I read Harry Potter. The boy, the narrative, the myth, all seven books (It was seven, right?). It took me several weeks of setting aside time to sit down with the students of Hogwarts – but my task is done. I absolutely refuse to do any research to verify the claim I am about to make, but I think it is safe to say that there are a lot of literary analyses of Harry Potter. I would not be contributing anything (modest though these blogged contributions might be), to the corpus of work on the Harry Potter series by discussing literary themes. To keep me from getting too academic, I have taken to carving “I must not critically engage Harry Potter books” into the back of my hand. Oh yes, I have been making allusions all month long. No one has yet grown tired of them. That is perhaps what I find most fascinating about Harry Potter – the following it has generated. Save perhaps Star Wars, no fictional world is more beloved to the 20-something American. I shan’t be drawn into an argument of taste here -I shan’t even-, but few would deny the Harry Potter series has a huge fan-base. I wonder why? There is something intensely likeable, not just about Harry Potter himself, but the entire world he lives in.
I am in a fairly unusual position, having waited until my 27th year of life to engage with these books (and movies) in any capacity. I solemnly swear that until April of 2015 I never read a single book. Though in my youth I was brought to several installments of the film series, I can assure you that I never once gave a single fuck what was happening. Rolling my eyes about how childish and babyish and beneath me the entire series was became my sole response to all things Potter for many years. Beyond the famous spoilers (Snape killed Dumbledore? Well of course he did.), I had no idea what the specifics of the story were. Indeed, I only had a sneaking suspicion –not absolute certainty – that Harry Potter would survive his many ordeals. So, perhaps, this will be more interesting than any literary criticism: How a grown-ass man felt reading Harry Potter for the first time, and what he makes of the whole dang thing.
I must confess that I still had no real reason to read any of them, and it wasn’t my decision to begin in the first place. I was in the market for easy reading on my lunches, and decided to ask my sister. Through the phone, I could hear her eyes glinting, predator-like, as for quite possibly the one thousandth time in my life she suggested “Hey, why don’t you read Harry Potter?” I was taken aback, I had completely forgotten about Harry Potter and her love for it. I tried to formulate an excuse. The problem was I had specifically asked for reading that was 1) fiction 2) easy 3) light-hearted and 4) something I haven’t read before. I can’t think of a more appropriate work than a Harry Potter book. I apprehensively agreed, and requested her copies. She was more than happy to oblige, with the caveat that I take good care of them. They are first editions, you see, and amongst her most prized possessions. I swung by her apartment and gaped at the pile before me. “You can’t be serious; most of these books are just as long as War and Peace!” I cried. She reassured me they “read quickly”, which is a very suspect phenomenon. More concerned than ever, I lugged my pile of homework back with me.
Curiosity taking hold, I did not wait until lunch the next day to start. I began reading, taking note of the appropriately whimsical illustrations along the way. The first thing I noticed is that it is incredibly easy to sympathize with Harry from the start. The Dursley’s are grotesque, stubborn idiots. Worse, two of them are fat and totally gross, a dark mark as ever. The idea that anyone would have to live under a staircase is ridiculous, and I am wondering why they even bother putting Harry up in the first place. Surely a foster home would have served both groups better. I become haughty; Rowling can’t expect me to buy into this living situation, can she? I was weak; a man of little faith. I did not know of the ancient and powerful enchantments extended over 4 Privet Drive. Nevertheless, the book was inoffensive and pleasant. Before I knew it, I had read 70 pages. The last time I completely lost track of time in a book was reading Tolkien, so this was a good omen for me. I brought the book with me (sans dust jacket to avoid the immense embarrassment of reading Harry Potter in the office) the next day. Of course, I was immediately asked what I had brought with me, only to sheepishly respond”…Harry Potter. My sister made me!” I felt dirty, like I was committing an obscene act. Curiously, instead of scorn all I received in return was a knowing grin, perhaps a hint of a wink, and a complete change in conversation. Very curious indeed.
