Monday, March 30, 2009
Echoes of the Past: Classical Literature and David Malouf’s An Imaginary Life
At first glance, An Imaginary Life by David Malouf appeared to be merely the fanciful imaginings of the author of the work and not, as I would have hoped, the astounding literary account I had looked forward to. The work seemed short-sighted, even mundane at times; I found the piece as a whole entirely too “circumstantially bound” to the life of Ovid and to this one solitary occurrence in that life as a whole. Hoping against hope, however, I read on. It was then that I realized that I had, as Thoreau would say, been reading the times when I should have been reading eternities. Hereafter, as layer upon layer of meaning revealed itself, the astounding literary merit of Malouf’s work, especially in relation to the content of this particular class, became increasingly irrefutable.
Nearly all imagery in this little book harkens back to the act of transformation or metamorphoses, a theme thoroughly explored by Ovid in his Metamorphoses. One line begins quite simply the miraculous transformation of Ovid the cynic in exile to Ovid the spiritual being. That one line, “I love this poppy. I shall watch over it” parallels the short story we read earlier entitled “A tree. A rock. A cloud.” (32). In this same passage, Malouf makes direct reference to the myth of Persephone. Here we see the act of love as a transforming agent. By it, we become something more than what we appear to be; we actually change our mental or emotional makeup to become divine, as Ovid in effect becomes Persephone, that “flower-faced” girl.
Furthermore, through this fictionalized Ovid’s eyes, we witness the transformative powers of ritual practice and ceremony. Ovid recalls the ceremonies of his youth in which he “will have replaced him,” here speaking of his brother’s death merely by believing in the ceremony for an instant of time (87). Malouf then references Hector of Troy, that tamer of horses, in his description of the old man later identified as Ryzak and his relation to the ceremonies performed by the men to the dead and the gods themselves (40). Just as in the Eleusinian mysteries when a simple ear of corn is transformed into something awe-inspiring, through ritual, Ovid and this hunting party are transformed, themselves, becoming “part of the woods. We are mushrooms [. . .] I am a pool of water” Ovid dreams (61).
Perhaps the most astounding classical reference, however, is the recurrence of the five states of drama identified by Steiner in his analysis of the play Antigone. The men of the village and the women separate themselves from one another, struggle with, and against, each other keeping their sacred ceremonies and rituals completely private. Here, the concept of the ever-chaste Diana hiding her nakedness from the prying eyes of Actaeon comes to the foreground. Age and youth are at odds as can be seen in the interaction of the Child and his elders, and in the strained relationship between Ovid and his father. Ovid, himself, represents the individual striving against the will of state in his exiles, both decreed and self-imposed. The wild Child’s struggle to exist in Ovid’s world embodies this struggle as well. The fear and reverence inherent in the villagers to the dead brings to light yet another Steiner conflict This conflict presents itself most horrifically in the death ritual performed on Ryzak. Finally, the traditional rituals to appease the gods as well as Ovid’s previous skepticism of these beings true existence create the final parallel to the dramatic themes identified by Steiner.
In Malouf’s Imaginary Life we see a mother’s grief at the prospective loss of a child, so similar the tragedy of Andromache’s plight in The Trojan Women among countless other references to the great works we have studied in classical literature. The novel as a whole depicts a transformation. We ourselves are transformed in the reading. And out of the death of our previous existence comes yet another new and glorious beginning. In the words of Malouf himself, “What else should our lives be but a continual series of beginnings, of painful settings out into the unknown, pushing off from the edges of consciousness into the mystery of what we have not yet become” (135). Herein lies the myth of our lives, the ultimate convergence of past and present in wondrous unity. By letting go of our previous states, we are reborn. In this way every ending becomes merely a beginning and our first hesitant step on the path to ultimate oneness.
Nearly all imagery in this little book harkens back to the act of transformation or metamorphoses, a theme thoroughly explored by Ovid in his Metamorphoses. One line begins quite simply the miraculous transformation of Ovid the cynic in exile to Ovid the spiritual being. That one line, “I love this poppy. I shall watch over it” parallels the short story we read earlier entitled “A tree. A rock. A cloud.” (32). In this same passage, Malouf makes direct reference to the myth of Persephone. Here we see the act of love as a transforming agent. By it, we become something more than what we appear to be; we actually change our mental or emotional makeup to become divine, as Ovid in effect becomes Persephone, that “flower-faced” girl.
