Toni Morrison didn't just write books; she built worlds out of language that felt more real than the one outside your window. When the Song of Solomon novel dropped back in 1977, it basically shifted the axis of American literature. It wasn't just a story about a guy named Milkman Dead trying to find some lost gold. It was—and honestly still is—a heavy, mystical, and deeply gritty exploration of what it means to be Black in America, searching for an identity that hasn't been mangled by history.
You've probably heard the name "Macon 'Milkman' Dead III." It’s one of the weirdest names in fiction, right? But that’s Morrison’s genius. She takes the absurd and makes it feel like home. The book follows Milkman from his birth—the first Black child born in Mercy Hospital—all the way to a transformative leap off a cliff in Virginia. It’s a journey from being a bored, entitled young man to someone who actually understands the weight of his ancestors.
The Messy Reality of the Dead Family
The Dead family is a wreck. Let's be real. Macon Dead II, Milkman’s father, is obsessed with property and "owning things." He thinks money is the only way to be a man. Then you’ve got Pilate, Macon’s sister, who lives in a house without electricity, carries her name in a brass box pinned to her ear, and supposedly has no navel. She’s the heart of the Song of Solomon novel, representing a connection to the past that Macon tries so hard to pave over with cold, hard cash.
Milkman is stuck in the middle. He’s thirty years old, still living at home, and basically drifting through life without a purpose. He’s "dead" in spirit long before he starts his journey. His father wants him to find a cache of gold that he thinks Pilate stole from a cave years ago. Milkman wants the money because he thinks it’ll buy him freedom. He’s wrong. It’s not the gold that frees him; it’s the names.
Names matter so much here. Morrison shows how the "official" names—the ones given by the government—are often accidents or insults. "Macon Dead" only exists because a drunk Union soldier messed up some paperwork. But the "real" names, the ones whispered in the community like "Not Doctor Street" or "No Mercy Hospital," those are the ones that hold the truth.
Why the Flight Myth Changes Everything
If you’ve spent any time reading about African American folklore, you know about the "Flying Africans." It’s this incredibly powerful, bittersweet legend about enslaved people who literally flew back to Africa to escape their chains. Morrison takes this myth and bakes it into the very foundation of the Song of Solomon novel.
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Milkman’s Great-Grandfather, Solomon, was one of those flyers. He literally stood up in a field, dropped his plow, and flew away, leaving his wife and twenty-one children behind. This is where the book gets complicated. Is Solomon a hero for escaping? Or is he a jerk for abandoning his family? Morrison doesn’t give you an easy answer. She forces you to sit with the pain of those left on the ground while marveling at the beauty of the one who soared.
The Radical Feminism of Pilate Dead
Most people focus on Milkman’s quest, but Pilate is the real MVP. She is one of the most original characters in all of 20th-century literature. She doesn't care about social norms. She doesn't care about what Macon thinks. She keeps a song in her head and her family’s history in a bag.
- She represents the "ancestor" figure that Morrison often wrote about—the person who guides the protagonist back to their roots.
- Unlike the men in the book who are obsessed with "taking" and "owning," Pilate is about "being" and "preserving."
- Her house is a sanctuary, even if it smells like fermenting wine and lacks a "proper" floor.
Honestly, the contrast between Pilate and Macon is the engine that drives the first half of the book. Macon wants to accumulate; Pilate wants to remember. In the world of the Song of Solomon novel, remembering is the only way to survive.
The Seven Days and the Cycle of Violence
We have to talk about Guitar Bains. He’s Milkman’s best friend, but he’s also a member of a secret society called the Seven Days. Their mission is grim: whenever a Black person is murdered by a white person and the law does nothing, a member of the Seven Days kills a white person in the same manner. It’s a mechanical, cold-blooded attempt at "balance."
Guitar is a tragic figure. He loves his people so much that he’s willing to become a murderer to protect them. The irony is that his quest for "justice" eventually leads him to try and kill his best friend over a misunderstanding about the gold. This subplot is Morrison’s way of looking at the Black Power movements of the 60s and 70s and asking: how do you fight for your life without losing your soul?
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The Deep South and the Song Itself
When Milkman finally leaves Michigan and heads to Pennsylvania and then Virginia, the book shifts gears. It becomes a detective story. He’s not looking for gold anymore; he’s decoding a children’s rhyme.
"Jay the only son of Solomon / Come booba yalle, come booba tambee..."
He realizes the kids are singing about his own family. Every name in that nonsensical song is a piece of his genealogy. This is the "aha!" moment. He finds out that his people weren't just "Deads" from a ledger; they were the people who could fly. This realization changes his walk, his talk, and his entire perspective on life. He stops being a consumer and starts being a descendant.
Misconceptions People Have About the Book
People sometimes think this is "Magic Realism" like Gabriel García Márquez. It’s not quite that. Morrison called it "discredited knowledge." These aren't just "fantasies" to her; they are the beliefs and cultural realities of the people she grew up with. Calling it "magic" makes it sound like a trick. To the characters in the Song of Solomon novel, the spiritual world is just as tangible as the dirt under their fingernails.
Another mistake? Thinking Milkman is a traditional hero. He’s pretty unlikable for about 70% of the book. He treats Hagar, Pilate’s granddaughter, like garbage. He’s selfish. But that’s what makes his eventual "flight" so earned. He had to shed all that baggage before he could get off the ground.
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How to Actually Approach Reading This
If you’re picking up the Song of Solomon novel for the first time, don’t stress the family tree too much at the start. You’ll get lost. Just let the language wash over you. Morrison’s prose has a rhythm—a literal beat—that mimics jazz and blues.
- Pay attention to the birds. They show up everywhere. They aren't just background noise; they are signals of who is free and who is caged.
- Look at the water. Whenever Milkman is near water, something is shifting in his consciousness.
- Listen to the names. If a character has a nickname, there is a story there that usually explains their entire trauma or triumph.
The ending is famous for being ambiguous. Milkman leaps toward Guitar, who is trying to kill him. Does he fly? Does he die? Does it even matter? The point is that he finally "knew what Shalimar knew: If you surrendered to the air, you could ride it." He found a way to exist that wasn't defined by his father’s greed or the society’s hatred.
Tangible Steps for Further Exploration
If you want to go deeper into the world Morrison created, start by looking at the work of Geneviève Fabre or Henry Louis Gates Jr., who have written extensively on the "Flying African" motif. They provide the historical context of the Igbo Landing, a real event in 1803 where a group of enslaved Igbo people chose to walk into the water rather than live in chains—an event that directly inspired the myths Morrison uses.
You can also compare this novel to Morrison's other works like Beloved or Sula. While Beloved deals with the trauma of slavery directly, Song of Solomon deals with the legacy of that trauma in the modern world. It’s about how we carry our ghosts into the city.
Read the book aloud. Seriously. Even just a page. You’ll hear the music in it. Morrison wrote for the ear as much as the eye. Once you hear the "song," the whole book unlocks. It stops being a "classic" you have to read for class and starts being a map for how to find yourself when you feel like a "Dead" man walking.
To truly grasp the impact of this work, look into the 1977 National Book Critics Circle Award win, which signaled a major shift in the literary establishment's recognition of Black women's voices. Understanding the socio-political climate of the late 70s—the tail end of the Civil Rights era and the rise of a new Black middle class—will help you see why Macon Dead’s struggle with materialism was so timely. Digging into the oral traditions of the Gullah People in South Carolina will also reveal the real-world roots of the "flying" imagery that anchors the novel's climax.