And so begins my journey through the "foundational" documents of modern conservatism-- at least as I've come to understand them. This is going to be more of a popular survey than anything formal. Although I may go all the way back to Burke at some point, what I currently have on my shelf is Buckley, Sowell, Neuhaus, and more Hayek than I know what to do with.
But it starts with Buckley's first book, which apparently started to jostle conservatism out of its '40s funk, at least in the public imagination.
I purchased this in March 2009, in one of the most bizarre Amazon orders I've ever made: this, Dostoevsky, "I Got Rhythm" sheet music, "Astral Weeks", and the movie "The Fall". It was a strange time in my life.
This particular purchase was probably driven by the fact that I had just gotten the Buckley anthology, in turn driven by my reading of National Review that year, in turn driven by his death that spring, attention to which was paid due to depressing search for something to do with my life. And now it's time to get going.
(Unrelatedly, I'm typing this post on my phone. First time I've done that, but I'm hoping a new set of surroundings and habits will lift me out of a current rut. And that's my copy of the book.)
John Hancock. In the beginning, our ancestors moved to America seeking to establish a new life for themselves, securing in the most radical way possible their own liberty. The system worked for a long, long time, to the enormous benefit of those on both sides of the ocean. And the benefit was never more obvious than during the recent French and Indian War, when the contributions of the colonists won the day for the Empire. But since that moment, and the transfer of power to the new regime, we have struggled beneath a more and more oppressive yoke.
Long list of grievances:
Monetary manipulation
Foreign courts and deprivation of trial by jury
Suspending local governments
Restrictive trade rules
Encouraging an enemy state in Canada [heh]
Worst of all, for passing a a statue giving parliament the right to "make laws to bind us in all cases whatsoever," an unlimited assertion of power that cannot stand.
Our petitions have gone unheeded byt he Crown. When we resisted, the Empire responded with military coercion and force. The aggression has come to a head at the recent battles at Lexington and Concord, where the British soldiers were ultimately "compelled to retreat by the country people suddenly assembled to repel this cruel aggression." [Hells yeah]
Confiscation of arms and the establishment of martial law in Boston hasn't helped matters.
Our choice is stark: slavery, or resistance by force.
Our cause is just. Our union is perfect. Our internal resources are great, and, if necessary, foreign assistance is undoubtably attainable. We gratefully acknowledge, as signal instances of the Divine favour towards us, that his Providence would not permit us to be called into this severe controversy, until we were grown up to our present streangth, had been previously exercised in warlike operation, and possessed of the means of defending ourselves. With hearts fortified with these animating reflections, we most solemnly, before God and the world, declare, that exerting the utmost energy of those powers, which our beneficent Creator hath graciously bestowed upon us, the arms we have been compelled by our enemies to assume, we will, in defiance of every hazard, with unabating firmness and perseverence, employ for the preservation of our liberties; being with one mind resolved to die freemen rather than to live slaves.
Note: we still pledge our allegiance to the Crown, if the current difficulty can be overcome. We only fight for our rights as free men.
Patrick Henry. Basically a response to the members of the Virginia Convention who urged restraint, patience, and prudence in dealing with the English. Henry claimed that the English continually offered platitudes of concession while strenghening their grip on the colonies more and more. Worse, this pattern had continued for ten years now, with no end in sight. Worse yet, it was now obvious that the English were preparing militarily to put a stop to any colonial uprising once and for all. With any delay, English subjugation of the colonies would be permanent.
Essentially, Patrick Henry is the hawk to end all hawks, and he's had it with the doves.
Gentlemen may cry, Peace, Peace-- but there is no peace. The war is actually begun! The next gale that sweeps from the north will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms! Our brethren are already in the field! Why stand we here idle? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!
A rebuttal against the imposition of the Stamp Act on the American colonies, by member of Parliament William Pitt. I'm reading it out of order with the others because this jerk from Georgia Tech told me it happened in 1775.
Standard boilerplate arguments at this point, focusing on the injustice of imposing taxes on colonial subjects without representation, and on the economic benefits of the trade relationship on its own.
I'd skip over it completely, except this passage is amazing:
I maintain, that the parliament has a right to bind, to restrain America. Our legislative power over the colonies is sovereign and supreme. when it ceases to be sovereign and supreme, I would advise every gentleman to seel his lands, if he can, and embark for that country. When two countries are connected together, like England and her colonies, without being incorporated, the one must necessarily govern; the greater must rule the less; but so rule it, as not to contradict the fundamental principles that are common to both. If the gentleman does not understand the difference between external and internal taxes, I cannot help it; but there is a plain distinction between taxes levied for the purpose of raising a revenue, and duties imposed for the regulation of trade, for the accomodation of the subject; although, in the consequences, some revenue might incidentally arise from the latter.
It's confusing because his audience already knows what he's talking about, and I can't tell the difference between the internal and external taxes, and the difference between the revenue tax and the regulation tax, and which one he's supporting. But he seems to be saying that Parliament's power to regulate commerce in the colonies is unlimited, while its power to tax is restricted by constitutional restraints. And he's encouraging Parliament, if they must get there hands dirty in the affairs of the Americans, to do it through the legitimate regulation channels instead of the illegitimate taxation channels.
My mind is reeling.
The takeaway is that power will find whatever justification is at hand for the aggrandizement of that power. And those of us who think there are rules by which we can trust to avoid imposed mandates from our political representatives are mistaken. The game is rigged. There's always room for more.
This is a legal document, which makes it a pain in the ass to read. Essentially a listing of grievances and violations of rights, with a promise to return to peaceful and happy relations if the situation is rectified. Perhaps most important, it reiterates the need for all Legislative power within the colonies to reside within the colonies-- as once again, true represenation in Parliament is currently lacking and impossible anyway. The Crown would have the authority to dictate some international economic agreements, but that's it. Independence is on its way.
Many of the complaints worked their way into the Bill of Rights-- specifically, the quartering of soldiers, the right to a fair and local trial by jury, and the right to peaceably assemble and petition for the redress of grievances. Most complaints are referred to specific Acts of Parliament that must be redressed.
There were three acts specifically levied against the "province of Massachusetts-bay". No wonder they moved the whole thing to Philadelphia.
And again, one of the complaints was the establishment of the "Roman Catholic Religion in the province of Quebec, abolishing the equitable system of English laws, and erecting a tyranny there, to the great danger, from so great a dissimilarity of Religion, law, and government, of the neighboring British colonies by the assistance of whose blood and treasure the said country was conquered from France." Did we give Quebec back to France after the war as a consolation prize? And c'mon, guys, we mean you no harm. Simmer down.
Ben Franklin, summarizing the current state of the colonies, as an introduction to the resolution for the English public at large:
The colonists have grown accustomed to being left alone, and so appreciated the flexible arrangement with the English Crown that they had adopted many English customs and adapted to many English requests. The Stamp Act, however, ruined the comity, and the colonists responded with a general boycott. The repeal of the Stamp Act, save for the tax on tea, was met with the end of the boycott, save on tea-- and even that was expected to be resolved soon.
The imposition of the English bureaucracy in establishing this one rule, however, grew so intrusive that more forceful responses were required. An enormous black market developed whereby French and Dutch tea is drunk nearly exclusively in the colonies. The loss of benefits to the Crown are enormous-- and for what? Simply selling English tea to the colonists ought to be beneficial enough, and yet they are put upon to the breaking point.
This nation, and the other nations of Europe, may thereby learn, with more certainty, the grounds of a dissension that possibly may, sooner or later, have consequences interesting to them all.
Sam Adams:
The rights of the colonists begin with the natural rights of all men, as expressed (nearly word for word-- including the phrase "life, liberty, and property") by John Locke. Civil society is a ceding of some of these natural rights-- with the consent of the governed-- to a civil authority. And as long as men aren't complled to remain in the society against their will, this is all fine.
One of the most important natural rights that must in all cases be protected by civil society is the right to freely worship as one sees fit. (Except in the case of the Papists, of course. The problem there, apparently, is that when the religious authority excommunicated a political leader from the Church, it also forced his removal from civil office. This cannot stand. [I agree.])
The civil leaders work for the people. They are very much like employees. So the greatest injustice is done when one of these leaders aggrandizes himself financially or by usurping additional power, and thereby establishes tyranny. He would do this thinking is has some special ability to exert civil authority that the entire remainder of the public lacks. He is mistaken-- many, many others could do the job well. There is no shortage of decent representatives.
This grand agreement has been codified in the Magna Charta for centuries.
In the case of the American colonies, they of course possess all the natural rights of man. And this includes the right to establish for their own society a Legislative power-- including the restriction that the Legislature "has no right to absolute, arbitrary power over the lives and fortunes of the people."