Furthermore, through this fictionalized Ovid’s eyes, we witness the transformative powers of ritual practice and ceremony. Ovid recalls the ceremonies of his youth in which he “will have replaced him,” here speaking of his brother’s death merely by believing in the ceremony for an instant of time (87). Malouf then references Hector of Troy, that tamer of horses, in his description of the old man later identified as Ryzak and his relation to the ceremonies performed by the men to the dead and the gods themselves (40). Just as in the Eleusinian mysteries when a simple ear of corn is transformed into something awe-inspiring, through ritual, Ovid and this hunting party are transformed, themselves, becoming “part of the woods. We are mushrooms [. . .] I am a pool of water” Ovid dreams (61).
Perhaps the most astounding classical reference, however, is the recurrence of the five states of drama identified by Steiner in his analysis of the play Antigone. The men of the village and the women separate themselves from one another, struggle with, and against, each other keeping their sacred ceremonies and rituals completely private. Here, the concept of the ever-chaste Diana hiding her nakedness from the prying eyes of Actaeon comes to the foreground. Age and youth are at odds as can be seen in the interaction of the Child and his elders, and in the strained relationship between Ovid and his father. Ovid, himself, represents the individual striving against the will of state in his exiles, both decreed and self-imposed. The wild Child’s struggle to exist in Ovid’s world embodies this struggle as well. The fear and reverence inherent in the villagers to the dead brings to light yet another Steiner conflict This conflict presents itself most horrifically in the death ritual performed on Ryzak. Finally, the traditional rituals to appease the gods as well as Ovid’s previous skepticism of these beings true existence create the final parallel to the dramatic themes identified by Steiner.
In Malouf’s Imaginary Life we see a mother’s grief at the prospective loss of a child, so similar the tragedy of Andromache’s plight in The Trojan Women among countless other references to the great works we have studied in classical literature. The novel as a whole depicts a transformation. We ourselves are transformed in the reading. And out of the death of our previous existence comes yet another new and glorious beginning. In the words of Malouf himself, “What else should our lives be but a continual series of beginnings, of painful settings out into the unknown, pushing off from the edges of consciousness into the mystery of what we have not yet become” (135). Herein lies the myth of our lives, the ultimate convergence of past and present in wondrous unity. By letting go of our previous states, we are reborn. In this way every ending becomes merely a beginning and our first hesitant step on the path to ultimate oneness.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
"Apollo and Diana Attacking the Children of Niobe"
Searching for more pictures from Ovid, I found this...wrenching...depiction of the death of Niobe's children. The painting is by David who worked during the period of the French Revolution.
"Tereus Confronted with the Head of his Son Itylus" by Peter Paul Rubens
As promised, here is the gorgeous painting by Rubens entitled Tereus Confronted With the Head of His Son Itylus depicting the climactic scene in the story of Tereus, Philomela, and Procne. Enjoy!
Friday, March 27, 2009
The Art of Ovid
I was browsing through some articles on Ovid this morning, trying to find some interesting information to cite and I found this website. If you scroll down through the information to the web links, there is one entitled "The Ovid Project". Here there are hundreds of engravings from Ancient illustrated works of Ovid. The captions in the engravings themselves are not in English, but one can recognize some names if mentioned. The pictures are absolutely gorgeous works, full of energy. I definitely recommend checking them out.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Willing Supplicants to Jealous Gods
After having read my small part of Ovid's Metamorphoses and thinking of it throughout class today, I simply could not reconcile the humanistic view of the Greek civilization with the idea of jealous, domineering gods who always always get their way. I asked Prof. Sexson about it just after class, and we had a pretty interesting, if short, discussion about this idea.
Think about humanism, this system of thought in which the individual is glorified, wherein human achievement is not only appreciated but expected. Think about it... Creation! Could there be anything so wonderful as this. We, acting as gods ourselves, create. Regardless of discipline, intent, or circumstance, we create. We cannot help it. Even the simple course of day to day life is a sort of creation. We bring ourselves into being, and we define ourselves as we choose.
How can there be, in this time of utmost enlightenment, of achievement and movement, how can there be room in this world for superstition, for the cruel reign of gods and goddesses? How could these men prostrate themselves before an idea not contained within their own being? The greatness we strive for without lives in wait within. How could these men, particularly the men of ideas and wonder, how could they not see this? How could they make themselves so...lowly.
Fyodor Dostoevsky, in his Brothers Karamazov, says simply "So long as man remains free he strives for nothing so incessantly and so painfully as to find some one to worship." We actively seek out places to fall and lords to worship. Why? Because standing on our own two feet, without any sort of safety net or eternal scapegoat, is too terrifying.
