels her protagonist, Milkman, to delve into his family history, to unearth the myths and stories of African slaves, to understand his true identity. Pilate, arguably the most admirable character, embodies the values and way of life of her ancestors, a guardian of her nephew who is meant to embody these ancestral myths. Song of Solomon draws from a rich tapestry of mythological traditions – biblical, Greco-Roman, and African – to weave a narrative that is both unique and universal. It’s a story that actively engages the reader, requiring participation to connect seemingly disparate elements into a coherent and meaningful whole. The novel demands attentiveness, encouraging readers to revisit passages, reread sections, and acknowledge that some references and plot points may remain elusive – and that this is perfectly acceptable.
Plot and Progression: Milkman’s Journey
The opening scene of Song of Solomon is unforgettable: Robert Smith, an insurance agent, attempting to fly from the roof of Mercy Hospital, symbolizing both aspiration and tragic fallibility. His plummet coincides with the birth of Milkman Dead, the first Black child born in that hospital to Ruth Foster Dead. This dramatic opening sets the stage for a novel deeply concerned with flight – both literal and metaphorical.
Young Milkman, upon realizing humans cannot fly, loses interest in life and those around him. Raised by his mother, aunt Pilate, and sisters Lena and Corinthians, and adored by his cousin Hagar, Milkman grows into a privileged yet emotionally detached young man. He is self-absorbed, directionless, and fails to reciprocate the love and care offered to him.
“He ain’t a house, he’s a man, and whatever he need, don’t none of you got it.”
Milkman’s relationship with his father, Macon Dead Jr., is fraught with tension. A pivotal moment occurs when Milkman strikes his father to defend Ruth. This act marks Milkman’s transition into adulthood and the shattering of his idealized perception of his father: “There was the pain and shame of seeing his father crumple before any man–even himself. Sorrow in discovering that the pyramid was not five-thousand-year wonder of the civilized world… but that it had been made in the back room at Sears, by a clever window dresser, of papier-maché, guaranteed to last a lifetime.” His father, once an imposing figure, is revealed to be vulnerable and flawed.
“He himself did nothing. Except for the one time he had hit his father, he had never acted independently, and that act, his only one, had brought unwanted knowledge too, as well as some responsibility for that knowledge.”
At thirty-two, Milkman feels trapped and longs for escape. His father’s mention of gold hidden by Pilate sparks a quest. Enlisting his friend Guitar Bains, Milkman robs Pilate, only to find rocks and a skeleton – later revealed to be his grandfather, Macon Dead I. Guitar, driven by his involvement with the Seven Days, a Black nationalist group, is particularly embittered by the lack of gold.
Believing the gold might be at his family’s ancestral farm in Pennsylvania, Milkman journeys south, promising Guitar a share of the (non-existent) loot. Before leaving, he abruptly ends his relationship with Hagar, triggering her descent into madness and multiple attempts on his life, ultimately leading to her tragic demise, likely from a broken heart.
“He meant that if you take a life, then you own it. You responsible for it. You can’t get rid of nobody by killing them. They still there, and they yours now.”
In Montour County, Milkman’s gold hunt turns into a search for his family history. He encounters Circe, who reveals his grandfather’s original name, Jake, and his marriage to an indigenous woman, Sing. This revelation propels Milkman further south to Shalimar, Virginia, his ancestral home. Unbeknownst to him, Guitar is in pursuit, convinced Milkman has cheated him.
Initially an outsider in Shalimar, Milkman gradually connects with the community as he uncovers more about his lineage. He learns of his great-grandfather, Solomon, the mythical flying African who escaped slavery by flying back to Africa. This discovery brings Milkman immense joy and a sense of purpose, transforming him into a more compassionate and responsible adult. Surviving an assassination attempt by Guitar, Milkman returns to Michigan, eager to share his discoveries.
“Don’t nobody have to die if they don’t want to.”
He finds Hagar has died and the family’s emotional wounds remain. Nevertheless, Milkman accompanies Pilate back to Shalimar to bury Jake’s bones at Solomon’s Leap, the site of Solomon’s legendary flight. In a tragic climax, Pilate is killed by a bullet intended for Milkman. Heartbroken but transformed, Milkman confronts Guitar, calling out his name and leaping towards him – a final act of embracing his newfound identity and, perhaps, learning to fly in a metaphorical sense, liberated from the burdens that once weighed him down.
Song of Solomon remains a towering achievement in American literature, a novel that continues to resonate with its exploration of identity, history, and the enduring power of the human spirit.