Given all this, the British House of Commons can have no legitimate authority over the colonists. First, the colonists are not currently represented there. And second, it is impossible that they could be properly represented there. The population is too large for the tiny representation the House would be willing to allow. Moreover, "[h]ad the Colonists a right to return members to the British Parliament, it would only be hurtful; as, from their local situation and circumstances, it is impossible they should ever be truly and properly represented there." The situation, then, is ripe for abuse, and treachery. "The Colonists have been branded with the odious names of traitors and rebels only for complaining of their grievances. How long such treatement will or ought to be borne, is submitted."
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The Revolution is already baked into the cake. There is no getting around it.
The English bureaucracy charged with enforcing the Stamp Act/Tea Act are the SEC and EPA rolled into one.
It is still true that the Legislature "has no right to absolute, arbitrary power over the lives and fortunes of the people." But it apparently has the power to tax to its heart's content, so long as it remains representative. Sigh.
The word Papists makes me giggle every time I see it.
The language is exceedingly polite, and the entire argument is delivered explicitly from their recognized status as subjects of the British Crown. C'mon guys, flip the king the bird!
The seeds of independence are already sown, however, as they hint that representation in Parliament is nigh impossible.
That the people of these colonies are not, and from their local circumstances cannot be, represented in the House of Commons in Great Britain.
Even this early, all of the arguments are couched in terms of securing the "rights and liberties" to which they are entitled. Idle thought: have we gone astray by bleating about freedom all the time instead of liberty? "Freedom" has the connotation, for me at least, of a bird in flight, entirely unbound. This is the image attached to FDR's invocation of positive rights: freedom from "the economic fears of old age, sickness, accident, and unemployment." "Liberty", on the other hand, connotes self-direction, but makes no promises against the entirely natural slings and arrows of life. "Pursuit of happiness" indeed. These guys were good.
I like the argument that the Crown was already profiting enormously from their trade with the colonists, and that any taxation on that commerce would only lessen the benefits already enjoyed. The Laffer curve lives!
I added this to my reading list when I first decided to make this a universal human knowledge project, and not simply a human literature project. Philosophy selections will be thrown in for the same reason.
It's also important for me to read this because I want to better understand Picture This by Joseph Heller when I finally get back to it. That book was amazing, and it would probably be even more amazing if I knew exactly what went on between the Athenians and the Spartans.
Thucydides was also prominently mentioned in the discussions of Grand Strategies: Literature, Statecraft, and World Order by Charles Hill, interviewed on several of my favorite podcasts last year. It seemed a worthwhile commentary on the things I've been reading, and the Peloponnesian War is the basis of the rest of the historical comparisons in that book.
I purchased my copy at the same time I purchased Hill's book in early 2011-- at the time, I thought it was a pressing purchase. I chose the translation by Steven Lattimore, son of Richmond Lattimore, who I used for Homer.
But I was so impressed with the Landmark Herodotus, that I've also borrowed the Landmark Thucydides from the Mount Prospect Library. If nothing else, it's maps should be helpful as I orient my mental space toward the battle action. And I started by reading its appendices, which give a nice background to the political and cultural, and military life in which Thucidydes lived and wrote and in which the war was fought.
I don't know if I'll be keeping detailed notes or if it will follow the patterns of the Herodotus. I've got a little more time to finish this, so we shall see.
And it only took just under a year. This whole thing is going to take much longer than I thought if I don't get a move on.
I'll be doing some re-reads of some of the non-Thebian Sophocles from a collection of Roche translations I picked up-- just once through to get the flavor of the plays from language I've come to appreciate.
But in the meantime, I need a break from Greek tragedy. So on to the Peloponnesian War!
A storm rises, and Oedipus recognizes that the end of his life is at hand. He calls for Theseus to fulfill one last task. The Chorus is terrified that the wrath of the gods might befall them at last.
Instead, Oedipus grants protection to Theseus and his city if his instructions are carried out. Theseus must follow Oedipus to his final resting place, but keep its location a secret. They leave with Antigone and Ismene for the final journey, with Oedipus leading the way.
The Chorus sing a song of requiem, and of praise to Hades and Persephone, gods of the underworld.
A messenger arrives to describe the final actions. They walked to the very entrance of the underworld itself. Oedipus said his final goodbyes and granted his daughters to the protection of the city of Colonus. Then the gods called him home, a final step witnessed only by Theseus. It was a peaceful passing.
The girls arrive, devastated. Antigone, especially, does not wish to go on with her life, and wishes instead to follow her father to death itself. Ismene reminds her that it is impossible. Theseus will not budge and will keep the secret as instructed. Antigone resolves, then, to return to Thebes and do what she can to protect her brothers, an act of Love that flows from her father's own love for her.
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Oedipus has said what needed to be said in his life, and goes truly at peace. So it is with Sophocles.
Oedipus clamors for the protection of Theseus, who denounces Creon for flouting the laws and customs of the city he has entered. Creon throws it back at him, denouncing Theseus for harboring such an awful, twisted man as Oedipus-- simultaneously gladhanding Theseus for his city's stellar reputation, now at risk. Oedipus can't take it, and once again protests his innocence. He cannot be guilty of wrongdoing if all the events were fated, if he was unaware that it was his father who he killed and his mother who he married, and if anyone in his position, knowing what he knew, would have been justified in doing the same. Theseus sends Creon away, along with a party to retrieve Antigone and Ismene, and threatens Creon with further reprisal if he interferes, or if his co-conspirators don't cooperate.
The Chorus describe the hunt in song, praising the gods of Athens who aid the effort.
The girls are returned to their father, and Oedipus praises Theseus again, almost embarrassed at his devotion. Theseus tells him he is welcome again, then leaves to take care of urgent but mysterious business. A stranger from Thebes has arrived to speak with Oedipus, who recognizes immediately that his son is here to draw him back to the family conflict, again in fulfillment of the prophecy. He greatly desires not to have that conversation, but Antigone convinces him to give his estranged son another chance.
Polynieces enters, bemoaning his father's reduced state. But down to business. Polynieces was driven from the city by his younger brother Eteocles. He then raised an army to take the city back. He is asking Oedipus to join him to ensure that justice-- the rights of the older brother-- may be established. Oedipus finally gets to respond to his son, an opportunity he has been waiting for for many years, and he takes full advantage [and it's awesome]:
You trustees of this realm,
since Theseus sent him here
and asked me to reply, I will.
Nothing less would let him hear my voice.
But now he shall be graced with it
in accents that will bring him little joy.
Liar!
When you held hte scepter and the throne
which your brother at the moment holds in Thebes,
you drove me out,
drove this your father out,
displaced me from my city.
You are the reason for these rage--
rages that make you cry to see,
now that you have reached rock bottom too.
The season for condolences is past.
What I must bear must last as long as life,
last in my thoughts of you as my destroyer.
Oh yes, it's you that dragged me down!
You expelled me, you arranged
that I should beg my daily bread.
But for my two girls
I should not even be alive if left to you.
It's they who tend me, they preserve me.
They are the ones who play a man's and not a woman's part.
But you, you and your brother-- bastards--
are no sons of mine.
The eye of Fate is on you now.
Her glance is mild to what it soon shall be
if once your armies march on Thebes.
Never shall you topple down that city.
Instead, you'll trip up headlong into blood,
your brother too,
spattering each other.
Long ago I cursed you both,
and now once more I summon up those curses,
let them battle for me.
Let them teach you reverence
for those that gave you birth.
Let them teach you what contempt is worth
of an eyeless Father
who had such worthless sons.
My daughters did not treat me so.
Therefore, if Justice is still seated
side by side with Zeus
in ancient and eternal sway,
I consign to perdition
your sanctimonious supplications
and your precious throne.
So, leave my sight. Get gone and die:
you trash-- no son of mine.
Die,
with these my curses
ringing in your ears:
Never to flatten your motherland beneath your spear,
Never to set foot again in Arvgive's vales,
Instead you die,
die by a brother's blow
and make him dead by yours
who drove you out.
That's my prayer for you.
I summon the pitchy gloom of Tartarus
to gulp you down
to a new paternal home.
I summon the holy spirits of this place.
I summon Ares the Destroyer,
who whirled you into hatred and collision.
With these imprecations in your ears, get out.
Go publish them in Thebes.
Go tell your bellicose and trusty champions
the will and testament
That Oedipus bequeaths to his two sons.
The Chorus suggests that Polynieces leave.
Polynieces is devastated. He'll be destroyed by his own army if they learn the truth. He begs his sisters to take care of his grave when he inevitably loses his life. Antigone asks that he not return to the war at all, but his sense of honor demands that he go back. He makes her promise again to take care of his grave. Polynieces exits.
Ismene remains silent.
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The plot is an interesting retrospective on Oedipus's life. Characters enter, say their peace, and leave. It allows Oedipus to say what must to said to each. The structure, actually, calls to mind The Dark Knight Returns, in that individual villains enter, are dealt with, and then Batman moves on to the next.
