The novel’s various Colt .44s symbolize the ambiguity between authenticity and inauthenticity. Though the guns (which Childan sells in his antique shop) are supposed to date from the American Civil War, they are in fact forgeries that are being manufactured in Wyndham-Matson’s shop. Many of the Colt .44s are therefore definitively inauthentic, as experts at the University of California confirm. Nevertheless, the guns still require tremendous skill and care to make; Frank Frink and Ed McCarthy, the primary fabricators of the guns, are later revealed as some of the most gifted artisans in the Pacific States. And even more crucially, the guns actually work: Tagomi has a (likely-fake) Colt .44 in his office for decorative purposes, but when he faces hostile intruders, the gun works perfectly well as a lethal weapon. The Colt .44 therefore symbolizes that something can be inauthentic (a “fake”) and yet still be real: the gun really is beautiful, and it really is effective. The presence of the Colt .44 then casts further doubt on the idea of authenticity, one of the most contentious concepts in the entire novel.
Colt .44 Quotes in The Man in the High Castle
The cipher was the metaphor type, utilizing poetic allusion, which had been adopted to baffle the Reich monitors—who could crack any literal code, no matter how elaborate. So clearly it was the Reich whom the Tokyo authorities had in mind, not quasi-disloyal cliques in the Home Islands. The key phrase, “Skim milk in his diet” referred to Pinafore, to the eerie song that expounded the doctrine, “. . . Things are seldom what they seem—Skim milk masquerades as cream.”
The Colt .44 affair had shaken [Childan] considerably. He no longer viewed his stock with the same reverence. Bit of knowledge like that goes a long way. Akin to primal childhood awakening; facts of life. Shows, he ruminated, the link with our early years: not merely U.S. history involved, but our own personal. As if, he thought, question might arise as to authenticity of our birth certificate. Or our impression of Dad.
Life is short, [Childan] thought. Art, or something not life, is long, stretching out endless, like concrete worm. Flat, white, unsmoothed by any passage over or across it. Here I stand. But no longer.