"The Hunger Games" brilliantly depicts the ruthless competition, abiding distrust of politics and intrusive, document-everything media environment that define our age. "Harry Potter" has informed our generation's morals, promoting tolerance and inclusion. But an older book, written long before we were born, best captures the shaping of our generation.
Roald Dahl's "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" has staying power. The book portrays a generation of children hardened by economic hardship, pampered and pushed by parents to make the most of a shrinking pie of opportunity. That's not just the story of British children making their way in the sluggish growth and widening inequality of the 1960s but also the story of American children growing up in the wake of the Great Recession. It resonates with our generation.
In case you haven't read the book lately, allow me to refresh your memory. Lacking an heir, eccentric chocolatier Willy Wonka decides to bequeath his massive chocolate factory to one lucky youngster. To select the winner, he employs a lottery to narrow the field: five Golden Tickets are slipped into the wrappers of Wonka bars, which in turn are opened by five very different children.
Behind each winning child is a winning trait. Augustus Gloop wins out of deep, addictive craving. Veruca Salt wins out of privilege and manipulation (she pressures her Daddy to buy up as many chocolate bars as it takes to find a ticket). Violet Beauregarde secures her ticket through all-consuming competitive drive. Mike Teavee's ticket is more of a mystery; Dahl largely leaves Mike's backstory out of the book. I wager that Mike's obsession with television implies a quest for fame; Mike desperately wants to be on TV and the Golden Ticket represents the realization of that dream. As for Charlie Bucket, we can chalk up his winning a ticket to sheer luck.
The same traits that drive each child to win a ticket also determine their fate within the factory. Augustus falls prey to his own uncontrollable urges and drinks from a river of chocolate. Violet’s ambition and previously unchallenged record of success drive her to try experimental gum despite repeated warnings; she swells like a blueberry and is sent to the Juicing Room. Veruca’s privilege leads her to think she can steal one of Wonka's trained squirrels and suffer no consequence; the squirrels band together and send the "bad nut" down the garbage chute. Mike, eager to immerse himself in his favorite medium, leaps into a television; he returns shrunken and has to be stretched like taffy before being released. Charlie’s humility and unswerving devotion to family carry him through every obstacle. For Charlie, character comes first and success comes second.
One lesson from the chocolate factory is that while particular factors—craving, privilege, competitive drive, fame-seeking and sheer luck—may be sufficient to realize tangible objectives like winning a Golden Ticket, they are not enough to achieve the ultimate prize.
To win the factory, it takes character. Charlie's success challenges "success" as we know it. He was not the loudest child, not the most privileged, not the best performer, not even the brightest or most accomplished. He had the biggest heart.
Despite, or perhaps because of, his impoverished background, Charlie understood that in life means, as well as ends, matter. He refused to compromise what he valued most in life, his family, to win a life that beckoned with a siren song of bliss, fame and glory.
Charlie’s family was poor in money but rich in love. The other children were not so lucky. Some had been starved of attention. Others had been melted down, subjected to heat and pressure, and cast in their parents’ image. They never had the chance to develop into their true selves. No wonder then that childhood tastes so bittersweet for so many. It’s no small wonder that love-starved children yearn for a Golden Ticket.
Like the children of the chocolate factory, we spend too much of our lives craving ends: shiny trophies, our next glamorous profile picture, towering collegiate architecture, prestigious careers, good-looking spouses, luxurious cars, jealousy-inducing travels, padded retirement accounts. We seem to think that the next acceptance letter, the next job offer, the next relationship will mark the summit of a new mountain of happiness. That kind of happiness is fleeting, a chocolate chip melting its momentary sweetness upon the tongue.
Just over a year ago, receiving my acceptance letter from Duke felt like winning the Golden Ticket. Up until that point in my life, I had successfully completed closed-ended assessment after closed-ended assessment—the never-ending stream of homework assignments, tests here, projects there and ultimately admission at a prestigious, big-name college. I had mastered performance whether on tests, in interviews or while leading student organizations. After I confirmed my enrollment, however, I realized that I would have to navigate an open-ended future with much more poorly defined objectives. A greater journey had begun.
The first year of that journey has revealed that college is not just a place to live and learn. It's a place to learn living. College is the place that dazzles and disorients you, exposes you to people who think differently, shakes your convictions to the core, tests your mettle and gives you a chance to reflect on what you really value and how you would like to live your life.
The lessons I have learned from the past year are not so different from the ones characters like Violet Beauregarde or Augustus Gloop learned in the chocolate factory. They are lessons about means, not ends. Crave authenticity. Learn "the art of losing.” Appreciate how lucky you are. Practice moderation. Seek novelty. Treasure those you love. Recognize that for the real victories in life, there are no Golden Tickets.
Matthew King is a Trinity Sophomore. His column will run bi-weekly in the fall.
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