Instead of summarizing and discussing every single book, thus ostracizing the entirety of my readership, I would like to present some of my thoughts on the matters within the books that stuck out to me most, and still float about my mind after completing the series. I don’t think I could do an exhaustive exposition a posteriori, but I don’t think that is necessary. I will try to sort my impressions chronologically when possible, that way you get a better sense of how the story of Harry Potter unfolded for me. In hindsight, this would have been greatly served by keeping some sort of journal, and then editing it down. C’est la vie. I will do my best anyway, for you, dear reader.
My initial impression of the first book was how childish it felt. Never did I feel more concerned, despite being completely alone, that someone would catch me reading a Harry Potter book. The Philosopher’s Stone (as it dang-well should be called) is an interesting choice for a focus. It is famous enough in actual mythology that I am already familiar with its purported properties, and I know what to expect, more or less. I learn that a) Harry talks to snakes, and I presume other animals (I am proven wrong later) b) Harry is a pretty sociable kid for a bullied, abused shut-in, and c) Hermione has buck teeth. Harry making friends on the Hogwarts Express is particularly endearing to me, because it feels so believable. I can imagine a nervous, yet eager twelve year old sitting on a train, shooting the shit as only twelve year olds can. Draco is immediately unlikeable; I want to dunk this kid’s head in a toilet. The rest of the story is safely, commonly fine. It is okay. I don’t hate it, I don’t love it. Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone is like the plain vanilla cake of the series. I am already experiencing pangs of sympathy over Harry wanting to have real, loving parents. The Philosopher’s stone getting destroyed makes sense, if only because I can’t see how it could continue existing with the powers it possesses and not remain the focus of the series. I wonder why it is that Harry must return to the Dursley’s. I feel like a semi-omniscient wizard condemning Harry to a summer of gross neglect and abuse is either evil or incredibly dumb. I am mad, caremad, at Dumbledore. If a whiff of half the stuff that Harry deals with reached a public school here, DYFS would be cracking down on Vernon so quickly his head would spin (and there would be no witch nearby to set it right again).
In retrospect, Chamber of Secrets is probably the worst book in the series. Everything about it is even more unremarkable than the first book. Oh cool, the bad guy is Voldemort manipulating a weak minded innocent? Yawn. The Basilisk seems cool, but he gets his ass handed to him by an angry parakeet, so 10 points from Slytherin for that sorry performance. The Chamber of Secrets seems unlikely to have remained such a secret. Moaning Myrtle literally will not shut the fuck up, to the point that her name has a prefix of “Moaning”. You’re telling me that in a 50 year span, she never once mentioned getting murdered by a fucking snake monster that came out of the toilet to ANYONE? No one seems to believe the Chamber exists, or at least that the monster exists. Once teachers and students are willing to accept that the monster from the Chamber is running amok in Hogwarts, no one knows what form it takes (it was put there by Salazar Slytherin…what form do you THINK it takes? Oh Harry Potter? Yeah, it’s gotta be Harry Potter). Even if you accept that Tom Riddle once deceived everyone into believing Hagrid and that stupid spider (Agogog? Agogogogogogog?) did it, why has no one asked THE ACTUAL MURDER VICTIM WHO EXISTS IN A FOREVER STATE OF UNLIFE AND IS CAPABLE OF COMMUNICATING WITH YOU IN ENGLISH RIGHT NOW AND WILL TALK YOUR EAR OFF ABOUT IT. For fifty years, even Dumbledore never once was like, “Hey bitch, what up? Just wondering how you died in the school I run…you know gotta keep on top of shit every decade or so, ya dig? Word. Oh shit it was a snake that came out of a toilet….fuck son. ” Incidentally, Hagrid continues to be banned from magic after the story concludes. That is a travesty of justice. He is a grown man who has to use a pink umbrella in the final battle with the Great Satan, Voldemort, because he can’t own a wand. You see, he was expelled for a crime he didn’t commit, and for which he was proven innocent of all charges against him. Dumbledore should absolve him of any wrong-doing once the true series of events come to light. Instead, he doesn’t even offer him so much as an apology with paid leave after being wrongfully imprisoned in the hellish and inhumane institution that is Azkaban. Thanks Obama. I do giggle at Voldemort taking the time to make up a name that transposes to Tom Marvolo Riddle when rearranged. Ignore the fact that he hated his parentage and wanted to distance himself so much from it that he took a new name. Instead I want you to picture a mature, powerful Tom Riddle, on the cusp of adulthood. He sits brooding, alone, in the Slytherin tower. Staring furiously at a piece of parchment, he writes a word and strikes it out again and again. “Moretvold? No. Dormvotel? NO. Voldemort…hmmm yes, volde rhymes with moldy and mort is metal as fuck, I’ll go with that.” Moldy Death seems substandard for someone who prides himself on going the extra mile. Again, the story ends in child abuse. England is a weird place that yearns for the rule of law.
