(Immediately below the initial copy of Hawkins's midterm is another copy highlighted by instructor.)

Jayson Hawkins
Oct. 18, 2011
LITR 5731 Tragedy/Africa Midterm

The Times They Are A-Changin’ . . .

            Brother will fight brother and be his slayer,

            Brother and sister will violate the bond of kinship;

            Hard it is in the world, there is much adultery,

            Axe-age, sword-age, shields are cleft asunder,

            Wind-age, wolf-age, before the world plunges headlong;

            No man will spare another.~ Voluspa st. 45

            The poet of the Old Norse Voluspa vividly captures the anxiety that accompanies a paradigm shift in one’s culture. For Scandinavians in the Viking Age, the life they knew came to an end once Christianity took hold in Northern Europe. The introduction of a foreign faith turned their world upside down, throwing an ancient order into chaos and killing off the old gods. Oddly, we find strikingly similar stories a thousand years later in the post-colonial literature of far away Africa, again from the imposition of a modern religion onto a traditional worldview. If we look into the past to a millennium or more before the Vikings, the classical Greeks composed dramatic literature that also illustrated times of acute crisis and upheaval. The common stream flowing through the writings of these societies separated by seas of time and distance is one of seismic shifts in their culture. It is these vast and abrupt changes that provide the basis for tragedy.

            In Poetics, Aristotle defines tragedy as “an imitation of an action that is serious, complete, and of a certain magnitude . . . .” Furthermore, the action brings about a catharsis in the protagonist. This definition fits well with what we have said above, as a paradigm shift in culture certainly qualifies as “serious, complete, and of a certain magnitude”; however, it would be a difficult task to compose a literary work starring culture as the main character. Tragedy, then, is the story of a cultural shift as seen through the eyes of a representative of that culture. This representative undergoes a cathartic experience, either synthesizing his identity as part of the old world with the ways of the new or failing utterly to do so. Either way, the protagonist offers the audience an answer to dealing with their own tragedies—even if it is the wrong one.

            For the classical Greeks, the representative of their culture in tragedy is invariably a king or some other member of the nobility. While this may strike our modern sensibilities as elitist, we need to consider it in the appropriate historical context. As 21^st century Americans, we take for granted that our law (the “common” law) rests in the power of “We, the people.” Prior to the advent of democracy in Athens, however, the power of the law resided in but one person—the king himself. In addition to the law, all things that contributed to the order and prosperity of the land and its people—or to their demise—originated in the king. As such, only the king or his family could stand as a true representative of their society. We see this clearly in the Oresteia, where the focus of the story moves from the local king, Agamemnon, to his son and would-be successor to the throne, Orestes.

            In the first installment of Aeschylus’s tragic trilogy, we are introduced to what should be a triumphant scene—the return of the conquering king after a decade at war overseas. Although Agamemnon is welcomed back with all the pomp due to his position, an ill current runs just beneath the surface of the celebration. Like all Indo-European peoples, the classical Greeks lived by a strict code of honor that demanded vengeance for any wrong done, especially the death of a kinsman. The requirement of a life for a life often sparked blood-feuds between families that could drag on for generations (think Hatfields and McCoys). In Agamemnon’s unfortunate situation, however, the cycle of vengeance begins not with him slaying a noble son of Troy but instead his own daughter. How can one compensate for the unthinkable act of killing one’s own blood?

            To the modern mind, Agamemnon’s crime clearly casts him as a villain, but we lack the proper cultural context to pass judgment on him. His sacrifice of Iphigeneia is itself done in the service of vengeance. This “harsh fate” proves to be a necessary evil if the sons of Atreus are to avenge the taking of Helen. Thus one cycle of vengeance—Paris stealing Menelaus’ wife, which sparks the Trojan War—gives birth to another—Agamemnon’s sacrifice of his daughter, which destroys his family. It also highlights another common theme of tragedy—the question of Fate vs. Free Will. Agamemnon, like most tragic protagonists, is caught up in a situation beyond his control. He does not want to kill his daughter. He has to. The rules of his society (and the role he plays within it) demand that it be so.

