The Rights Of The Colonists (November 20, 1772)

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.

Sophocles. Done.

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!

Oedipus At Colonus, 3

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:

Oedipus At Colonus, 2

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.

A Modern Utopia (H.G. Wells)

(via Heretics)

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 positive idea 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 At Colonus, 1

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.

Philoctetes, 2

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.

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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."

Electra, 3

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.

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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.

Electra, 2

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.

Electra, 1

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.

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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.