Tried to find a good performance of Oedipus cursing out Polynieces. It doesn't appear to have been a part of The Gospel of Oedipus. There was one made-for-TV version from the '80s that didn't seem to capture the moment very well. But there was also this:
The Chorus wants to hear Oedipus's tragic story from the source himself. He doesn't want to talk. He gives the details little by little, and the Chorus is horrified, but he also insists once again that he is no sinner. He additionally confirms that he killed his father Laius, but is innocent of wrongdoing here as well.
Theseus arrives to play let's make a deal-- he has some pity and respect for Oedipus. Oedipus asks that he be protected and buried in Athens. He knows his sons are coming to carry him back to Thebes, but he will not go with them-- not after they banished him while he desired to remain. He knows they are only coming at the urging of an oracle that Oedipus will help them in battle. Oedipus is offering to remain in Athens and so to aid them in battle against Thebes. Theseus finds this silly. There is peace between the cities! But Oedipus explains that all peace is fleeting in the affairs of men. Theseus is happy to oblige Oedipus, but Oedipus begs him to swear an oath for his protection. Done.
Chorus sings the praises of Athens.
Creon arrives to force Oedipus back to Thebes. [He speaks with a nastiness uncharacteristic of him in Oedipus the King, but all too characteristic in Antigone.] Oedipus curses him out for his duplicity. The fight, and Oedipus laughs that he has the protection of all Athens behind him. So Creon changes tactics and seizes the girls Antigone and Ismene instead. Caught completely off guard, the Chorus begs for help. No one saw this coming.
Words exchanged between the men of Thebes and the men of Athens. Creon: "Then it's Thebes and Athens on the battlefield." Oedipus gets a little too excited that his prediction from six pages earlier was correct. Oedipus loses hold of Antigone, his only guide through his dark wanderings. Creon sticks around to put down Oedipus one last time, but when he turns back the men have taken Antigone away and Creon himself is surrounded by the Athenians. He's screwed.
Creon makes one last lunge at Oedipus, but the Athenians hold him back. Theseus arrives with backup.
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More and more, Oedipus is proclaiming his innocence of any wrongdoing. It's a respectable defiance in the face his fate, in a way.
Well, Chesterton is right. Wells's utopia is utterly absurd and entirely unpracticeable. The specific criticism Chesterton had of all utopian dreams was that they "take the greatest difficulty of man and assume it to be overcome, and then give an elaborate account of the overcoming of the smaller ones." In this case, Wells explains the administering of a one-world State without ever explaining how the entire population submitted to the State. He describes the running of a world-class railroad without every addressing by what motivation any group of men actually designed, financed, and physically built the track.
(This insouciance concerning all economic matters, of course, drove me nuts throughout the book. It is not possible for the State to provide to all the people the high standard of living they desire. It must be worked for, and the motivation for that work must come from within. Societies have tried to build a socialist utopia. It don't work.)
Wells does mention the troublesome people who might get in the way of his single-State dream world. But he always dismisses the problem of dealing with them-- either through banishment or, in the case of young undesireables, through death. Simple!
In this, as far as I've gleaned from my other political readings, he typically reflects the views of the early-20th century progressives-- and their sentiments survive in the big-government impulses on the liberal side of the aisle today. (I gotta read Liberal Fascism.)
But the biggest hole in the tale of Utopia is the lack of personal interaction with its residents. There are maybe a total of four conversations with the citizens of Utopia. One is with the narrator's double, in which he learns the rules of the samurai (we must know how the elites behave!), two are with the innkeeper and the government bureaucrat, who are more confused about the narrator's situation than anything else, and the last is with the fellow-traveller who the narrator dismisses as a raving lunatic. That lunatic was simply not happy with the administration of the State, and the narrator pooh-poohed him for it. But surely in the entire world there must be millions who are unhappy with their lives and the way things are. Once again, the simple matter of disagreement-- which surely forms the central difficulty of political life-- is unacknowledged, unaddressed, unsolved. But they've got cool trains, and the fares are free!
The botanist companion leans a little more to the realistic side, however, in that he obsesses over the woman who broke his heart-- even in Utopia, he can't let it go. This will be a source of conflict in any world built by man. And the narrator is exasperated by the botanist's inability to get with the program. Sorry dude, you're just gonna have to to deal with it.
What I can't tell is to what extent the narrator's positions and attitudes are Wells's own. He does give a warning at the outset that the narrator is a fictional character, and when the dream of the Utopia dissolves we are left seeing the narrator as an angry character living in dirty London. But the design of the Utopia can only be a reflection of the author's desires, I think, even if he'd like to hide it.
Appendix
An essay on the limits of philosophy discovered by Wells's coming to logic after having learned evolutionary biology. The crux of his problem is that he does not believe in the objectivity of universals-- all categories are fuzzy, subjective, provisional, and imposed on the world by the human mind. This calls into question most of logic itself, as syllogism only works if categorical statements are possible. Problem number two is the tendency of the mind to take the negation of an idea and turn the negation itself into a positiveidea for the purpose of logical analysis. And problem number three is our tendency to only pay attention to certain aspects of our disparate ideas when drawing comparisons between them. Put this all together and you get the impossibility of moral reasoning. And moral argument becomes an argument over mere aesthetic preference, with no proper or superior standard of judgment at all.
But does Wells know any of this? Clearly not, by his own lights. Materialistic philosophy eats itself whole.
My conclusion: If positivistic materialism conflicts with genuine human experience, so much the worse for materialism. And everyone believes this, no matter how "rational" they claim to be.
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Incidentally, this is the first entry in the blog I read entirely from a Kindle edition. I've decided that's an acceptable format for quick reads, especially for referred works that aren't classics in and of themselves.
Oedipus, old and feeble, wanders with his daughter Antigone. They come upon a town of Athens and ask a passerby their current location. He first chastises them for spoiling the holy ground of the Eumenides [?]-- the "Kindly Ones". At this, Oedipus senses he is at his journey's end. The passerby explains they are in Colonus, ruled by King Theseus. Oedipus asks to speak to some of the townspeople, and the citizen departs.
Alone with Antigone, Oedipus tells of the secret prophecy that he would end his life in a place such as this.
A group of townspeople-- the Chorus-- approaches Oedipus and scolds him for spoiling the holy ground. Antigone helps him outside of the sacred boundary, where he converses with the Chorus. They ask his name, but he is hesitant to make it known. Finally, he mentions Laius, and the Chorus recognize him as the wretched, cursed Oedipus-- and instantly want to banish him from their land. Antigone pleads his case and asks for pity on what is now simply a broken old man. The Chorus demures, and Oedipus stands up for himself-- in the intervening years he has gained some perspective on the horrible fate that befell him. The Chorus is content to allow the city's leader to come and decide what to do.
Oedipus's other daughter Ismene suddenly arrives. She is happy to see her father and sister-- they have had contact over the intervening years-- but brings disturbing news out of Thebes. Both of Oedipus's sons are jealous of Creon's control over the city, and are at war with him and with each other for the throne. The younger Eteocles is in power while the elder Polyneices prepares an army for invasion. They also have an oracle saying Oedipus will return to hand the power of the city to one of them once and for all. Oedipus is incensed-- fie on that! He curses them both. Moreover, he's not too pleased with the whole city of Thebes either. After his initial despair when he blinded himself, he actually got used to the fate that he had been dealt and was somewhat ready to move on. At that moment, the city banished him while his sons sat by and did nothing.
So Oedipus is done with Thebes, and is willing to belong to the city of Colonus now. The Chorus explains a rite of purification he must perform for trespassing on the holy ground, and the prayer he must say to the Eumenides. Ismene performs the rite for him.
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Very dramatic, formal, and ceremonial so far. The action might pick up, but it is certainly a more mellow narrative than Sophocles's earlier works.
The knock on Christianity is its sordid history of sin and crime. But there is nothing in that sin and crime unique to Christianity. All human institutions have histories riddled with crime, for crime is what happens when humans cling to their strongly held views and try for them to win the day. The worst offender in theis arena is the State itself, the inventor of all the tools of torture.
The difference is that Christianity acknowledges its sin. Its tale of its own origin, in fact, originates in human sin. That sin is the starting point on which the edifice of redemption is built. Unlike many other institutions, Christianity at least offers a remedy for sin.
The rationalists, on the other hand, offer only one solution to the state of humanity: the denial of any personal responsibility for any action at all. Taken in full, this solution will ruin all of human experience. For while it absolves the wrongdoer from any responsibility for wrongs done, it also excludes the good man from any responsibility for virtuous acts. Moreover, the adoption of the materialist philosophy contradicts itself almost instantly:
[A]lthough people ought not to be blamed for their actions... they ought to be trained to do better. They ought, he said, to be given better conditions of heredity and environment, and then they would be good, and the problem would be solved. The primary answer is obvious. How can one say that a man ought not to be held responsible, but ought to be well trained? For if he "ought" to be well trained, there must be somebody who "ought" to train him. And that man must be held responsible for training him. The proposition has killed itself in three sentences.