And yet...
Who are these gods we worship? For the Greeks, they were love embodied in Aphrodite or war embodied in Ares. Wisdom lives through Athena and mischief reigns in Hermes. These are but attributes after all! We define these things we cannot see, hear, or explain within the body of a human being! The fact that we make them live forever as something "not human" betrays only wishful thinking...or the fact that these attributes live on as man lives on. There has always been love and wisdom and as long as we live, it lives in us.
Prof. Sexson said it is the defiance of the gods that is revolutionary here. Though they are all-powerful and though the individual gets torn apart in the end, the idea of even challenging the gods is revolutionary and humanistic. As humans, we are as powerful as the gods, we can be better than they are, sing sweeter, weave better.... but they will conquer us. The abstract concepts of love or hate, death or wisdom, will always hold sway, regardless of our circumstance or any ability. Because these concepts live in all, they will win in all and are inescapable. In this lies the true "will of the gods".
Think about humanism, this system of thought in which the individual is glorified, wherein human achievement is not only appreciated but expected. Think about it... Creation! Could there be anything so wonderful as this. We, acting as gods ourselves, create. Regardless of discipline, intent, or circumstance, we create. We cannot help it. Even the simple course of day to day life is a sort of creation. We bring ourselves into being, and we define ourselves as we choose.
How can there be, in this time of utmost enlightenment, of achievement and movement, how can there be room in this world for superstition, for the cruel reign of gods and goddesses? How could these men prostrate themselves before an idea not contained within their own being? The greatness we strive for without lives in wait within. How could these men, particularly the men of ideas and wonder, how could they not see this? How could they make themselves so...lowly.
Fyodor Dostoevsky, in his Brothers Karamazov, says simply "So long as man remains free he strives for nothing so incessantly and so painfully as to find some one to worship." We actively seek out places to fall and lords to worship. Why? Because standing on our own two feet, without any sort of safety net or eternal scapegoat, is too terrifying.
And yet...
Who are these gods we worship? For the Greeks, they were love embodied in Aphrodite or war embodied in Ares. Wisdom lives through Athena and mischief reigns in Hermes. These are but attributes after all! We define these things we cannot see, hear, or explain within the body of a human being! The fact that we make them live forever as something "not human" betrays only wishful thinking...or the fact that these attributes live on as man lives on. There has always been love and wisdom and as long as we live, it lives in us.
Prof. Sexson said it is the defiance of the gods that is revolutionary here. Though they are all-powerful and though the individual gets torn apart in the end, the idea of even challenging the gods is revolutionary and humanistic. As humans, we are as powerful as the gods, we can be better than they are, sing sweeter, weave better.... but they will conquer us. The abstract concepts of love or hate, death or wisdom, will always hold sway, regardless of our circumstance or any ability. Because these concepts live in all, they will win in all and are inescapable. In this lies the true "will of the gods".
Howling Hecuba
Tragedy.
Over and over in recent classes, Prof. Sexson repeats one phrase, "the tragic sense of life". It seems simple enough....but I keep coming back to that phrase, that exact combination of words, in my mind. What does it mean to perceive life in a tragic sense? Or to wallow in that rich and horrifying, dark and foreboding side of the everyday? Perhaps this simple combination of words means to truly experience life, an act that in itself is hopelessly tragic and endlessly terrifying.
Shakespeare once said that we are actors on a stage. Well if we are, what is the theme of our days? Do we frolic in the throes of comedy? Or do we spurt onto the stage our tragedy and pain...like blood, so real and...undeniable. Perhaps we act the tragedy, a tragedy so hopelessly absurd in the immensity of its own pain that it transcends itself, skimming along that all too insubstantial line alongside comedy. Laughter and tears, we cycle through laughter and tears in our days on earth, in all the varied turns of fortune's wheel.
Hecuba laments in Euripides' Trojan Women, "Fortune is a whirling dervish that twists and turns and leaps now this way, now that. Success is not of man's own making." And, in the end, our Chorus reiterates, "Like smoke blown to heaven on the wings of the wind, our country, our conquered country, perishes. Its palaces are overrun by the fierce flames and the murderous spear." "The name of the land will pass into oblivion. [. . .] Hapless Troy is finished."
Tragedy.
Regardless of what we think of Hecuba, what we assign to her through the multifaceted veils of time and place, we should but witness her pain, the pain of an entire nation screaming in agony. Actors attempts to embody the complete desolation of hundreds of thousands of people somehow fail to meet the ultimate crescendo of the tragic sense of life. Always, they hold back, unable or unwilling to fully prostrate themselves before the vision. Too often we turn away from tragedy because we cannot take the pain. We must. Go back to it. Witness it; make it a small something of what you are so that those people never truly die. To live faithfully one must contain all of life, tragedy and comedy combined.
