In describing his own feelings while listening to jazz recordings by Louis Armstrong, the narrator uses personification and makes an allusion to the late-medieval poet Dante Alighieri:
The unheard sounds came through, and each melodic line existed of itself, stood out clearly from all the rest, said its piece, and waited patiently for the other voices to speak. That night I found myself hearing not only in time, but in space as well. I not only entered the music but descended, like Dante, into its depths. And beneath the swiftness of the hot tempo there was a slower tempo and a cave and I entered it and looked around and heard an old woman singing a spiritual as full of Weltschmerz as flamenco [...]
First, he personifies the sounds made by Armstrong. Each “melodic line,” he claims, “existed of itself [...] said its piece, and waited patiently for the other voices to speak.” Under the influence of drugs, he perceives the musical notes of Armstrong’s trumpet as if in isolation, attributing distinctly human qualities and actions to these notes.
Further, he writes that he feels that he is “like Dante” after having “descended” into the “depths” of the music. Here, he alludes to Dante, poet of The Divine Comedy, the most celebrated work of Italian literature. In the “Inferno” section of the poem, Dante descends into hell in the company of the ancient Roman poet Virgil. Just as Dante, in the poem, enters another world, so too does the narrator feel transported while listening to Armstrong’s music, ultimately having various dark and confusing visions while in this state.
In addition to hundreds of lightbulbs, the narrator has a radio phonograph to play music on, and he has goals of obtaining four more. In outlining his plans, he alludes to the jazz musician Louis Armstrong and to the classic jazz song “What Did I Do to Be so Black and Blue”:
Now I have one radio-phonograph [...] I’d like to hear five recordings of Louis Armstrong playing and singing “What Did I Do to Be so Black and Blue”—all at the same time. Sometimes now I listen to Louis while I have my favorite dessert of vanilla ice cream and sloe gin. I pour the red liquid over the white mound, watching it glisten and the vapor rising as Louis bends that military instrument into a beam of lyrical sound. Perhaps I like Louis Armstrong because he’s made poetry out of being invisible. I think it must be because he’s unaware that he is invisible.
Louis Armstrong, a trumpeter and vocalist, is generally regarded as one of the most important figures in the history of jazz, rising to prominence in the early to mid-20th century. In alluding to Armstrong here, the narrator expresses his affinity for a historically Black musical style. Further, he alludes to the song “What Did I Do to Be so Black and Blue,” a jazz standard and protest song written in 1929 and often performed by Armstrong. While listening to the song, the speaker imagines various scenes of slavery in the United States. He likes Armstrong, he claims, because he too is “invisible” and, being unaware of his own state of invisibility, has made “poetry out of being invisible.”
In describing his own ingenuity, the narrator alludes to various American inventors:
And maybe I’ll invent a gadget to place my coffee pot on the fire while I lie in bed, and even invent a gadget to warm my bed—like the fellow I saw in one of the picture magazines who made himself a gadget to warm his shoes! Though invisible, I am in the great American tradition of tinkers. That makes me kin to Ford, Edison and Franklin. Call me, since I have a theory and a concept, a “thinker-tinker.” Yes, I’ll warm my shoes; they need it, they’re usually full of holes. I’ll do that and more.
The narrator thinks about all the things he might do to improve his burrow during what he considers to be his temporary “hibernation” from society. He imagines himself inventing a “gadget” that would place his coffee pot on the stove while he lies in bed, and also another gadget to “warm” the bed. Here, he places himself in the “great American tradition of tinkers.” He alludes, in quick succession, to Henry Ford, who founded the Ford Motor Company; to Thomas Edison, who invented the phonograph and an early version of the lightbulb; and to Benjamin Franklin, who invented the lightning rod and bifocal lenses, among other inventions. At this point in the novel, it is unclear whether or not the narrator’s sense of himself as a great inventor is justified or delusional.
After being invited to present a speech on the topic of humility before a group of socially prominent white men, the narrator is asked to fight other young Black men in a “battle royal.” In describing this pivotal event in his adolescence, the narrator alludes to Booker T. Washington, an educator, orator, and African American community leader prominent between the late 19th century and early 20th century:
No one could mistake their toughness. And besides, I suspected that fighting a battle royal might detract from the dignity of my speech. In those pre-invisible days I visualized myself as a potential Booker T. Washington. But the other fellows didn’t care too much for me either, and there were nine of them. I felt superior to them in my way, and I didn’t like the manner in which we were all crowded together into the servants’ elevator. Nor did they like my being there.
