Deathly Hallows

First off, let me start by saying I'm not a Harry Potter fan. Or I wasn't. Perhaps I took a highbrow (read: elitist) stance on the book, deeming the only worthy entry in the fantasy genre to be Tolkien and, perhaps, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. But not Harry Potter. I like Ondaatje, for heaven's sake! Kundera! The more I look back on it, the more I realize it really was elitism.

For starters, the foundation of my opinion on the books is based on my opinions about the movies, but that's never fair. I was also irritated that this little upstart novel from England would usurp another little upstart novel from England which, itself, was a literary phenomenon. Perhaps if Tolkien's book had been released today--in the age of cyber-technology--the word-of-mouth would have spread further and his books would have been more popular. Or, perhaps if technology in the mid-20th century was at contemporary levels (internet, email, etc...) the non-ADHD 50s generation would have been able to grasp the much denser material. Then again, maybe the technology would have caused attention spans to drop off much sooner. But that's a topic for another post. The point is, I was jealous of Rowling, and angry that she had dethroned Frodo.

So as the movies rolled by and I watched them, and sneered at the seemingly pasted-together story lines and hastily-organized characters, I shrugged with smug indignation at this bespectacled wizard as his book sales soared and soared.

But as countdown to Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows starting reaching fever pitch, I noticed I was getting excited too. Why was I excited? I had never read a single book, and was proud of the fact. Surely, this book would come and go with little to no effect on my life and I could go on, reading Tolkien every autumn (with a little Dostoevsky thrown in for good measure), thank you very much. But as the deadline loomed, I found myself getting more and more excited.

Looking back, I probably wanted to be a part of a cultural phenomenon, the way children of the 70s must have felt when they lined up to watch Star Wars, or the way I might have felt in the 60s with a button proudly pinned to my chest that read, "Frodo lives." I missed the Beatles, and I saw The Matrix on a 13-inch television/vcr combo, which is not how that movie was intended, let me tell you. But here was a chance to be a part of a real cultural movement. These are the biggest selling books in history. I could join with 325 million people on July 21st, all reading together. So I decided to read it.

And you know what? They're not that bad. Rowling may be a big fan of adverbs, and I don't agree with all her literary choices, but she has a skill for narrative. The characters are three-dimmensional, they snap and sparkle and breath. I found myself caring about what went on in these silly books. And what had seemed like random storytelling in the movies--laying down train track minutes before the train arrives--I could see was artful planning from the very begginning. I could see Rowling's plan unfolding, not by accident, but very carefully, exactly how she would want. She is a master at the literary principle of Chekhov's gun (placing a gun in act one, which we forget about until act three), and I started guessing at her master plan, trying to fit the pieces of this mystery together.

As I read through the books, I realized I was running out of time. I made the decision to read these books at the end of May. By mid-July, I had only made it through two or three of the books, and Harry's story gets longer and longer in the telling. I went on vacation in Toronto and I knew I would have to finish Order of the Phoenix before I arrived back home if I were to have any hope of finishing the series in time for the July 21st release.

And so I did. And also Half-Blood Prince. And here I am, wristband in tow, ready to walk to the neighborhood Barnes & Noble and pick up my copy (the very first I've actually purchased, actually; the others being either borrowed, or library books, or audio CDs... I ingested them in a multitude of ways and venues). In ten minutes, the doors will open and the books will fly. Dorky little children, staying up way past their proper bedtimes, will excitedly read through as many pages as they can before sleep takes them. And I'll pick mine up, avoiding the little wizards running about, and I'll take it back to the warm light of my bedroom, and I'll find out where this rabbit hole ends up. And I'll share something with several million other people for just a few short hours.