It starts with a man trying to fly. Robert Smith, an insurance agent, leaps off the roof of Mercy Hospital in Michigan on a pair of blue silk wings, promising to "take off and fly away on my own." He doesn't, of course. He drops like a stone. But that first image in the Song of Solomon book sets the stage for everything that follows: the desperate, messy, and often beautiful struggle to leave the ground.
Toni Morrison wrote this in 1977. It was her third novel. It was the one that made people realize she wasn't just a "promising writer" but a titan of American literature.
If you’ve ever felt like your name doesn't really belong to you, or that your family’s history is a map with all the landmarks scratched out, this book is for you. It’s about Macon "Milkman" Dead III. Yeah, that's his name. It’s a name born from a mistake, a drunken clerical error at the Freedmen’s Bureau after the Civil War. That’s how history works in this world—it’s accidental, violent, and surprisingly sticky.
The Man Who Had No Use for the Earth
Milkman is kind of a jerk for the first half of the story. Let's be honest. He’s bored. He’s rich—or at least, his father, Macon Dead II, is rich by the standards of a Black man in mid-century Michigan. His father is obsessed with property. "Own things," he tells Milkman. "Then you’ll own yourself and other people too." It’s a bleak way to live.
The house Milkman grows up in is silent and suffocating. His mother, Ruth, spends her days staring at a water stain on a table, a tiny mark of life in a house that feels like a tomb.
Then there’s Pilate.
Pilate Dead is Macon’s sister, but they haven't spoken in decades. She’s the heart of the Song of Solomon book. She has no navel. She carries her name in a brass box earring. She lives in a house that smells like pine and ginger, and she sings. Man, can she sing. While Macon represents the dry, hard reality of accumulation and "making it" in a white man's world, Pilate represents the spirit, the ancestors, and the weird, terrifying freedom of having nothing to lose.
Why the "Flying Africans" Myth Matters
You can't talk about this book without talking about the myth of the flying Africans. It’s a real piece of folklore. It’s rooted in the Gullah culture of the Sea Islands. The story goes that some enslaved people, when they reached the shores of America, simply turned around and flew back to Africa.
✨ Don't miss: Weather Forecast Calumet MI: What Most People Get Wrong About Keweenaw Winters
It’s a metaphor, sure. But in Morrison’s hands, it’s also literal.
Milkman’s journey takes him from the North down to the South, retracing his family’s steps. He’s looking for gold—a stash he thinks Pilate stole. But what he finds is a song. He hears children in Shalimar, Virginia, singing a rhyme that contains his family’s entire history.
Solomon done fly, Solomon done gone / Solomon cut across the sky, Solomon gone home.
It turns out his great-grandfather wasn't just a man who ran away. He was a man who flew. This revelation changes everything. It’s not about money. It’s about the weight you carry. Morrison explores this idea that if you want to fly, you have to give up the "shit that weighs you down."
For Milkman, that means giving up his ego, his privilege, and his detachment.
The Violence of Naming
Names are a battlefield in this novel.
Morrison shows us how names are used to erase people. "Macon Dead" was a mistake. "Not Doctor Street" is what the Black residents call the street where the only Black doctor used to live, even though the city officially named it Mains Avenue. It’s a form of resistance. If the state won't give you a place, you name it yourself.
🔗 Read more: January 14, 2026: Why This Wednesday Actually Matters More Than You Think
Think about the "Seven Days." This is a secret society that Milkman’s friend, Guitar Bains, belongs to. When a Black person is murdered by whites and the law does nothing, the Seven Days kills a white person in the same way on the same day of the week. It’s a chilling, mathematical approach to justice.
Guitar is a tragic figure. He loves his people so much that he’s willing to become a murderer for them. He tells Milkman, "Everything is about life and death." He’s right, but he gets lost in the death part.
The contrast between Guitar’s political violence and Pilate’s spiritual groundedness is where the book gets really deep. Morrison isn't interested in easy answers. She doesn't tell you who is "right." She just shows you the cost of both paths.
Gender and the Burden of Flight
One of the biggest criticisms of the Song of Solomon book—and something Morrison herself addressed—is the way the women are treated.
Hagar, Pilate’s granddaughter, dies of a broken heart because Milkman discards her. Ryna, the wife of the original flying African, is left behind to scream in the forest while her husband takes to the sky.
There is a cost to "flying." When the men fly away, the women are the ones left to pick up the pieces, raise the children, and mourn. Morrison doesn't look away from this. She shows that Milkman’s liberation is built on the backs of the women who loved him. It’s a complicated, messy truth.
Pilate is the only one who manages to fly without ever leaving the ground. She’s the most "evolved" person in the book because she doesn't need to escape. She knows who she is.
💡 You might also like: Black Red Wing Shoes: Why the Heritage Flex Still Wins in 2026
Reading the Book Today
Why does this book still rank at the top of every "must-read" list?
Because we’re still fighting about history. We’re still arguing over who gets to tell the story of America. Morrison suggests that the "official" history—the one written in ledgers and government documents—is often a lie. The real history is in the songs, the nicknames, and the stories passed down in kitchens.
It’s a dense read. You might need to check a family tree a few times. But the language... the language is like jazz. It’s rhythmic, surprising, and occasionally hits a note that makes you want to cry.
Actionable Insights for Reading and Understanding
If you're diving into the Song of Solomon book for the first time, or revisiting it after years, here are a few ways to get the most out of the experience:
- Listen to the rhythm. Morrison wrote with an ear for the "Black vernacular." Don't just read the words; try to hear the cadences. The dialogue isn't just information—it's music.
- Track the names. Keep a list of characters and how they got their names. You'll see a pattern of how trauma and humor intertwine.
- Look for the birds. Imagery of flight, feathers, and wings is everywhere. Sometimes it's subtle, like the way a woman moves her arms; sometimes it's as overt as a peacock that can't fly because its tail is too heavy with "jewelry."
- Research the Gullah folklore. Understanding the actual myth of the Flying Africans provides a much deeper layer to the ending. It’s not just magical realism; it’s a cultural reclamation.
- Don't rush the first 50 pages. Morrison drops you into a very specific world with a lot of characters. Let yourself be confused for a bit. It all comes together once Milkman leaves Michigan.
The ending of the book is one of the most debated scenes in literature. Milkman leaps toward Guitar. Is it a fight to the death? Is it an act of love? Does he actually fly?
Morrison leaves it open because the act of leaping is more important than the landing. It’s the moment he finally lets go of the earth. He finally understands that "if you surrendered to the air, you could ride it."
To understand your own history, you have to be willing to look at the parts that hurt. You have to find your own song. Only then can you figure out what it means to truly be free.
For those looking to expand their understanding of 20th-century literature, pairing this with Morrison's Beloved or Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man offers a complete look at the "Great American Novel" through a lens that doesn't always center on the traditional white experience. Take the time to sit with the ambiguity. It's meant to be lived in, not just solved.