The centerpiece of the Prisoner of Azkaban is the introduction of a father figure for Harry. The proto-figure is of course Lupin, to then be exchanged with Sirius (rather abruptly, if you ask me) at the end. Sirius is a cool character, and I find it genuinely interesting to learn about him, James, Lupin, and that shithead rat guy. I’m glad that they were all pricks in high school, it is a refreshing change of pace. Harry needs to learn that being good doesn’t mean you are a paragon of society. You can be a pretty big dick, and be good at heart. The greyness of moral ambiguity in the real world is a very big issue for a Harry Potter teen, so I can appreciate its inclusion here. At first glance, Dementors seem totally sick and badass, but they don’t seem to be acting in their own best interests – wouldn’t it be more fruitful for them to repeatedly get their victim’s hopes up, and then disappoint them? Like farmers of men, they should be tactfully and strategically bringing joy, so as to harvest it later. Instead, they just hang out in some prison where everyone is unhappy to the point that they die. No wonder they want to eat Sirus’s soul; they are too stupid to feed themselves properly. What are they even supposed to be? Is it like a Pokémon where it is born already wearing clothes? I feel pride swell up in me when Harry creates the Patronus that saves his own life. I am growing attached to a fictional character who is kind of a dick to people (just like his dad). I can no longer suppress the notion that I am becoming invested in these characters. It just now occurs to me that I forgot to talk about Dobby before. House elves should not be free. The question of whether a House elf should be free endangers everything about the Harry Potter universe. It is a slippery slope argument about what exactly constitutes a living thing with rights in that world. A house elf is a magical creature. So is the fat lady in the portrait. Yet no one is campaigning for the rights of portrait subjects, or living statues, or mandrakes, or whomping willows. There are so many objects with agency in the world of Harry Potter that to draw out one is to cast light on them all. The fact is, like most of the magical items with self-determination, the house elf serving its master is subject to a magical form of predestination. They derive pleasure and fulfillment from their servitude, because that is their reason for being. The gargoyle statue guards the stairwell, the whomping willow whomps, and house elves tidy homes. It is the way of things by Natural Order, not by choice. It would be a completely different story if we were talking about goblins, a legitimately oppressed group of subjective entities. Even Dobby, by his own admission a very unusual elf, is not, strictly speaking, concerned with freedom. He really just wants to be free of the Malfoys. With his freedom he chooses to happily work in the Hogwarts kitchens (for pay, admittedly) and to serve Harry Potter (admittedly by choice). If, granted freedom, a maximally free house elf who does not engender the zeitgeist of his kind still chooses a role of servitude, then why force his more servile brethren to give up what they love? Is not Hermione, in essence, trying to enslave them in a life they do not choose, forcing on them a role they do not want and that is against their natural state? Who is the slaver, Hogwarts or Hermione? There are tough truths in this post. A discussion for another day.
(So Ends Part One – I will pick up with the Goblet of Fire next update).