            Even if Agamemnon had no choice but to kill his daughter, Iphigeneia’s death still requires its own vengeance. In this instance, it falls to the victim’s mother to do the bloody deed, even though it means Clytaemnestra must murder her own husband. Orestes then has to avenge his father by killing his mother. Yet who is left to slay Orestes for his crime? Aside from the unusual case of Clytaemnestra avenging her daughter, vengeance is typically a male role. Since no men with the proper blood ties to the queen remain to avenge her, it falls to the Furies to hound her killer.

            As the true focus of the trilogy that bears his name, Orestes is faced with either finding a new way forward or dying as the traditional laws of vengeance declare he must. Determined to live, he appeals to his patron deity, Apollo, who sends him to the city of his sister, Athena. This is significant for reasons perhaps lost on most modern readers. As the birthplace of democracy, Athens is ruled not by a king but by the citizenry. Their law, then, arises from popular vote rather than royal decree. This “new law” is echoed even in Greek mythology when the ancient Titans are overthrown by the new order of the Olympians. This paradigm shift is played out in the Oresteia by Athena (an Olympian) overruling the Furies (representatives of the Titans whom “Olympian gods and men despise” [Eumenides, line 92]). Rather than granting their old law demand for blood vengeance, Athena declares Orestes not guilty in what is “the first trial ever held for murder” under the new law [line 869]. To compensate the Furies for trampling their “ancient laws” [983-84], Athena offers them a new title and function under the Olympian order, thus easing the transition from a traditional society into a modern one. Aeschylus here breaks perhaps the first rule of tragedy by giving the story a happy ending; however, like Agamemnon, he has no choice. Although his works qualify as “myth” or “fiction,” they nonetheless tell the true tale of traditional Greek society finding a better way forward from a tragic past. The story of Orestes is the story of their culture.

            If what we have said so far about tragedy is true, then the story of Oedipus must also be the story of Greek Culture; indeed it is, albeit a much older one. The events of the Oedipus trilogy occur well before the Oresteia, before even those of the Iliad. As such, they mark a much more primitive stage in the development of Greek society. Again the king stands as the representative of his culture, and the events that ensue revolve around the crown. Today when we think of kingship, we take for granted that the royal title passes to an heir (usually the eldest son) upon the king’s death. Even during the reign of Oedipus, hereditary kinship is the order of the day, but the events of the story harken back to an era when the inheritor of the crown was whomever challenged and killed the current king (see Sir James G. Frazer’s The Golden Bough). In addition to claiming the fallen king’s title, the victor also married his queen. This was non-negotiable, as the queen represented the sovereignty of the land. No would-be king could rule without her. When Oedipus kills his father, the king, and then marries his mother, the queen, he unknowingly enacts an ancient ritual and sets the tragic events into motion. Sophocles’ audience would have understood that the shift in their culture from the barbaric era of regicide to that of hereditary kingship ultimately worked in their favor, as did the later shift from monarchy to democracy. Although the periods of adjustment from one law to the next proved painful, the progress they reaped from tragedy made their society stronger in the long run.

            In the Oresteia, Aeschylus presents a story arc that opens with a societal problem- the tradition of vengeance that left the actors bound to Fate—and ends with a solution—the advent of modernity that allows man to escape Fate via a rational choice of his own Free Will. Also, the problem originates in the older generation (Agamemnon) and comes to its resolution with the younger (Orestes). If this pattern holds for Sophocles’ tale, we should expect the problems faced by Oedipus to be resolved by his daughter, Antigone. That remains to be seen, but we can draw some conclusions based on the African texts we have discussed so far. It is to these works that we now turn.

            In Things Fall Apart, Achebe presents a tragic tale that aligns almost perfectly with the Greek works discussed here. Okonkwo stands as an ideal representative of his culture, a traditionalist to the core. Instead of a king the Ibo are governed by a council of elders, and the respect Okonkwo has earned from his community puts him among the ranks of influential men. Much like Agamemnon and Oedipus, Okonkwo’s culture is in a period of transition, one that will ultimately bring about his demise.