Even if it fell to some to set up conditions to make all others virtuous there is not a soul who can tell you what the correct, perfect conditions would be. And the reason is simple enough: the proper Utopia could only be built by perfect men. Where are they?
But the attitude is even more sinister than this. If the rationalist thinks it is up to the upper class to build a society to repair the sin arising out of the lower class, what does this imply? Obviously, that the lower class is morally deficient, incapable of exercising virtue. What a wicked thought. We know that virtue is available to all men-- at times, the knowledge that he is still capable is all that will keep a man going under difficult circumstances. And now the rationalist wants to take away even that hopeful thought, by telling him he bears no responsibility. "So pants this strange comforter, from cell to cell."
Such a philosophy will never last. In time, men will cast it aside in favor of the philosophy that treats them their freedom as men. Christianity correctly offers that philosophy.
The silliest argument against Christianity is ridicule its claimed miracles, or to suggest that a belief in miracles is contradicted by modern science. Miracles are by definition rare events, and it is not obvious at all that the laws of nature could not produce them in rare circumstances. The real miracle, one not noticed by the rationalists, is the continued existence of things. Their philosophy cannot begin to contemplate such an occurence as this.
Moreover, the use of a concept like a "law of nature" is no kind of explanation at all, but merely an analogous reference to a more familiar item of experience: a law of Parliament. If we are free to choose from among familiar experience in our explanation of the world, the Christian prefers a much richer item to use as an analogy: an act of will. The world emerges from the Father's will in the same way an earthly father begets his offspring. And this is a much richer source for an analogy, as the potential works of this will are much more varied and marvellous than anything a mere law could ever produce.
The current fashion of materialism is just that: mere fashion. Fie on that. It is no argument to say a rational modern judge could not be convinced of Christianity.
But it does not seem to occur to [Blatchford] that we Christians may not have such an extravagant reverence for English judges as is felt by Mr. Blatchford himself.
The experiences of the Founder of Christianity have perhaps left us in a vague doubt of the infallibility of courts of law.
[Burn.]
And it would be silly for the different religions to deny one another's miracles. Signs and wonders are a universal feature of human experience. The arguments among religions concern doctrine, of course. The vital question is whether a religion has a "true philosophy of the Universe."
--------------------------
At first I read this as just a boring repetition of the fallacy of inductive reasoning, but it's way deeper than that. It's especially interesting that the vaunted "laws of nature" that the rationalist subscribed to were about to be overturned wholesale by quantum physics.
Odysseus arrives, and Philoctetes is enraged: he recognizes that Odysseus has been manipulating Neoptolemus the whole time. Odysseus binds Philoctetes to bring him back to Troy, all the while claiming innocence, as he is only following the will of Zeus in taking the bow. Philoctetes proclaims that he could defy the gods if he wants-- man is free, after all! No dice. In desperation, he threatens to throw himself from the cliff rather than return with Odysseus-- a final defiant free act. Odysseus holds him back. Philoctetes throws all of Odysseus's actions back in his face: Philoctetes was brave in joining the war in the first place, while Odysseus was shifty and two-faced about it. Also, Odysseus had marooned Philoctetes due to his horrible foot wound-- an issue that has not gotten any better, yet he now wants to drag Philoctetes back against his will. Well, the hell with that.
Odysseus decides to leave Philoctetes on the island, since he now has the bow anyway. [This is more trickery. He knows he needs Philoctetes himself, but is trying to play reverse psychology with the threat of abandonment. He'll be back later.] He takes Neoptolemus away and leaves the Chorus soldiers to watch Philoctetes and see if he at last changes his mind.
Philoctetes is despondent again, as he has no hope of surviving alone on the island. He tries to work the Chorus to his side, as they try to convince him to come to Troy. But finally, he resolves to kill himself if they will leave him a weapon. He will join his father and ancestors in the afterlife.
Back at the boat, Neoptolemus demands the bow from Odysseus, as he has resolved to undo his own unjust actions:
N: I go to undo the wrong that I have done.
O: A strange thing to say! What wrong was that?
N: I did wrong when I obeyed you and the Greeks.
O: What did we make you do that was unworthy?
N: I practiced craft and treachery with success.
O: On whom? Would you do some rash thing now?
N: Nothing rash. I am going to give something back.
O: What? I am afraid to hear what you will say.
N: Back to the man I took it from, this bow.
O: You cannot mean you are going to give it back.
N: Just that. To my shame, unjustly, I obtained it.
...
N: It was a sin, a shameful sin, which I shall try to retrieve.
O: Have you no fear of the Greeks if you do this?
N: I have no fear of anything you can do,
when I act with justice; nor shall I yield to force
Neoptolemus returns the bow to Philoctetes (if only to give him a chance of survival) after much prodding for him to take it-- there's a bit of a trust issue here. Odysseus tries to forbid it, and Philoctetes attempts to strike him down, but Neoptolemus puts a stop to it. Having finally earned his trust, though, Neoptolemus tries once more to convince Philoctetes to come to Troy. First, he explains that Philoctetes' agonizing pain is due to his intrusion on sacred ground, and he does not deserve relief. Then he explains that relief can come only one way, by telling whole prophecy through which the two of them will together finally win the war. Philoctetes won't have it. They argue back and forth, but in the end Neoptolemus agrees to bring Philoctetes back to Greece, as originally promised. Philoctetes promises to protect Neoptolemus there from any revenge the Greeks seek against him. Penance complete. Yippee!
Heracles shows up (?!) and explains the true necessity of them both returning to Troy to finish the war together. Philoctetes will be cured, will kill Paris, and will be honored as a hero. Neoptolemus will be by his side, and will survive and flourish as long as he stays holy in the sight of Zeus. Philoctetes finally agrees to fulfill his fate, and leaves for the war.
----------------------------
Closest thing to a happy ending I'm likely to see, probably.
The introduction mentioned the Deus ex machina ending. Sophocles was a hack, apparently.
I like the moral development apparent in the play. Sophocles seems to have concluded that morality is not simply the following of the gods' commands, but is following what is right, whether the gods command it or not. There are objectively good and bad actions regardless of special circumstances, and Neoptolemus ultimately chose to do the right thing. Meanwhile, Odysseus was kind of a sociopath.
On the other hand, in the end the command of the proper kind of authority was enough to get Philoctetes to do what he vowed he would not do. Heracles does command the respect and obedience of Philoctetes, no matter what the command is. But that must only be because Heracles is himself such a moral figure, perhaps worthy of an honor and station even greater than the capricious and untrustworthy Zeus.
A sailor arrives to pass on Odysseus's cover story. Pretending that Neoptolemus had fled from Troy, he says he has been sent by Menelaus and Agamemnon to bring him back to battle. Odysseus would be fetching him himself, execpt that he is in the middle of a different search: to find Philoctetes. Neoptolemus isn't happy with this story, as he is losing his nerve to do what he had been ready to do. After dropping the news, the sailor heads back.
Philoctetes is pleased at his opportunity to revenge. His attitude: "Screw 'em all, let's hop on the boat and head home for Greece!" But Neoptolemus is hesitant, and tries to delay because of the weather. But he steels himself and is ready to go. Philoctetes gathers up his few possessions-- including the bow of Heracles, now much admired by Neoptolemus.
The Chorus again laments the horrible fate that has befallen Philoctetes. They point out [and this is new] that he never did anything to deserve the terrible physical pain and abandonment he has experienced. [This might be unique among the Greek tragedy characters up to this point.]
Suddenly, a wave of pain shoots through Philoctetes-- an intermittent additional suffering he must occasionally put up with, he explains. He is more afraid, though, that the spectacle will cause Neoptolemus to leave him, so he downplays it as best he can. In the meantime, he hands over the bow for safekeeping. As the pain grows, though, he asks for Neoptolemus to end it all: to burn his body in the same way Philoctetes burned Heracles's body when he was in similar pain from the poisoned shirt-- the very act that won him the bow in the first place. Neoptolemus promises to stay with him, and the pain gradually subsides, dropping Philoctetes into an exhausted sleep.
Now it is decision time for Neoptolemus and his crew. They have the bow, and the Chorus is urging that they run off with it. Neoptolemus feels the obligation to rescue Philoctetes from his abandonment. For the moment, though, they're more worried that Philoctetes will hear them discussing it.
