Boo Radley, Phone Home

Boo Radley, Phone Home.

            This summer I read To Kill a Mockingbird again for probably the fifth time. Boo Radley made his ghostly appearance right on cue, but then took up residence in my mind. I began to feel about him as Scout did that he was, after all, a protective angel keeping quiet vigil in the corner of her life, caring without words. Then I thought about how many characters linger at the edges of our minds, stepping in at crisis moments, ushering forth heroic rescue like Boo Radley when living beings sometimes fail to offer solace or comfort or hope or inspiration.

            What would life be without literary characters? How would I survive the onslaught of life without reaching back from time to time into my reading memory for some impossible being with whom I had found connection while absorbed in a favorite book. If the voices of the characters were forever silenced, from what source would I draw my faith in life, my comprehension of what it is to be human, my understanding of empathy, compassion, in fact, the entire spectrum of emotions. Without their presence, I would not know how to breathe because they make up the essential fabric of the only religion of my life. Although they may be human once removed, the children of great minds, they exist for me with an uncanny authenticity.

            Pondering Boo Radley does not mean a permanent flight of fancy. It does not negate or replace my relationship with flesh bearing family and friends.  It enhances those relationships because being of human creation they have taught me about the human experience. It is good they are God’s second hand creation, crafted from imperfect minds serving as better angels, being more human than divine.

 Literary characters like a Greek chorus have followed me. through my life forever commenting on all matters for consideration. When overcome by too much compromise, I hear the resolution in the voice of Huckleberry Finn bolding embracing the torments of hell rather than abandoning his devotion to Jim. I recognize my own agonizing shyness in Laura as she awaits the arrival of her gentleman caller. I hear Sophie’s confession of sorrow at the prospect of losing her children in the camps and it has poignant resonance in my own life.

 I am the person who I am because of the characters with whom I have become acquainted.