            The problems facing Okonkwo’s society can be divided into internal and external ones. Internally, they have some outdated traditions that no longer serve their needs, such as leaving new-born twins outside to die of exposure. While this practice does not touch Okonkwo’s life directly, another questionable custom does—that of killing hostages upon the oracle’s command. Although Okonkwo never displays tenderness, the boy who has been held hostage in his house for three years has become like a son to him. He thus faces a similar situation to Agamemnon when the time comes to sacrifice Ikemefuna, but Okonkwo never questions what he believes must be done. It is only the next generation—Okonkwo’s son, Nwoye—who can break with tradition.

            The internal problems, while matters of life and death for a few, are ones that the tribe has lived with for untold generations and could go on living with for many more. The external problems, on the other hand, cannot be ignored. Once white men arrive, life as the Ibo have always known it is effectively over. They learn from a neighboring village that a white man cannot be killed without immediate and catastrophic consequences. Instead, Okonkwo’s village makes concessions to the local missionary that seem unimportant, but the long-term effects are virtually the same. The introduction of a monotheistic religion to a traditional society operates much like the introduction of a virus to a healthy body—it spreads until the whole organism is infected. Okonkwo’s untimely death thus signifies the death of his entire culture.

            Like Agamemnon’s son Orestes, it falls to Okonkwo’s son Nwoye to find a new way forward. The older generation is too set in their ways to accept change, but by converting to Christianity Nwoye solves the internal problems that plague his mind and village. No longer will twins die of exposure or hostages be killed at the whim of an oracle; the undesirables who have been outcast even find acceptance in the new religion. Unfortunately, these victories prove worse than hollow. The shift to a modern worldview effectively destroys the village in order to “save” it. By breaking their traditions, Christianity has robbed the Ibo of their identity. They no longer know their place in the world; instead, they have become another faceless mass in the global village.

            In “Master Harold”… and the boys, Fugard deals with the aftermath of the paradigm shift that began in Things Fall Apart. The Africans have learned that Christianization goes hand-in-hand with colonization, which in practical terms means they have become second-class citizens on their own land. Rather than Christianity bringing the outcasts back into society, Apartheid has transformed their entire race into social pariahs. Sam and Willie are not young men, yet they have known only subjugation and discrimination all their lives. For his part, Sam still thinks a better future is possible, that someday he will be able to sit on the same bench as white folks. He invests his hopes in Hally, a white teenager whom he believes he can teach to look past his cultural training and see Sam as a human being, an equal, and a friend worthy of love and respect.

            Some debate exists over whether “Master Harold” qualifies as an actual tragedy. When examined closely, all the elements are present. It is the story of a shifting culture represented by a young man, Hally (the role of Orestes, Nwoye, etc.) His father, who we never see, is the old law and generation of men that cannot change (Agamemnon, Okonkwo, etc.), one that bothers Hally even though he feels bound to honor it. Sam plays the voice of wisdom and reason (Athena) who gives Hally the opportunity to alter the status quo. Ultimately Hally must turn his back on either tradition or a new way, on his father or Sam. As with the classic tragedies, Fugard’s tale is true, yet he is not forced into an ending the way Aeschylus was. To be truthful, Fugard cannot end it. The play must leave us wondering which choice Hally will make, because his culture itself has yet to decide. Although progress has been made toward realizing Sam’s hopes, many South Africans today—both black and white—still are not sure if they want to share the same bench.

            The quote from Voluspa at the start of this paper opens a window on a time when Northern Europe was going to pieces. While the details of the poem may have been specific to their society, the sentiment it expresses is universal- during periods of significant cultural change, things do indeed fall apart. At the end of Voluspa, however, a new world rises up and a new order is established. As in the Greek tragedies, the people have picked up the pieces of their shattered society and reassembled them into a better way forward. Despite the suffering in Agamemnon and The Libation Bearers, The Eumenides points to a brighter future for the Greeks. For the Africans on the other hand, that future is still being written. Apartheid has ended and hope remains, but if the AIDS epidemic, endless famine, wide-spread poverty, and perpetual civil wars are any indication, the ending to their tragedy will be anything but happy. Their society remains broken, and the paradigm shift they have undergone does not bode well for putting the pieces back together again.