He awakes, and is ready to go-- and Neoptolemus is ready to take him! But at the very last minute, he hesitates again: "Now is the moment. What shall I do from now on?" Philoctetes is begging him again, but sees the betrayal coming. Neoptolemus explains that it's not even as simple as that. The real problem is that, if he rescues Philoctetes, he won't be taking him home to Greece at all, but will head right back to the war with Troy and the hated Odysseus, Agamemnon, and Menelaus. To Philoctetes, this is far worse than before-- and now Neoptolemus refuses to return the bow, condemning Philoctetes to a lonely, hungry death on the island.
-------------------------
This is horrible.
The tragic figure here turns out to be Neoptolemus, pulled by conflicting duties in at least three directions: to the war, to his promises to Philoctetes, to making sure Odysseus gets what is really coming to him. There's no way out.
I'm glad Sophocles mentioned that Philoctetes hadn't done anything to deserve his fate. It's a good reminder to an audience who sees most characters as bringing their burdens onto themselves. And it may have been a necessary reminder, too, if they weren't paying attention.
There's a clearer indication here of the problems inherent in Odysseus's "cleverness"-- called strategem throughout this translation. Philoctetes laments most of all that he was betrayed in this way. That's the problem. He is OK with perishing through the searing pain-- that is the natural way of things. He would be OK with being bested in battle-- that is one man using natural gifts toward their natural end. But the use of cleverness and guile in such a twisted way is despicable. It is a perversion of the natural goodness of man's gift of intelligence. Nothing could be worse.
One other neat little thing: the conversation between Neoptolemus and the sailor sent by Odysseus is a great example of dramatic irony. They're both using cover stories, keeping Philoctetes in the dark, while Neoptolemus is simultaneously expressing his disgust over the whole charade. Now where have I seen that before?
Thesis: George Costanza is a modern day Odysseus. "It's not a lie, if you believe it."
Odysseus arrives with Neoptolemus, son of slain Achilles, on the island where Philoctetes has been marooned for nine years. He had been hurt on is foot, bitten by a poisonous serpant. The pain was so great, putting him in such great agony, that his wailing was becoming a drag on the Greek parties outside of Troy. Menelaus and Agamemnon instructed Odysseus to maroon him.
Now, Odysseus is back to try to win Philoctetes prized possession, a bow that once belonged to Heracles. The bow is necessary to win the siege of Troy. Odysseus instructs Neoptolemus to win the bow away from Philoctetes by tact and by cunning. Neoptolemus balks at the trickery, but Odysseus explains that he cannot win it back himself, that the bow is needed for Neoptolemus himself to win the final battle, and that Neoptolemus will be doubly revered back at the camp if he succeeds. The sweet-talking works. Odyssues also sets up a back-up plan: if too much time passes, he will send another sailor in disguise to try another tack. Odysseus returns to the boat.
With additional soldiers in support (playing the Chorus), Neoptolemus waits for Philoctetes to appear. They here a cripple coming back to the cave-dwelling, and are shocked by the wretched life he must lead. Philoctetes arrives and questions the strangers. Neoptolemus introduces himself-- they've never met before, he coming late to the war. Philoctetes expounds on his own circumstances and curses Agaememnon, Menelaus, and Odysseus as he tells of his marooning and his subsequent terrible life. He tells of visitors who take pity on him and leave food and supplies, but none will take him home. The Chorus is moved to pity.
Neoptolemus explains further his own situation. He tells of his anger at Odysseus, which is the story Odysseus instructed him to tell-- though it is not at all clear that the anger isn't genuine. After Achilles' death, he expected to receive his father's armor, but it was given to Odysseus instead. He, too, [says he] hates Agamemnon, Menelaus, and Odysseus with a burning passion.
Philoctetes is confused by the power-play, but Neoptolemus explains that Ajax was not around to stop it-- he's dead. Along with Antilochus and Patroclus. The group laments that war seems to take the best and brightest, while letting the devious like Odysseus to live. Philoctetes also asks of the fate of Thersites [?], who seems to be still alive.
Neoptolemus is ready to go, but Philoctetes begs him for passage off the island. Literally begs. The Chorus, moved once again, assents to his request. Neoptolemus is moved as well, and agrees. Philoctetes is overjoyed.
But one of the sailors from back on the boat arrives in disguise, presumably sent by Odysseus.
---------------------------
I'm not doing justice to the emotional impact of the conversations so far. Philoctetes horrible fate is genuinely moving, and as the play progresses we can see the effect he has on the other characters. Neoptolemus and the Chorus were not planning at all to rescue Philoctetes from the island, but in meeting him they felt they had no choice. It was the only decent thing to do. And we can sense Neoptolemus is turning on Odysseus little by little.
Speaking of, Odysseus's cleverness is far more pronouned in this play than it has been in his other appearances, it seems to me. I never got the sense in the Iliad that it was all that impressive, except that Homer kept saying that it was. In the Odyssey, I just looked at him as playing the hero. But here, his deviousness has taken on a much more sinister quality. So far, it looks like Odysseus is the villain.
This is a consequence, I think, of Sophocles vastly different attitude toward war than that of Homer. Where Homer praised war-making qualities, Sophocles is much more focused on the tragic consequences of war-- the experience of the Greeks in the previous century would probably do that to a guy. Therefore, those who excel at war so successfully can't actually be all that great. And so we see Odysseus about to royally screw what appears to be a noble gesture.
Two facts of note: First, Christianity rose and spread within a very modern world, in that the Romans had a highly developed rational philosophy. But it spread anyway. Second, the Christian world advanced by leaps and bounds beyond the non-Christian world.
Secularists ridicule what they see as central contradictions at the core of Christian belief, but we should examine the nature of the contradiction. The easiest way to avoid contradiction in belief is to proclaim agnosticism, but it is entirely unworkable. As a practical matter, simply to get through the day, we must commit ourselves to one philosophy or to another. If nothing else, we must decide to hold or not to hold others responsible for their actions. The secularist tries to deny free will, but knows that he must behave in everyday life as if it were real. Why can we not ridicule that contradiction, lived every day? Whereas a Christian who professes free will recognizes the difficulty in the position, sees no other way, embraces the contradiction, calls it mystery-- and puts it at the center of his life. Can we not respect the honesty? Especially considering that that philosophy has all the success.
Alternatives: We can respect the beautiful natural world as our creator, but at some point we will ask, then why not go to war as the birds do? Or we can recognize that problem, throw up our hands, and call the universe absurd. Then why continue to try to make our way through the world, assert ourselves against that universe?
Or, we can appreciate the birds as birds while we recognize man as man, with all the baggage and difficulty that comes with that declaration. And as we do so, we can proclaim that the God who made the birds birds Himself became man. And we will know we have solved the dilemma, even as the new path is full of contradiction.
Finally, the whole secularist program actually reaffirms Christian theology. While they proclaim the march of progress, progress can only be recognized as a movement toward a higher state. But actually recognizing a higher state as being higher requires an overall orientation that a barren universe does not provide. The Christian story of the Fall leading to the Resurrection, on the other hand, is the template of against which all progress is judged. The concept of a good human nature that can either be fallen short of or successfully pursued requires, at some point, the reality of that good state.
Four arguments are typically given, and specifically offered by Robert Blatchford, for the rejection of Christianity as false and absurd. But the critical facts cited wihin each argument can just as easily buttress a sincere belief in Christianity.
1. The legend of a divine savior is common among many ancient and contemporary cultures, and is not unique to Christianity. Answer: This does not suggest the impossibility of a divine savior, but rather that human existence is aimed toward its own redemption by a divine savior. Just as a long and varied pedigree of tales of love and tales of revenge do not suggest the absurdity of such a thing as love and revenge, but instead highlight the centrality of such emotions and actions to genuine human existence.
2. Ascetic devotion to Christianity abandons its practitioners to a barren existence empty of other human pleasures. Answer: It certainly must be a powerfully attractive force that would draw the absolute attention of its devotees in such a way as this. In a crasser, but parallel example, we recognize that the destruction caused by alcoholism is due to the powerful hold the drink has on the drinker. We don't conclude from the addiction that the alcoholic is hallucinating his own intake of drink, but that the feeling of drunkenness is entirely, frightfully real.
3. Commitment to religious tenets has produced terrible war, abject suffering, and the worst forms of cruelty. Answer: Humans being what they are, our worst offenses always emerge out of our attempts to protect what we love best-- nearly every murder and robbery in history is undertaken in pursuit of a "noble" goal, and human religion cannot be immune from the flaws of humanity. In a more recent analogy, the terrors of the French Revolution grew from devotion to Liberty, Egality, and Fraternity. Terrible actions don't undermine the truth of their central goodness. And what is more, the injection of such a greater Truth into human society would well lead to even harsher responses from us weak humans who are ill-equipped to deal with such greatness.
4. Hebrew and Christian religions trace back to particular, local, tribal groups and simplistic primitive events. Answer: How else could human beings experience the divine, and then communicate that experience, except through the same means and patterns as their experience of their familiar local world? A human who expresses a full-formed, logical conception of the infinite goodness of God full stop is surely making it up, for humans are not wired to gain knowledge in this way.
