There is a definitive finality to the last words of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: "All was well" (759). This is a finality that gives a positive echo to Hamlet's last words, "The rest is silence" (Hamlet V.ii), the kind of echo that comes because the journey's result and its actual process are fully finished. The purpose of our presence in Harry's world is come, and there is no reason to remain.
And yet, the Boy Who Lived lingers like a scar, indelibly marking those who traversed the 4,100 paged odyssey. The cicatrice is, like all the best always are, a double-edged souvenir; we seem to ache as much with the ending as we thrilled with the beginning. When the first humble words--written in the singular point of view of Vernon Dursley--dribble across the page, we have little to set this story apart from the rest. In fact, the series begins rather poorly, as many of the characters commence with their contribution by being stiff antitheses to Harry himself, doing little to predict the path that we will all take together. Yet, by the time the scar ceases to bother Harry, we have become fully invested, fully involved, and almost fully satisfied by where we have been and how we got to where we are.
It is of the scar of Harry Potter (the book, not the character) that this essay treats, and it is a scar that is self-inflicted and external simultaneously. Harry Potter himself is in a similar state of inwardness and external extremes (though never to the extent of his superior literary creations, Falstaff, Rosalind, Huckleberry Finn, Captain Ahab, or--above them all--Hamlet), one whose external life scars him as much as the original doubts the eleven-year-old Harry puts on himself. As Harry grows--and we, along with him--the scar on his forehead becomes a link to something magical and dastardly. For us, the scar becomes the intense connection forged with the Chosen One, and, in turn, to the one who so chose him.
Voldemort, then, becomes the creator of our scar as much as he is of Harry's. This is metaphor, yes, but there is great potency in the metaphor, great strength in the concept of the story alone. While we watch with rapt attention to the marvel of the world and shiver at the dread that haunts Hogwarts, we find ourselves transfixed not simply because of the tropes traipsing on the page, but also because part of us has become a part of the series. The seven-way split dedication of Deathly Hallows ends like this: "...and to you, if you have stuck with Harry until the very end" (dedication page). Much as the story is split into seven--and, perhaps not unintentionally, like Voldemort's soul--the fact that we are the last reason for which the story was written gives us our own full resolution and reconciliation with the terminus of the tale. Thus the original split with which the story commences--the explosion of Voldemort's control as much as his body--is fractured again and again until at last we are at the end of the burrow (and we're given our last glimpse of the Burrow). To recast Deleuze and Guattari: "How can we enter into [Harry's world]? This work is a rhizome, a burrow. The castle has multiple entrances whose rules of usage and whose locations aren't very well known" (Kafka: Toward a Minor Literature. Delueze and Guatarri. pg. 3. 1986). The rhizome of the wizarding world has multiple entrances and exits, from King's Cross to Apparation to Port Keys to flying cars, from trains to telephone booths to thestrals to the Knight Bus. And so we pick one, we pick the chronological one--we start with the scar.
As Harry's world tunnels through time, we become heirs of what he sees. De facto Gryffindors, we gain the endless expanses of the Quidditch pitch while simultaneously narrowing our understandings to what Harry experiences. We do not see the spacious common room of Ravenclaw until it's almost too late--a gift from Luna, whose (for)giving nature is all too often ignored. While a momentary tour of the Slytherin's common room is shown, it is an illegitimate form, one stolen via fraud and Polyjuice Potion. Never, in all the years spent inside of Hogwarts, is the insignificant Hufflepuff common room visited. But the story isn't about Hogwarts, though the castle--different from the one of Kafka mentioned above, yet permanent and important nonetheless--makes for the iconic character that we most desperately wish to meet in real life. No, the story is about the Chosen One. We, like Voldemort, choose Harry Potter, we select his title from the shelf and we elect his existence. Neville Longbottom could have been the hero Harry became (or else all was fated and we never could have feared for Harry's sacrifice), but Voldemort made a separate choice. We, too, have made a separate choice, one that--we hope--in this alone mirrors the Dark Lord. But we ought to remember, Voldemort is not the only one to obsess over everything that Harry has done. By choosing Harry Potter, we agree to go along with all that will happen. By so doing, we let his presence carve out a gap in us that cannot truly be filled.
