This week,
we read Nikki Giovanni’s prose-poem “Sanctuary: for Harry Potter the Movie”. In
it, she praises Harry for “living” through unimaginable tragedy and having his
“blooming in the noise of the whirlwind.” But she is angered that people—enchanted by their magical setting—think the Harry Potter books more of a pleasurable
escape than literature with a weighty theme applicable to the suffering of
marginalized minorities.
And she is
absolutely right. Perhaps all of the magic in books and films is distracting us
from their actual meaning.
Take all of
the mind-blowing, crazy-impossible, bullet-dodging stunts out of The Matrix and perhaps the masses would
see that it was intended to be a deep, philosophical allegory of religion. Take
all of the elves and Santa’s workshop out of
Elf and we would see the heart and soul of the movie: how a man discovered
that time is the greatest gift you can give a child. Take all of the mythical
creatures out of The Hobbit and you’d
find a simple tale on the importance of taking risks.
But then
again, perhaps the magic is vital.
Without the
“techno-slammin’ visuals” (as the DVD jacket calls them), The Matrix would never call upon us to question the limits of our
reality and view technology as both a kind aid and accursed slave-driver.
Without Santa’s magic, Elf would
never be able to show us that a little love and Christmas cheer are all the
world really needs. And without fantasy magic, The Hobbit would have… well… no hobbits…
Magic has a
home in literature. That’s for sure. But don’t ever believe that it has a life
sentence, barred from ever seeing the light of the real world.
There is
magic all around us. Magic in the minds of Isaac Newton and Gottfried Leibniz,
who moved the world when they found that the integral was the inverse of the
derivative. Magic in the chords of Stravinsky’s “Firebird Suite: Finale,” as
they lift us to a luminous, unattainable, intangible glory upon an ethereal
cloud. Magic in the heart of Pope John Paul II who channeled God’s love to
forgive the man who tried to put a bullet through it. Magic in the little girl
who beat cancer, as she skips from the hospital arm-in-arm with her
parents—beaming, radiant, renewed, the sun setting her newly growing peach fuzz
ablaze.
I guess
what I’m trying to say is that—though I’m kind of sick of that David Foster
Wallace speech we read—we need to get away from our “default setting.” We’re
inclined to view magical literature as a wondrous escape and real life
as a slew of harsh realities—and that’s great. But it’s also important that we
see that the darkest truths of humanity lurk within even the most imaginative
tales, and that glorious, miraculous spells are cast on even the darkest
streets of our cities. As Giovanni and the band Pilot say of magic, “Never
believe, it’s not so.” As I say of it in real life, “Never believe it’s not so.”
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