These arguments that were offered against Christianity, then, were not arguments at all, but mere observations. And mere observations can always be used to lead to opposing conclusions. The Secularists have entirely avoided, however, the most powerful arguments in favor of Christianity-- they will follow. Furthermore, those who won't be swayed by the four arguments above only remain unmoved due to their steadfast devotion to the central tenets of their own secularist orthodoxy. Ironically impressive.
----------------------------
Time to get back on the Chesterton horse. I'm re-reading the chapters in Heretics that I read months ago, but it's worthwhile to also get a handle on the background arguments that led to him write the book in the first place. The Blatchford Controversies are the third selection in the Collected Works Volume 1.
The biggest difference between the use of the cited facts by Chesterton and their use by the secularists is Chesterton's willingness to observe human behavior as its own whole, ontologically basic thing. In all four cases, the secularists argue away human responses as the mere agglomerated, non-meaningful end results of unthinking, unfeeling physical and material processes-- processes whose bizarre end results obviously can tell us nothing about some weird spiritual realm that doesn't really exist in the first place. It is central to the argument of determinism that human existence has no genuine purpose, while Chesterton takes the purposefulness of human existence (and the personal internal experience of that purposefulness) as absolutely central and reads the reality of spiritualness back from that. And then experiences great joy out of his conclusions.
Orestes enters in the guise of a messenger from Phocis. He bears an urn with the ashes of Orestes, he says. Electra is devasted, worse than before. It's all over for her now. She thought her actions-- saving Orestes as a baby, standing up to her mother-- would eventually lead to justice, but it seems not to be. Orestes sees now that he is speaking with his sister, and feels horrible. He laments for her now-- not only putting on a show over her supposed loss, but also genuinely lamenting the terrible burden she has had to endure in the palace, alone, for years.
But for some reason he draws out his own reveal for, like, two-and-a-half pages. When he finally gets around to it, Electra is elated.
Orestes explains that they still have to be careful, for his plan is set in motion. Pedaegogus comes out and scolds them for being so loud-- if Orestes is found out, it's all over. Electra recognizes him at last and praises him for his service in raising Orestes.
They give praise to Apollo before executing the plan. The Chorus remarks that it looks as if Apollo himself is exacting revenge when Orestes strides into the hall.
From outside, Electra hears the dying cries of Clytemnestra and mutters encouragements in response. Aegisthus arrives, and Electra reports the death of Orestes, saying his body is inside. (Tee-hee.) Aegisthus is pleased-- brazenly pleased. He sees the covered body on the bed, but Orestes himself reveals it to by Clytemnestra. Aegisthus, done for, asks to be allowed to speak some last words. Denied. Orestes, egged on by Electra, will not indulge him one bit, but will instead kill him in the spot where Agamemnon is killed.
The Chorus is elated with the turn toward justice:
O race of Atreus, how many sufferings
were yours before you came at last so hardly
to freedom, perfected by this day's deed.
--------------------------
And that's it.
The attitude of the Chorus is identical to what Aeschylus wrote about. Except Aeshylus continued on to explain that the actions of Orestes will lead to his own ultimate downfall, his harassment by the Furies.
But this play isn't about Orestes, it's about Electra. And at this point, her life's arc has come to a fitting conclusion. She has spent her whole life devoted to a single cause, and she has seen it through to the end. The deaths of Clytemnestra and Aegisthus (note: the killings are in the reverse order here versus in the Aeschylus) are what she has been working on for years, even if it was never in her power to execute them herself. Devotion to justice is good in and of itself, and is rewarded. And damn the consequences. I guess.
Clytemnestra enters to have a word with her unruly daughter. She defends her actions by reminding Electra (and the audience) of the injustice of Agamemnon killing their other daughter [Iphigenia] merely to placate the Greek army and his brother Menelaus. Surely she is in the right in vindicating her own daughter. Electra counters that Clytemnestra did the murder for her own selfish reasons: to be with the usurper Aegisthus. Moreover, Agamemnon's killing of Iphigenia was in direct accordance with the wishes of Artemis. Did Clytemnestra have any divine instruction before her murders? More back-and-forth. The Chorus is confused.
Paedogogus enters, in disguise and unrecognized. He brings "pleasant news" [?] to Clytemnestra: Orestes is dead. He was killed in a chariot race at a set of contests he was winning. There was a pile-up on turn four, and in the mayhem Orestes was thrown from his chariot and trampled. Electra is devastated, but Clytemnestra is demure. Paedogogus is surprised she is not relieved, for it is well known that Orestes was a threat to Aegisthus's throne. Clytemnestra explains that Electra has always been more a thorn in their side, living within the palace and all. Electra is ready to give up on her life completely. The Chorus wonders if there is any justice in the world at all.
Chrysothemis enters, also claiming to bear "happy" news. Orestes is alive! She saw sacrifices at Agamemnon's grave, including flowers and a lock of hair that could only be Orestes's. Electra breaks the bad news, but offers counsel. She has steeled herself for what must be done: the task of avenging Agamemnon's murder falls to the two of them. Chrysothemis, ever timid, wavers. They, two women, have not hope of pulling off such a plot. Electra blows her off and decides to go it alone, and Chrysothemis can't talk her out of it. The Chorus wishes her success, for she is the only one left so devoted in the pursuit of justice.
Paedogogus arrives at the palace in Mycenae with Orestes in tow. Paedogogus had taken Orestes, son of Agamemnon, from the palace as a boy and raised him himself to protect the boy from his mother Clytemnestra and her new husband (and new king) Aegisthus. Orestes has recently heard prophecies that it is time for him to avenge his father. He is to kill his father's murderes through stealth, so he hatches the plan: Paedogogus will enter and announce the recent and unfortunate death of Orestes in a chariot race. Meanwhile, Orestes will visit his father's grave, and leave an offering of a lock of his own hair, to prepare for his coming actions.
Inside, Orestes' sister Electra laments-- at length-- the evil murder of her father. Though she has lived with the sorrow for many years, she is at the end of her rope and can't simply stand by and live in the household with her wicked mother and her usurper husband any longer. The Chorus, other women in the palace, agree with her outrage over the murder, but urge her to get over it already. She cannot. Electra holds special contempt for Clytemnestra, who has ridiculed her all her life for her devotion to her father. Electra's only relief is the thought that Orestes might soon be returning to exact vengeance and justice. But even that, at times, seems to be a fading hope.
Chrysothemis, Electra's (younger?) sister, enters and scolds Electra for carrying on. Chrysothemis isn't thrilled with the way Agamemnon was murdered, either, but she has managed to make some peace with the situation and can live as a participant within the palace. Electra knocks her down a peg or two for doing so. Chrysothemis is more upset than ever, though, for the latest news is that the king will banish Electra to a cave. Electra, defiant, announces she will gladly accept such a "punishment" if it will highlight the type of unjust ruler Aegisthus is.
In the meantime, Chrysothemis is on her way to Agamemnon's grave to leave an offering-- an offering from Clytemnestra, in fact. Surprised, Electra asks how it is that Clytemnestra is paying any tribute to her previous husband at all. But it seems the queen has had visions and nightmares recently about Agamemnon, and is trying to put things right between her and the gods. Hearing this, Electra forbids that the offering be given, as it is coming from such an evil source. Instead, she instructs Chrysothemis to leave a lock of her own and of Electra's hair at the grave-- a proper tribute from devoted daughters, rather than from a treacherous wife. They're all in agreement that this is a good course of action.
----------------------------
I think this is the first play that telling is telling the same story, at length, as a previous play I've read-- The Libation Bearers. It's kind of cool to get the story from a different persepective, and even cooler that the actions of the various characters seem to line up pretty closely. I remember, at least, the locks of hair left at Agamemnon's grave being the signal to Electra that Orestes had arrived, Clytemnestra's nightmares, and Orestes simply entering the palace to commit the avenging killings.
This play seems to be presenting a psychological portrait of Electra, a character who didn't quite have a full direct participation in the action in Aeschylus's play. The long lamenting passages paint a fairly clear picture of Electra's current mental state. She has been brooding for years, but has been helpless to exact revenge. All the while, she has been assigning blame to the family around her, despising some and resenting others-- again, all because it is not within her power to do much of else. Her internal torment shows a fighting spirit nonetheless.
The shepherd arrives. Oedipus struts a bit as he interrogates him, but the shepherd is reticent to speak. Oedipus switches to threats. Finally, the shepherd admits to freeing the young baby... who he had been instructed to kill... by the baby's parents... in the house of Laius... intending to avoid a prophecy that he would one day kill his father. And swears he did it out of pity, though he clearly regrets his actions now. Oedipus finally gets it:
Lost! Ah lost! At last it's blazing clear.