Despite the impossibility of the task, we yet cling to Harry. Movies. Games. Toys. Costumes. Theme parks. Discussions. Fan sites. Extra-canonical books. Candies. Souvenirs. Essays. Perhaps we think that, because Harry is magical--in ways above and beyond the power of his wands and incantations and mangled Latin--the impossible will unbecome itself and let us back in. We seek the Room of Requirement of hedonism and selfishness that such demands of protracted experience in Harry's world makes of us, and we do it shamelessly. We seek a balm on our own lightning shaped scar, and since the literal maker of it would do us disservice to capitulate to our demands of continuing a story that has sealed itself, we must seek the Seeker in other ways.
Surely we can return to Hogwarts. Its doors are open to us in any memory we should choose. Potter's Pensieve is before us, viewable in almost as many ways as Every Flavor Beans, and we are invited to relive each moment as often--or not--as we wish. But we all know that it can only be said once truly. Each subsequent time does not diminish the truth it says at first, but the readings mutate. Some have quite literally grown up with the boy wizard, starting their owl-free admission to Hogwarts about his same age. Then, as they matured, they watched Harry grow, too. Others, already too old for him by the time he arrived, indulged themselves a little and let childhood--and childlike wonder--claim them on their first trip on the Hogwarts Express. Others still waited until the entirety of the puzzle could be viewed--by the end in 3D--to allow themselves the wondrous injury of Harry Potter. Despite these many entrances, one can only enter once, and no other entrance gives the same formative experience. Lily protects Harry only once, and never again can Harry consider Lilly the way that children ought to consider their mothers.
It is striking that Rowling's purpose was to write the last lines of Chapter 35, "King's Cross", and for that purpose she slaved away all of those years to get to that point.1 Harry asks, “Is this real? Or has this been happening inside my head?” Dumbledore's response is telling: “Of course it is happening inside your head, but why on earth would that mean that is not real?” This is, of course, epistemic and philosophic, but, more than that, it is the great revelation of Rowling's magic. Dumbledore, ever the consummate teacher, gives these words as a final instruction to those who, like Harry has done so often in the past, silently observed the wizarding world, unable to participate. It is because it is in our heads that the stories are real. The existence of Diagon Alley need not be Plottable--we do not have to be able to enter into Ollivander's Wand Shop, in other words, to be allowed to do magic. The magic of Harry Potter is located next to everything else that we perceive, think, feel, and dream: It is inside of us.
Imagination has always been linked to our literature. The mythologies of our past societies are built upon sheer imagination. Swift-footed Achilles did not storm the physical beaches of Troy as Homer describes him, but he and his rage have burned throughout the millennia despite the "unreality" of the characters. The Muses who sang to Homer continue their inspiration, brooding over those whose imagination give them berth (and, in a sense, birth). Macbeth is slain because his imagination over-leaps reality, executing sovereign and future alike in his lust. Hamlet's greatness is expressed by himself: "I could be bounded in a nut shell and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams" (Hamlet II.ii), where the imagination of the night circumscribes the majesty of the soul. Though Harry's place in the future is rightly disputable--for though his themes are transcendent, he himself is permanently caught in the (Hor)crux between the twentieth and the twenty-first centuries; whether or not he endures additional generations remains to be seen--yet his influence on the present is undeniable. He does create magic because he creates it in the only place that can truly matter: Inside our minds.
This brings us back to the scars we bear. The complexities and continuities (and their errors) of the series lay before us, ready for additional understandings and interpretations. Much exists about Harry, so much more than can be fully apprehended. But each who participates in this odyssey of our generation and allows the internal magic of literature to have an effect will see that the lightning-shaped cicatrice marks one not as a mindless follower of the whimsy of a children's authoress, but instead that "...There is much music, excellent voice, in this little organ; yet cannot you make it speak" (Hamlet III.ii). We cannot make Harry speak; the most we can do is listen.