The narrator is hesitant to join the fight for a number of reasons. The other young men, whom he feels dislike him, are clearly tough and capable fighters. Further, he feels that the fight would “detract from the dignity” of the speech he intends to present. The narrator then explains that, at that point in his life, before he understood his “invisibility,” he imagined himself “as a potential Booker T. Washington.”
Washington, who was born into slavery, emphasized the importance of education in improving socioeconomic conditions for African Americans. For a later generation of Black writers and political thinkers, Washington was the object of occasional criticism for his emphasis on social respectability as an avenue for upward mobility. Here, the speaker alludes to Washington to explain his earlier understanding of American race relations, which he later regards as naive.
Recounting a past conversation he had with Mr. Norton while driving him around the campus, the narrator alludes to 19th-century American poet and philosopher Ralph Waldo Emerson, for whom Ralph Ellison was, in fact, named:
“You have studied Emerson, haven’t you?”
“Emerson, sir?”
“Ralph Waldo Emerson.”
I was embarrassed because I hadn’t. “Not yet, sir. We haven’t come to him yet.”
“No?” he said with a note of surprise. “Well, never mind. I am a New Englander, like Emerson. You must learn about him, for he was important to your people. He had a hand in your destiny. Yes, perhaps that is what I mean. I had a feeling that your people were somehow connected with my destiny. That what happened to you was connected with what would happen to me …”
Mr. Norton expects that the narrator has studied the works of Emerson, and the narrator feels “embarrassed” to admit that he is not familiar with the author. Emerson was a prominent abolitionist around the time of the American Civil War, advocating passionately for an end to the practice of slavery while, nevertheless, like Mr. Norton, holding paternalistic beliefs towards African Americans. Mr. Norton, a satirical representation of a white Northern “progressive,” is surprised to learn that Emerson’s works are not being prioritized at the unnamed Black college of which he is a trustee.
At the sermon presented in the campus chapel, the narrator listens to a speech by Reverend Homer A. Barbee, from Chicago. In this darkly ironic scene, Barbee lavishes praise on the college’s founder, alluding to the Biblical figure of Moses:
And then his great struggle beginning. Picture it, my young friends: The clouds of darkness all over the land, black folk and white folk full of fear and hate, wanting to go forward, but each fearful of the other. A whole region is caught in a terrible tension. Everyone is perplexed with the question of what must be done to dissolve this fear and hatred that crouched over the land like a demon waiting to spring, and you know how he came and showed them the way.
Though Barbee describes a figure from the recent past, the Founder of the unnamed historically Black college that the narrator attends, he uses distinctly biblical language. As if describing a scene from the Bible, Barbee turns to the “beginning,” when “clouds of darkness” coerced the land and both Black and white people were “full of fear and hate [...] fearful of the other.” Amid this “terrible tension,” the Founder “came and showed them the way,” leading them all to a brighter and more peaceful future. Barbee, then, compares the Founder to the biblical figure of Moses, who, in the Bible, parted the Red Sea and led his people out of captivity in Egypt. This allusion, then, is ironic in the context of the story. Barbee’s praise is ultimately exaggerated, as the Founder is no biblical prophet, and America, as presented in the novel, is still afflicted with racial inequality, tension, and violence.
In a deeply ironic passage that is dense with allusions and metaphors, the narrator describes a sermon at the college chapel, which is attended by the school’s wealthy white donors:
Here upon this stage the black rite of Horatio Alger was performed to God’s own acting script, with millionaires come down to portray themselves; not merely acting out the myth of their goodness, and wealth and success and power and benevolence and authority in cardboard masks, but themselves, these virtues concretely! Not the wafer and the wine, but the flesh and the blood, vibrant and alive, and vibrant even when stooped, ancient and withered. (And who, in face of this, would not believe? Could even doubt?)