Hecuba watches, helpless, utterly helpless as her nation is destroyed. The blood runs in the streets and the haunting cries of the slaughtered reach even the palace walls. Her warriors are defeated and dishonored. The army has fallen. She sees the loss of two sons in a war of folly. Her husband is murdered, her children scattered. In this tiny play, we see this woman receive the news of a daughter's death, another's grim fate as concubine to her enemy....and the third.... her fate is unspeakable. This daughter, Andromache, loses a part of her self and her soul. Her child is torn from her arms to be smashed into all too unforgiving stone. She will marry another enemy. Hecuba buries Astyanax's frail body and with it, Troy itself. In the final scenes, the entire city is engulfed in flames, its children scattered to all the far-reaching corners of Greece.
Imagine for a moment....going on in that knowledge, with that sight seared into your very soul. Imagine living the rest of that life, as a slave when once you were great....a queen. We witness it. Through Euripides, we live it, and Hecuba herself lives in our living.
How can we go on? How does Hecuba....go on. Somehow we do. Call it laughter, call it hope....somehow, and without pretense, we go on, even when the very heart of darkness fills our cup of life with acidic nectar.
There is something within us. And that something....goes on.
Over and over in recent classes, Prof. Sexson repeats one phrase, "the tragic sense of life". It seems simple enough....but I keep coming back to that phrase, that exact combination of words, in my mind. What does it mean to perceive life in a tragic sense? Or to wallow in that rich and horrifying, dark and foreboding side of the everyday? Perhaps this simple combination of words means to truly experience life, an act that in itself is hopelessly tragic and endlessly terrifying.
Shakespeare once said that we are actors on a stage. Well if we are, what is the theme of our days? Do we frolic in the throes of comedy? Or do we spurt onto the stage our tragedy and pain...like blood, so real and...undeniable. Perhaps we act the tragedy, a tragedy so hopelessly absurd in the immensity of its own pain that it transcends itself, skimming along that all too insubstantial line alongside comedy. Laughter and tears, we cycle through laughter and tears in our days on earth, in all the varied turns of fortune's wheel.
Hecuba laments in Euripides' Trojan Women, "Fortune is a whirling dervish that twists and turns and leaps now this way, now that. Success is not of man's own making." And, in the end, our Chorus reiterates, "Like smoke blown to heaven on the wings of the wind, our country, our conquered country, perishes. Its palaces are overrun by the fierce flames and the murderous spear." "The name of the land will pass into oblivion. [. . .] Hapless Troy is finished."
Tragedy.
Regardless of what we think of Hecuba, what we assign to her through the multifaceted veils of time and place, we should but witness her pain, the pain of an entire nation screaming in agony. Actors attempts to embody the complete desolation of hundreds of thousands of people somehow fail to meet the ultimate crescendo of the tragic sense of life. Always, they hold back, unable or unwilling to fully prostrate themselves before the vision. Too often we turn away from tragedy because we cannot take the pain. We must. Go back to it. Witness it; make it a small something of what you are so that those people never truly die. To live faithfully one must contain all of life, tragedy and comedy combined.
Hecuba watches, helpless, utterly helpless as her nation is destroyed. The blood runs in the streets and the haunting cries of the slaughtered reach even the palace walls. Her warriors are defeated and dishonored. The army has fallen. She sees the loss of two sons in a war of folly. Her husband is murdered, her children scattered. In this tiny play, we see this woman receive the news of a daughter's death, another's grim fate as concubine to her enemy....and the third.... her fate is unspeakable. This daughter, Andromache, loses a part of her self and her soul. Her child is torn from her arms to be smashed into all too unforgiving stone. She will marry another enemy. Hecuba buries Astyanax's frail body and with it, Troy itself. In the final scenes, the entire city is engulfed in flames, its children scattered to all the far-reaching corners of Greece.
Imagine for a moment....going on in that knowledge, with that sight seared into your very soul. Imagine living the rest of that life, as a slave when once you were great....a queen. We witness it. Through Euripides, we live it, and Hecuba herself lives in our living.
How can we go on? How does Hecuba....go on. Somehow we do. Call it laughter, call it hope....somehow, and without pretense, we go on, even when the very heart of darkness fills our cup of life with acidic nectar.
There is something within us. And that something....goes on.
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