And yet, the Boy Who Lived lingers like a scar, indelibly marking those who traversed the 4,100 paged odyssey. The cicatrice is, like all the best always are, a double-edged souvenir; we seem to ache as much with the ending as we thrilled with the beginning. When the first humble words--written in the singular point of view of Vernon Dursley--dribble across the page, we have little to set this story apart from the rest. In fact, the series begins rather poorly, as many of the characters commence with their contribution by being stiff antitheses to Harry himself, doing little to predict the path that we will all take together. Yet, by the time the scar ceases to bother Harry, we have become fully invested, fully involved, and almost fully satisfied by where we have been and how we got to where we are.
It is of the scar of Harry Potter (the book, not the character) that this essay treats, and it is a scar that is self-inflicted and external simultaneously. Harry Potter himself is in a similar state of inwardness and external extremes (though never to the extent of his superior literary creations, Falstaff, Rosalind, Huckleberry Finn, Captain Ahab, or--above them all--Hamlet), one whose external life scars him as much as the original doubts the eleven-year-old Harry puts on himself. As Harry grows--and we, along with him--the scar on his forehead becomes a link to something magical and dastardly. For us, the scar becomes the intense connection forged with the Chosen One, and, in turn, to the one who so chose him.
Voldemort, then, becomes the creator of our scar as much as he is of Harry's. This is metaphor, yes, but there is great potency in the metaphor, great strength in the concept of the story alone. While we watch with rapt attention to the marvel of the world and shiver at the dread that haunts Hogwarts, we find ourselves transfixed not simply because of the tropes traipsing on the page, but also because part of us has become a part of the series. The seven-way split dedication of Deathly Hallows ends like this: "...and to you, if you have stuck with Harry until the very end" (dedication page). Much as the story is split into seven--and, perhaps not unintentionally, like Voldemort's soul--the fact that we are the last reason for which the story was written gives us our own full resolution and reconciliation with the terminus of the tale. Thus the original split with which the story commences--the explosion of Voldemort's control as much as his body--is fractured again and again until at last we are at the end of the burrow (and we're given our last glimpse of the Burrow). To recast Deleuze and Guattari: "How can we enter into [Harry's world]? This work is a rhizome, a burrow. The castle has multiple entrances whose rules of usage and whose locations aren't very well known" (Kafka: Toward a Minor Literature. Delueze and Guatarri. pg. 3. 1986). The rhizome of the wizarding world has multiple entrances and exits, from King's Cross to Apparation to Port Keys to flying cars, from trains to telephone booths to thestrals to the Knight Bus. And so we pick one, we pick the chronological one--we start with the scar.
As Harry's world tunnels through time, we become heirs of what he sees. De facto Gryffindors, we gain the endless expanses of the Quidditch pitch while simultaneously narrowing our understandings to what Harry experiences. We do not see the spacious common room of Ravenclaw until it's almost too late--a gift from Luna, whose (for)giving nature is all too often ignored. While a momentary tour of the Slytherin's common room is shown, it is an illegitimate form, one stolen via fraud and Polyjuice Potion. Never, in all the years spent inside of Hogwarts, is the insignificant Hufflepuff common room visited. But the story isn't about Hogwarts, though the castle--different from the one of Kafka mentioned above, yet permanent and important nonetheless--makes for the iconic character that we most desperately wish to meet in real life. No, the story is about the Chosen One. We, like Voldemort, choose Harry Potter, we select his title from the shelf and we elect his existence. Neville Longbottom could have been the hero Harry became (or else all was fated and we never could have feared for Harry's sacrifice), but Voldemort made a separate choice. We, too, have made a separate choice, one that--we hope--in this alone mirrors the Dark Lord. But we ought to remember, Voldemort is not the only one to obsess over everything that Harry has done. By choosing Harry Potter, we agree to go along with all that will happen. By so doing, we let his presence carve out a gap in us that cannot truly be filled.