Light of my days, go dark. I want to gaze no more.
My birth all sprung revealed from those it never should,
Myself entwined with those I never could.
And I the killer of those I never would.
[Nice work, Mr. Roche.] He flees into the palace.
The Chorus is also aghast. At first, they lament the downfall of so great a man as Oedipus. Their disgust grows, though.
Palace workers emerge with even more disturbing news. The queen Jocasta killed herself by hanging in her bedroom chamber, cursing the bed which she shared with Laius and Oedipus. Upon finding her body, Oedipus seized her broaches and gouged his eyes out with the pins-- repeatedly. He seeks only now to be banished from Thebes. He-- and the Chorus-- wish he had died that day on the mountainside.
Creon enters, now the acknowledged new king of Thebes. Oedipus begs to be banished, but Creon insists on seeking the gods' advice before proceeding further. After all, it is not more clear than ever that they are truly in charge. In the meantime, Oedipus tries to settle some parts of his estate. His sons, he thinks, will be fine. His daughters, though-- Antigone and Ismene-- will be done for. Who will ever marry them knowing thaeir infamous pedigree? Creon brings the girls before Oedipus, and he imparts final advice:
My darling little ones, if you could only understand,
I'd tell you, oh, so many things!
Let this suffice, a simple prayer:
Abide in modesty so may you live
the happy life your father did not have.
Oedipus is ready to exit to his doom, but tries to cling to his daughters one last time. Creon rebukes him:
Stop this striving to be master of all.
The mastery you had in life has been your fall.
----------------------------
Remember when I said this was a comedy? Not anymore. Multiple puncture wounds to the eyes keep it firmly in the tragedy camp.
I remember reading this in high school and mentally playing around with the paradoxes of fate. What is fated is fated, and all actions-- even those attempting to avoid the outcome-- lead to that inevitable result. Cool idea, and fun to puzzle out, and see it applied in time-travel movies and soforth.
There's a slightly deeper aspect to this, though. Once we've conceded that fate is real and unavoidable, the important question is our attitude towards it. The true disasters took place because the characters wouldn't merely submit to their fates. Jocasta was far too meddlesome, trying to place herself above the power of the gods in charting her own life. Her attempts were doomed from the start. Oedipus, on the other hand, seems to have the opposite problem. In some ways, he was too ready to take advantage of the fates he could see laid out before him. He happily commandeered the leadership of Thebes, and aggrandized himself in the process, never acknowledging that his successes were no more due to his merit than any other person's failures were due to their faults. He too put himself above the gods, not in his attempts to outwit them, but in his delusional self-regard and belief in his own prowess. Creon, in the end, displays the proper outlook, and gives us the true moral of the play.
Oedipus recognizes the story of Laius's murder as that of the murder he committed. He sees himself as the cause of the city's troubles after all, and is in agony over it. [He doesn't know the half of it. Strike that, he doesn't know the tenth of it yet. Laius's murder is the least of his problems.] There was one survivor from the murder, a servant who, upon seeing Oedipus take the throne, asked to return to shepherding, his previous career. Oedipus asks that he be brought in, and the exact circumstances of Laius's murder matched against his own memory.
In the meantime, Oedipus tells his own story. At home in Corinth, he was told in passing that he was adopted. Unnerved, his parents Polybus and Merope tried to set his mind at ease. But he went to an oracle, whose prophecy was far worse than just the adoption news. He was told he would murder his father and marry his mother. Horrified at the prospect, he fled. And on the road, he had an altercation with a travelling band at the three crossroads. He killed them. And now he might be responsible for Laius's death. Jocasta tries to calm him, saying at the very least the prophets don't know what they're talking about-- because Laius certainly wasn't killed by his son!
The Chorus try to wrap their heads around the situation. They know that justice must be done against Oedipus if he really is the killer. On the other hand, if prophecies go unfulfilled so easily, why must any respect be paid to them at all?
A messenger enters with news from Corinth. Polybus is dead, and Oedipus will inherit that throne. It's good news! And even better, this tells against the prophecy that was giving Oedipus so much grief-- he didn't have to kill his father after all! [Nobody has noticed up to this point the similarity between Oedipus's prophecy and that of Jocasta.] Oedipus is still fearful of returning home, fearful of the second half of the prophecy-- marrying his mother. The messenger explains that the whole prophecy was never anything to worry about in the first place-- after all, Polybus wasn't even Oedipus's real father! Oedipus was adopted, brought to the king by this messenger himself, after being found as an infant with his ankles bound on a hill near Thebes!
Jocasta is getting upset.
And actually, this messenger didn't find Oedipus per se. He was found by another shepherd-- one of Laius's men. The Chorus thinks perhaps this is the same guy who they already called about the other story. They ask Jocasta if she remembers anything, but she's suddenly playing dumb and trying to change the subject. Oedipus wants to know all about his origins, but Jocasta is begging him not to follow through to the end of the story. But he's feeling upbeat now, and thinks she'll be embarrassed by his lowly station, if he's the abandoned son of slaves. But perhaps he is the son of the gods themselves! Tee-hee!
The Chorus gets carried away thinking of the possibilites. Here among them, offspring of the divine! That kind of thing never happens anymore! Awesome!
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The language games are getting more and more clever-- but I can't tell if it's Sophocles or Roche making more of it than is actually there. A sampling:
"This is his palace, sir, and he's within.
This lady [Jocasta] is his wife and mother... of his children." [Come on.]
Alex's raw translation was "But this woman is mother of his children." After giving him the context, he acknowledged there was something goofy going on in the structure of the second line. He then suggested "Wife and mother, this one, of his children," which is pretty close to the effect of Roche's version, though a little more subtle. Success!]
"I do not blush to own I'm Forgune's pampered child.
She will not let me down. She is my mother."
One other line of note, when Jocasta is trying to settle down Oedipus's fear of the prophecy of him marrying his mother:
"Forget this silly thought of mother-marrying.
Why, many men in dreams have married mothers,
And he lives happiest who makes the least of it."
A clinical description of the Oedipal Complex! I always thought that Freud simply named it after the character because it was such a well-known story. But it looks like the psychological phenomenon itself was mentioned right in the play. We've gone totally meta.
The prophet Tiresias enters, but refuses to speak, for what he knows hurts him too much to make public. Oedipus tries to flatter it out of him, to no avail. Angry now, Oedipus accuses Tiresias himself of being the murderer, or at least plotting it years ago. That pisses him off something fierce. Tiresias now directly fingers Oedipus as the murderer, which just makes the confrontation more contentious than before.
Not understaning the accusation at all, Oedipus thinks he has stumbled on the real plot. He claims that Creon has put the prophet up to it, in a power play to usurp the throne. (And he thinks himself enormously clever for figuring it out.) Tiresias is more insulted than ever, and curses out Oedipus. He starts to hint at the truth, at Oedipus's origins, but Oedipus simply mocks him for speaking in riddles-- solving such riddles is his strength, after all. So in a final speech before exiting, Tiresias tells it to him straight (though without actually mentioning his name): the murderer was no stranger, but a native of Thebes, is his children's brother, his mother's husband, and will die in disgrace.
The Chorus is greatly upset from the argument. And they don't want to think of the implications of Tiresias's accusation.
Creon enters and gets an earful from Oedipus, being accused of attempting to usurp the throne. Oedipus knows he's in cahoots with the prophet-- otherwise the prophet would have fingered Oedipus for the murder when it actually happened instead of waiting until now. Creon pleads his case: in the current arrangement, as brother-in-law to the king, he has an equal say in the affairs of the state without the hassle of actually being the monarch. Why would he want to give that up? Oedipus is not settled, and the conflict escalates.
Jocasta the queen enters: "Everybody, cool out. COOL OUT!" The chorus pleads with Oedipus to simmer down. Paranoia now seems to be catching up with him, as he lashes out at everyone around him. Jocasta just wants to know what all the fuss was about, and Oedipus explains that the prophet had accused him of the murder. I mean, it's preposterous!
Jocasta chuckles about it. "Silly, long ago Apollo foretold that Laius would be killed by his firstborn. And yeah, he was killed at a three-way crossroads. But that was in a faraway land, by a band of marauders! And we had abandoned our firstborn on a hillside as soon as he was born! So, no worries!"
Oedipus: "Yeah, I mean.... wait, what?"
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Heh.
One very cool bit of irony in this part is Creon pleading his innocence and claiming to be free from the temptations of power. One, because the audience already knows the rest of his story, and two, because Sophocles already wrote that play himself. You're not fooling anyone, you know.
The people of Thebes are beseeching their king, Oedipus, to help them. The priest explains that they want to be rid of the plague that holds them. They know that once before Oedipus rid them of one terrible trouble-- the Sphinx. They hope that Oedipus can again be the savior for the people. Oedipus: "Yes, of course. I knew all that already. In fact, I've already sent my brother-in-law [actually his uncle] to learn from the oracle of Apollo what might be done."