(Copy of Hawkins midterm highlighted by instructor)

Jayson Hawkins
Oct. 18, 2011
LITR 5731 Tragedy/Africa Midterm

The Times They Are A-Changin’ . . .

            Brother will fight brother and be his slayer,

            Brother and sister will violate the bond of kinship;

            Hard it is in the world, there is much adultery,

            Axe-age, sword-age, shields are cleft asunder,

            Wind-age, wolf-age, before the world plunges headlong;

            No man will spare another.~ Voluspa st. 45

            The poet of the Old Norse Voluspa vividly captures the anxiety that accompanies a paradigm shift in one’s culture. For Scandinavians in the Viking Age, the life they knew came to an end once Christianity took hold in Northern Europe. The introduction of a foreign faith turned their world upside down, throwing an ancient order into chaos and killing off the old gods. Oddly, we find strikingly similar stories a thousand years later in the post-colonial literature of far away Africa, again from the imposition of a modern religion onto a traditional worldview. If we look into the past to a millennium or more before the Vikings, the classical Greeks composed dramatic literature that also illustrated times of acute crisis and upheaval. The common stream flowing through the writings of these societies separated by seas of time and distance is one of seismic shifts in their culture. It is these vast and abrupt changes that provide the basis for tragedy.

            In Poetics, Aristotle defines tragedy as “an imitation of an action that is serious, complete, and of a certain magnitude . . . .” Furthermore, the action brings about a catharsis in the protagonist. This definition fits well with what we have said above, as a paradigm shift in culture certainly qualifies as “serious, complete, and of a certain magnitude”; however, it would be a difficult task to compose a literary work starring culture as the main character. Tragedy, then, is the story of a cultural shift as seen through the eyes of a representative of that culture. This representative undergoes a cathartic experience, either synthesizing his identity as part of the old world with the ways of the new or failing utterly to do so. Either way, the protagonist offers the audience an answer to dealing with their own tragedies—even if it is the wrong one.

            For the classical Greeks, the representative of their culture in tragedy is invariably a king or some other member of the nobility. While this may strike our modern sensibilities as elitist, we need to consider it in the appropriate historical context. As 21^st century Americans, we take for granted that our law (the “common” law) rests in the power of “We, the people.” Prior to the advent of democracy in Athens, however, the power of the law resided in but one person—the king himself. In addition to the law, all things that contributed to the order and prosperity of the land and its people—or to their demise—originated in the king. As such, only the king or his family could stand as a true representative of their society. We see this clearly in the Oresteia, where the focus of the story moves from the local king, Agamemnon, to his son and would-be successor to the throne, Orestes.

            In the first installment of Aeschylus’s tragic trilogy, we are introduced to what should be a triumphant scene—the return of the conquering king after a decade at war overseas. Although Agamemnon is welcomed back with all the pomp due to his position, an ill current runs just beneath the surface of the celebration. Like all Indo-European peoples, the classical Greeks lived by a strict code of honor that demanded vengeance for any wrong done, especially the death of a kinsman. The requirement of a life for a life often sparked blood-feuds between families that could drag on for generations (think Hatfields and McCoys). In Agamemnon’s unfortunate situation, however, the cycle of vengeance begins not with him slaying a noble son of Troy but instead his own daughter. How can one compensate for the unthinkable act of killing one’s own blood?

            To the modern mind, Agamemnon’s crime clearly casts him as a villain, but we lack the proper cultural context to pass judgment on him. His sacrifice of Iphigeneia is itself done in the service of vengeance. This “harsh fate” proves to be a necessary evil if the sons of Atreus are to avenge the taking of Helen. Thus one cycle of vengeance—Paris stealing Menelaus’ wife, which sparks the Trojan War—gives birth to another—Agamemnon’s sacrifice of his daughter, which destroys his family. It also highlights another common theme of tragedy—the question of Fate vs. Free Will. Agamemnon, like most tragic protagonists, is caught up in a situation beyond his control. He does not want to kill his daughter. He has to. The rules of his society (and the role he plays within it) demand that it be so.