Despite the impossibility of the task, we yet cling to Harry. Movies. Games. Toys. Costumes. Theme parks. Discussions. Fan sites. Extra-canonical books. Candies. Souvenirs. Essays. Perhaps we think that, because Harry is magical--in ways above and beyond the power of his wands and incantations and mangled Latin--the impossible will unbecome itself and let us back in. We seek the Room of Requirement of hedonism and selfishness that such demands of protracted experience in Harry's world makes of us, and we do it shamelessly. We seek a balm on our own lightning shaped scar, and since the literal maker of it would do us disservice to capitulate to our demands of continuing a story that has sealed itself, we must seek the Seeker in other ways.
Surely we can return to Hogwarts. Its doors are open to us in any memory we should choose. Potter's Pensieve is before us, viewable in almost as many ways as Every Flavor Beans, and we are invited to relive each moment as often--or not--as we wish. But we all know that it can only be said once truly. Each subsequent time does not diminish the truth it says at first, but the readings mutate. Some have quite literally grown up with the boy wizard, starting their owl-free admission to Hogwarts about his same age. Then, as they matured, they watched Harry grow, too. Others, already too old for him by the time he arrived, indulged themselves a little and let childhood--and childlike wonder--claim them on their first trip on the Hogwarts Express. Others still waited until the entirety of the puzzle could be viewed--by the end in 3D--to allow themselves the wondrous injury of Harry Potter. Despite these many entrances, one can only enter once, and no other entrance gives the same formative experience. Lily protects Harry only once, and never again can Harry consider Lilly the way that children ought to consider their mothers.
It is striking that Rowling's purpose was to write the last lines of Chapter 35, "King's Cross", and for that purpose she slaved away all of those years to get to that point.1 Harry asks, “Is this real? Or has this been happening inside my head?” Dumbledore's response is telling: “Of course it is happening inside your head, but why on earth would that mean that is not real?” This is, of course, epistemic and philosophic, but, more than that, it is the great revelation of Rowling's magic. Dumbledore, ever the consummate teacher, gives these words as a final instruction to those who, like Harry has done so often in the past, silently observed the wizarding world, unable to participate. It is because it is in our heads that the stories are real. The existence of Diagon Alley need not be Plottable--we do not have to be able to enter into Ollivander's Wand Shop, in other words, to be allowed to do magic. The magic of Harry Potter is located next to everything else that we perceive, think, feel, and dream: It is inside of us.
Imagination has always been linked to our literature. The mythologies of our past societies are built upon sheer imagination. Swift-footed Achilles did not storm the physical beaches of Troy as Homer describes him, but he and his rage have burned throughout the millennia despite the "unreality" of the characters. The Muses who sang to Homer continue their inspiration, brooding over those whose imagination give them berth (and, in a sense, birth). Macbeth is slain because his imagination over-leaps reality, executing sovereign and future alike in his lust. Hamlet's greatness is expressed by himself: "I could be bounded in a nut shell and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams" (Hamlet II.ii), where the imagination of the night circumscribes the majesty of the soul. Though Harry's place in the future is rightly disputable--for though his themes are transcendent, he himself is permanently caught in the (Hor)crux between the twentieth and the twenty-first centuries; whether or not he endures additional generations remains to be seen--yet his influence on the present is undeniable. He does create magic because he creates it in the only place that can truly matter: Inside our minds.
This brings us back to the scars we bear. The complexities and continuities (and their errors) of the series lay before us, ready for additional understandings and interpretations. Much exists about Harry, so much more than can be fully apprehended. But each who participates in this odyssey of our generation and allows the internal magic of literature to have an effect will see that the lightning-shaped cicatrice marks one not as a mindless follower of the whimsy of a children's authoress, but instead that "...There is much music, excellent voice, in this little organ; yet cannot you make it speak" (Hamlet III.ii). We cannot make Harry speak; the most we can do is listen.
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