We wish upon stars. We reach for them. We thank our lucky ones. We hitch our wagons to them. We're star-crossed lovers. Things are written in the stars.

Stars are as distant and mysterious as the future; they're our hopes and dreams and also the fate that does or doesn't fulfill those hopes and dreams.

Star Power

The brief star passage in "Mountaintop" encapsulates all—er, most of—these things:

Now that's a strange statement to make because the world is all messed up. The nation is sick, trouble is in the land, confusion all around. That's a strange statement. But I know, somehow, that only when it is dark enough can you see the stars. (10.1–4)

Like the Body stuff, King's star metaphor expresses a literal truth: you can't see the stars unless it's dark. Cannot indeed. But the saying is cleverer than it might appear. It couples stars, which are an archetype, with another archetype: darkness.

Quick refresher: darkness typically evokes sadness, uncertainty, and danger. And also ignorance—it's the opposite of light = knowledge. All because we can't see in the dark. That's it. It's amazing how much our language is shaped by basic facts.

Put darkness and stars together and you get this idea that you can only really see your hopes and dreams and hoped-for, dreamed-for destiny during not-so-happy times. It makes sense: when life is good, you're happy with how things are. It's when you're not happy with how things are that you start thinking, hoping, wishing they might be otherwise. Your aspirations shine brightly. Even if times are tough, there's something beautiful about that.

Nyctophilia

So Dr. K likes the feeling he gets from stargazing in the dark. As he says, "I'm just happy that God has allowed me to live in this period, to see what is unfolding" (12.2).

Maybe MLK prefers the excitement and vigor of change to the static utopian bliss of the Promised Land. Yes, that is sort of weird and counterintuitive; Dr. K himself admits it's "a strange statement" (10.1). But it also reminds us of the Christian concept of felix culpa, or "fortunate fall."

No, we're not talking about a lucky autumn. Basically, the idea is that it's good that humans fell. How could teeing off the deity ever be a good thing? Because it means we get the best of both worlds—like, two different actual worlds. According to the "fortunate fall," a dynamic (albeit painful and imperfect) life redeemed by Jesus and followed by some quality forever-time with God is even better than just hanging out in Eden the whole time would have been, sitting around for eternity in the buff being perfectly happy.

(Although that honestly sounds pretty excellent to us.)

Similarly, during his imaginary world tour, Dr. K chooses to live in a "fallen" time because it can be redeemed; he chooses a dark time because he can see the stars. And, to him, the stars aren't just blind fate: "I see God working in this period of the twentieth century" (10.5).

King believes that redemption is coming, the Promised Land is coming, and that, like so many vacations, getting there is the very best part.