            Even if Agamemnon had no choice but to kill his daughter, Iphigeneia’s death still requires its own vengeance. In this instance, it falls to the victim’s mother to do the bloody deed, even though it means Clytaemnestra must murder her own husband. Orestes then has to avenge his father by killing his mother. Yet who is left to slay Orestes for his crime? Aside from the unusual case of Clytaemnestra avenging her daughter, vengeance is typically a male role. Since no men with the proper blood ties to the queen remain to avenge her, it falls to the Furies to hound her killer.

            As the true focus of the trilogy that bears his name, Orestes is faced with either finding a new way forward or dying as the traditional laws of vengeance declare he must. Determined to live, he appeals to his patron deity, Apollo, who sends him to the city of his sister, Athena. This is significant for reasons perhaps lost on most modern readers. As the birthplace of democracy, Athens is ruled not by a king but by the citizenry. Their law, then, arises from popular vote rather than royal decree. This “new law” is echoed even in Greek mythology when the ancient Titans are overthrown by the new order of the Olympians. This paradigm shift is played out in the Oresteia by Athena (an Olympian) overruling the Furies (representatives of the Titans whom “Olympian gods and men despise” [Eumenides, line 92]). Rather than granting their old law demand for blood vengeance, Athena declares Orestes not guilty in what is “the first trial ever held for murder” under the new law [line 869]. To compensate the Furies for trampling their “ancient laws” [983-84], Athena offers them a new title and function under the Olympian order, thus easing the transition from a traditional society into a modern one. Aeschylus here breaks perhaps the first rule of tragedy by giving the story a happy ending; however, like Agamemnon, he has no choice. Although his works qualify as “myth” or “fiction,” they nonetheless tell the true tale of traditional Greek society finding a better way forward from a tragic past. The story of Orestes is the story of their culture.

            If what we have said so far about tragedy is true, then the story of Oedipus must also be the story of Greek Culture; indeed it is, albeit a much older one. The events of the Oedipus trilogy occur well before the Oresteia, before even those of the Iliad. As such, they mark a much more primitive stage in the development of Greek society. Again the king stands as the representative of his culture, and the events that ensue revolve around the crown. Today when we think of kingship, we take for granted that the royal title passes to an heir (usually the eldest son) upon the king’s death. Even during the reign of Oedipus, hereditary kinship is the order of the day, but the events of the story harken back to an era when the inheritor of the crown was whoever challenged and killed the current king (see Sir James G. Frazer’s The Golden Bough). In addition to claiming the fallen king’s title, the victor also married his queen. This was non-negotiable, as the queen represented the sovereignty of the land. No would-be king could rule without her. When Oedipus kills his father, the king, and then marries his mother, the queen, he unknowingly enacts an ancient ritual and sets the tragic events into motion. Sophocles’ audience would have understood that the shift in their culture from the barbaric era of regicide to that of hereditary kingship ultimately worked in their favor, as did the later shift from monarchy to democracy. Although the periods of adjustment from one law to the next proved painful, the progress they reaped from tragedy made their society stronger in the long run.

            In the Oresteia, Aeschylus presents a story arc that opens with a societal problem- the tradition of vengeance that left the actors bound to Fate—and ends with a solution—the advent of modernity that allows man to escape Fate via a rational choice of his own Free Will. Also, the problem originates in the older generation (Agamemnon) and comes to its resolution with the younger (Orestes). If this pattern holds for Sophocles’ tale, we should expect the problems faced by Oedipus to be resolved by his daughter, Antigone. That remains to be seen, but we can draw some conclusions based on the African texts we have discussed so far. It is to these works that we now turn.

            In Things Fall Apart, Achebe presents a tragic tale that aligns almost perfectly with the Greek works discussed here. Okonkwo stands as an ideal representative of his culture, a traditionalist to the core. Instead of a king the Ibo are governed by a council of elders, and the respect Okonkwo has earned from his community puts him among the ranks of influential men. Much like Agamemnon and Oedipus, Okonkwo’s culture is in a period of transition, one that will ultimately bring about his demise.