Fearing that he will be expelled after he is admonished by the college president, Dr. Bledsoe, the narrator attends the sermon with a great feeling of anxiety. As he watches the musical performances arranged by the college and observes the behavior of the rich trustees, he begins to feel that he is observing a play in which the millionaires “come down to portray themselves.” Through this theatrical metaphor, the narrator implies that this sermon is an artificial ritual designed to flatter the donors. Additionally, he alludes to Horatio Alger, a popular 19th-century author whose works often featured “rags to riches” stories of young boys and men who work hard and gain prosperity. He also alludes to the Roman Catholic concept of transubstantiation, in which bread and wine is understood to be literally transformed into the flesh and blood of Jesus Christ. His allusion to transubstantiation is ironic, as these wealthy donors are by no means capable of performing otherworldly miracles.
Dr. Bledsoe, president of the unnamed Black college, sends the narrator to work in New York for the summer, though he secretly plans to expel him permanently. Upon experiencing the train in New York City for the first time, the narrator uses a simile and allusion to describe the busy and disorienting scene:
The train seemed to plunge downhill now, only to lunge to a stop that shot me out upon a platform feeling like something regurgitated from the belly of a frantic whale. Wrestling with my bags, I swept along with the crowd, up the stairs into the hot street. I didn’t care where I was, I would walk the rest of the way.
Having been raised in the rural South, the narrator has never experienced a large, industrialized city before. Exiting a train that is densely packed with both white and Black passengers, the narrator states that he feels “like something regurgitated from the belly of a frantic whale.” This simile suggests that he feels overwhelmed in the crowded urban environment. Additionally, he here alludes to an event described in the Bible, in which the prophet Jonah is swallowed by a large fish or whale for three days before being miraculously regurgitated onto dry land. The narrator’s first impression of the city, then, is of a gigantic and terrifying beast.
After the narrator presents his letters of introduction from Dr. Bledsoe addressed to the offices of various prominent men of business and industry, he is surprised to receive no responses. He then makes his way to the office of the final remaining addressee, Mr. Emerson, who runs an import business. At the office, he meets an effeminate young man whom be mistakenly believes is Mr. Emerson’s secretary but is in fact his son. In his depiction of Mr. Emerson’s office, Ellison alludes to Totem and Taboo, a book written by Sigmund Freud, the father of psychoanalysis:
I went over and took a teakwood chair with cushions of emerald-green silk, sitting stiffly with my brief case across my knees. He must have been sitting there when I came in, for on a table that held a beautiful dwarf tree I saw smoke rising from a cigarette in a jade ash tray. An open book, something called Totem and Taboo, lay beside it. I looked across to a lighted case of Chinese design which held delicate-looking statues of horses and birds, small vases and bowls, each set upon a carved wooden base.
Among the various expensive imported goods that decorate Mr. Emerson’s office, the narrator spots “an open book, something called Totem and Taboo.” He assumes that the secretary had been reading the book when interrupted in the office. Written in 1913, Totem and Taboo is a major work by Freud, who sought to apply his psychological ideas and theories to other disciplines such as anthropology and archaeology. Ellison’s allusion to Freud here is ambiguous. On one hand, it suggests that Young Emerson is an educated and modern young man who reads complex scholarly works with which the narrator is not yet familiar. On the other hand, the book might be implicated in the sympathetic yet condescending attitude that Young Emerson expresses towards Black Americans such as the narrator.
In the prologue, the narrator alludes to various historical incidents of violent persecution as he reflects upon his own internalized feelings of guilt and shame stemming from others’ mistreatment of him:
That is the real soul-sickness, the spear in the side, the drag by the neck through the mob-angry town, the Grand Inquisition, the embrace of the Maiden, the rip in the belly with the guts spilling out, the trip to the chamber with the deadly gas that ends in the oven so hygienically clean—only it’s worse because you continue stupidly to live. But live you must, and you can either make passive love to your sickness or burn it out and go on to the next conflicting phase.
His fear that he might in fact deserve to be treated poorly, a fear which he attributes to many Black men, is “the real soul-sickness,” a pain even worse, in some ways, than external violence. He then alludes, in quick succession, to various instances of persecution, starting with "the spear in the side" of Christ, lynch mobs such as those that executed many Black men and women across the United States, then the “Grand Inquisition” initiated by the Catholic monarchs of Spain, then the use of the “iron maiden” a (possibly apocryphal) European torture device, and ultimately, the Holocaust orchestrated by Nazi Germany. These allusions place racist oppression of African Americans alongside notable historical instances of mob and state violence.