Creon arrives and announces that, per Apollo, the solution is simple. The city suffers because the death of its previous king, Laius, went wholly unpunished. Oedipus asks the circumstances of his death, and Creon relates the story of how Laius was killed, along with his band of travellers, during a pilgrimage outside the city. Oedipus: "Sons of bitches."
The Chorus pray to the gods for their aid to Oedipus in finally righting the wrong. They pray to a number of gods in turn, especially Athena, Artemis, and Apollo.
Oedipus gathers the people and asks that anyone with any knowledge of Laius's death to come forward, but is only met with silence. He tries to cajole their confession with flattery and rewards. When that doesn't work, he threatens them with punishment. Nobody comes forward [because no one actually knows anything]. At last the Chorus suggests that Oedipus consult with the blind prophet Tiresias. Oedipus: "Of course. I've already sent for him." The Chorus also hints at stories of the murder of Laius by other travellers, but there are no witnesses.
Tiresias enters, and Oedipus grandly asks him to proclaim what he knows, so that he might get on with the saving of the city.
Shit's about to get real.
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Translation by Paul Roche again, and it's a breath of fresh air after The Women of Trachis. Here I can actually feel the rhythm of the translated poetry. The structure of the Chorus sections is also quite pleasing, as he delineates the call-and-response pattern of the two halves of the Chorus. The translation really makes a huge difference.
I'm starting to get pissed off that all of the cool action is in the back stories of these plays. Oedipus's step-parents already heard the original prophecy and sent him away in a panic, Oedipus already killed his father and married his mother, and Oedipus already solved the riddle of the Sphinx. Okay..... but when do I actually get to read any of this stuff? I don't, apparently.
It occurs to me, then, that there's no such thing as a twist in any of these plays. The stories are so well known that they make up the background knowledge in the Greek cultural awareness. Nothing in the plot of the play is ever surprising. But I wonder if they told the stories to children in such a way as to surprise them with the plot twists? Hmmm.
To make up for the lack of tension in the plot, the lines themselves are packed with irony-- highly entertaining for the all-knowing audience. The characterization is crucial as well. In this case, Sophocles has made Oediups a self-aggrandizing buffoon-- and it's hilarious. "Yes, of course, I'm one step ahead of you." And some of the ironic lines are particularly well-placed:
For who knows, tomorrow this selfsame murderer
may turn his bloody hands on me.
The cause of Laius therefore is my own.
....
And if I myself should prove myself
to have him in my halls an intimate,
Then on myself I call down every curse I've just invoked.
Is this a drama or a comedy? The audience must have been roaring with laughter.
Heracles, unconscious, is brought in to Hyllus. He awakens, but in agony. He begs to be killed by any around him-- and then specifically by Hyllus when he recognizes him. And then he lashes out at Deianira for having killed him (as he sees it, anyway)-- even asking that she be brought out to him so he can inflict on her the same pain he feels himself. The venom of the hydra that eats at him reminds him of all the beasts he has conquered before.
Hyllus attempts to speak with Heracles to inform him of some of the developments. First of all, Deianira is dead, by her own hand. Moreover, she did not intend Heracles's death, but was tricked long ago-- she actually was trying to woo him back. Heracles recognizes the duplicity of Nessus the centaur long ago, and also recognizes the work of the gods throughout the whole ordeal. He reveals the prophecy that had him being finished with his toils at this moment-- and recognizes that it ends not with rest but with death.
As his final act, Heracles extracts promises from Hyllus. First, Hyllus must burn Heracles alive on a funeral pyre to end his agony. Hyllus refuses, but agrees at least to bring him to the pyre where Heracles may set the fire himself. Next, he must marry Iole. "No other man but you must ever have her who has lain with me at my side." [Gross.] Hyllus is unnerved at the command again, but ultimately agrees.
Heracles is taken away to his final death. Zeus has willed it.
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First of all, would it have killed the translator to use the phrase "poisoned shirt" at least once? You know, to trigger a little cultural memory in the reader with a phrase that they might actually recognize? On the other hand, I'm not sure I actually had the poisoned shirt mentally hooked up with Heracles's death, so it might not have mattered.
Having re-read the introductory essay, there is an interesting point here. Unlike the other Greek plays I have read so far, the action does not center around one character and the way fate catches up to him or her. Instead, the fate just kind of happens to everyone in turn. Fate doesn't befall them because of their faults, or their disobedience, or their self-destruction, it just kind of happens because the gods don't really care about the actions of humans at all. The theme of the play is the disinterest of the gods in the affairs, expectations, and desires of men-- even the greatest of men are ultimately minor characters, mere playthings. The title of the play, otherwise completely incongruous, does stress that the focus of this play isn't on Heracles or his wife or his sun, it is on the action of fate working around all human lives. I can acknowledge the validity of that point. You win again, classics.
Deianira enters in a panic. She had wiped Nessus's blood on the cloak with a small piece of wool. When she threw that piece on the ground in the sun, it shrivelled, decayed, and brought forth from the earth a terrible bilious poison. She realized the centaur had been lying to her when he gave it to her-- and why would he do otherwise? He wouldn't offer her a tool to woo Heracles, his murderer; he offered instead a tool of revenge.
It was a trap the whole time.
The Chorus tells her to wait and see. Maybe it will all be OK.
Hyllus immediately enters in agony, though, accusing Deianira of murdering Heracles. He witnessed it himself: Lichas approached Heracles with the cloak as he was preparing a sacrifice to the gods. During the sacrifice, in front of the flames, the poison did its work. Heracles first accused Lichas of treachery, who tried to explain only what he knew. Heracles swung him by his ankle and smashed his head against a rock anyway. In great pain, Heracles called for Hyllas to carry him home.
Hyllas formally accuses Deianira of killing the best of men. Deianira slinks away.
The Chorus realizes the prophecy has come true in the bad way. It actually said that the twelve years would bring an end to the toils of Heracles-- and so they have. And done in by the jealousy of a woman! Looks like Aphrodite is behind it all.
Nurse enters. Deianira killed herself on her wedding bed, stabbed through with a sword. (When she pulled out the sword, the nurse ran to tell Hyllas. Instead of, you know, getting the sword out of her hands.) Having lost his mother and father on the same day to a murder-suicide, Hyllas is distraught, and partly blames himself for being so hard on Deianira.
The Chorus is looking for some good news among the misery, and not finding it. Finally, a throng of men carrying the body of Heracles enter, bringing him home at last.
The messenger pulls Deianira aside to give her additional information. It seems Lichas wasn't being entirely truthful with his story about Heracles sacking the city for revenge, nor about the identity of the particularly pretty girl. Lichas had been telling others in the village-- and the messenger overheard him-- that Heracles had sacked the city solely out of love for the girl, Iole. Deianira feels betrayed. The Chorus is pissed at Lichas. The messenger expects a tip again.
Deianira confronts Lichas on his way out again. He's not budging from his story, and can't figure out why anyone in the house wouldn't believe him. I mean, geez! [Almost an exact quote.] But Deianira coaxes it out of him, partly by saying she knows all about Heracles's conquests of other women, and partly by playing on Lichas's sense of his own honor being at stake. The Chorus joins in the coaxing. "Obey her. What she says is good. You will have no cause to complain later, and you will gain our thanks." [Who is the Chorus again? What might they mean by that?]
Lichas spills it. The whole sacking of the city was a feint to get at Iole. The Chorus, now apparently omniscient, describe the battle between Heracles and Achelous over Iole, with Cypris the goddess of love refereeing. Heracles won.
Deianira re-emerges with her last desperate plan. She cannot have a younger consort within her own household, feeling as if she-- Heracles's only wife!-- has been replaced at home. Men! Luckily, when she was a girl, she was carried by [the centaur] Nessus across a river on her way to meet Heracles for the first time. He molested her on the way over. Zeus Heracles killed him for it. And as a penance Nessus offered her the blood from his wound, which would at all times entice Heracles to her. Using it for the first time, she has now dipped a cloak in this blood, and sends Lichas out with it to give to Heracles. When he puts it on, her place in the household will be secure again.
The Chorus is excited for Heracles's return once again.
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This story is getting more and more ridiculous. Although it seems the parts that were ridiculous last time turned out to be a fabrication, so who knows anymore. Sexual politics has emerged as a theme in a big way, and that might be new among everything I've read so far.
It occured to me while reading this that I have paid no attention whatsoever to the lyrical structure of these plays. As in, I haven't looked for a poetical meter at all. So I made a conscious effort to pay attention to that, and simply couldn't see it at all. I suck. Or the translator sucks.
Edit, 2/16: Apparently, I badly misread the details in the story about Nessus yesterday. The edited details above are hugely important for the following action.