            The problems facing Okonkwo’s society can be divided into internal and external ones. Internally, they have some outdated traditions that no longer serve their needs, such as leaving new-born twins outside to die of exposure. While this practice does not touch Okonkwo’s life directly, another questionable custom does—that of killing hostages upon the oracle’s command. Although Okonkwo never displays tenderness, the boy who has been held hostage in his house for three years has become like a son to him. He thus faces a similar situation to Agamemnon when the time comes to sacrifice Ikemefuna, but Okonkwo never questions what he believes must be done. It is only the next generation—Okonkwo’s son, Nwoye—who can break with tradition.

            The internal problems, while matters of life and death for a few, are ones that the tribe has lived with for untold generations and could go on living with for many more. The external problems, on the other hand, cannot be ignored. Once white men arrive, life as the Ibo have always known it is effectively over. They learn from a neighboring village that a white man cannot be killed without immediate and catastrophic consequences. Instead, Okonkwo’s village makes concessions to the local missionary that seem unimportant, but the long-term effects are virtually the same. The introduction of a monotheistic religion to a traditional society operates much like the introduction of a virus to a healthy body—it spreads until the whole organism is infected. Okonkwo’s untimely death thus signifies the death of his entire culture.

            Like Agamemnon’s son Orestes, it falls to Okonkwo’s son Nwoye to find a new way forward. The older generation is too set in their ways to accept change, but by converting to Christianity Nwoye solves the internal problems that plague his mind and village. No longer will twins die of exposure or hostages be killed at the whim of an oracle; the undesirables who have been outcast even find acceptance in the new religion. Unfortunately, these victories prove worse than hollow. The shift to a modern worldview effectively destroys the village in order to “save” it. By breaking their traditions, Christianity has robbed the Ibo of their identity. They no longer know their place in the world; instead, they have become another faceless mass in the global village.

            In “Master Harold”… and the boys, Fugard deals with the aftermath of the paradigm shift that began in Things Fall Apart. The Africans have learned that Christianization goes hand-in-hand with colonization, which in practical terms means they have become second-class citizens on their own land. Rather than Christianity bringing the outcasts back into society, Apartheid has transformed their entire race into social pariahs. Sam and Willie are not young men, yet they have known only subjugation and discrimination all their lives. For his part, Sam still thinks a better future is possible, that someday he will be able to sit on the same bench as white folks. He invests his hopes in Hally, a white teenager whom he believes he can teach to look past his cultural training and see Sam as a human being, an equal, and a friend worthy of love and respect.

            Some debate exists over whether “Master Harold” qualifies as an actual tragedy. When examined closely, all the elements are present. It is the story of a shifting culture represented by a young man, Hally (the role of Orestes, Nwoye, etc.) His father, who we never see, is the old law and generation of men that cannot change (Agamemnon, Okonkwo, etc.), one that bothers Hally even though he feels bound to honor it. Sam plays the voice of wisdom and reason (Athena) who gives Hally the opportunity to alter the status quo. Ultimately Hally must turn his back on either tradition or a new way, on his father or Sam. As with the classic tragedies, Fugard’s tale is true, yet he is not forced into an ending the way Aeschylus was. To be truthful, Fugard cannot end it. The play must leave us wondering which choice Hally will make, because his culture itself has yet to decide. Although progress has been made toward realizing Sam’s hopes, many South Africans today—both black and white—still are not sure if they want to share the same bench.

            The quote from Voluspa at the start of this paper opens a window on a time when Northern Europe was going to pieces. While the details of the poem may have been specific to their society, the sentiment it expresses is universal- during periods of significant cultural change, things do indeed fall apart. At the end of Voluspa, however, a new world rises up and a new order is established. As in the Greek tragedies, the people have picked up the pieces of their shattered society and reassembled them into a better way forward. Despite the suffering in Agamemnon and The Libation Bearers, The Eumenides points to a brighter future for the Greeks. For the Africans on the other hand, that future is still being written. Apartheid has ended and hope remains, but if the AIDS epidemic, endless famine, wide-spread poverty, and perpetual civil wars are any indication, the ending to their tragedy will be anything but happy. Their society remains broken, and the paradigm shift they have undergone does not bode well for putting the pieces back together again.