Hanna Mak

February 28 2016

Part I: A Lesson in Complements

          There is much to be gained from the study of tragic literature across different cultures, perhaps especially in terms of what elements they share; but at the same time, it is also important to remember that the Western and African traditions of tragedy, while sharing definite parallels in many respects, still represent distinct cultural viewpoints. Although the humanist tendency to perceive universal truths across cultures is often enlightening in its connectivity or even perilously appealing in its purported sense of harmony, there are aspects to each culture that simply cannot be translated elsewhere in its total meaning; an African mask enshrined in a museum (however inspiring to Picasso), will inevitably mean much differently when divorced from its original context. Therefore, it is imperative to maintain a sense of perspective and judiciousness in the course of such a cross-cultural study, however daunting (or potentially impossible) a task that may be. Perhaps there is no perfect method to attain this balance-- but exposure to a healthy variety of well-crafted viewpoints may be a necessary place for a prospective student of these diverse works to begin. Jayson Hawkins’ essentially humanist essay, “The Times They Are A-Changin’...” provides a measured and highly organized example of the ways in which these works can ultimately meet, even beginning his argument with a quotation from a work in Old Norse. Isaac Villanueva’s essay, “The Value of Learning by Experiencing Tragedy and Africa,” assumes a different, perhaps somewhat less fluid argument structure, but concludes with an extremely important point that Hawkins largely neglects. While each essay often emphases different points, the efforts of Hawkins and Villanueva ultimately serve to inform and complement one another in a manner that is useful to other students engaged in the cross-cultural study of tragedy.

          The most interesting and creative aspect of Hawkins’ essay may most obviously be the particular connective tissue that makes his argument function-- the recurring theme of great societal upheaval amongst Old Norse, Greek and African societies, as well as its connection to their respective tragic works; a rather inventive approach to the subject matter. However, realistically, it is the overarching structure of his argument that fundamentally allows this idea to gain traction. When he opens with the Old Norse quote and explains its historical context, he sets the tone and general theme for the rest of the piece, while simultaneously capturing the reader’s attention with the unexpected though pertinent reference to similarities in yet another culture. When he transitions into Aristotle’s Poetics, he provides the reader with an important philosophical and historical basis for his inventive assertions, which argue for the thematic similarities between tragedies of differing cultures in the process of social upheaval--as represented in the Oresteia, Things Fall Apart, and Master Harold and the Boys. While the subject matter of Hawkins’ essay is particularly interesting in its own right, the example of his work also seems to demonstrate the heightened importance of precise language and a logical argument when treading the line of comparison between markedly disparate cultures--while there are certainly bound to be similarities, there will just as certainly be differences, and a level of sensitivity is required in order to do justice to each; perhaps to a greater degree than a collection of comparable texts from the same period and culture.

In the beginning and middle of his essay, Villanueva focuses upon the similarities between these particular texts as well, but does so with a different set of emphases and a different argument structure. Perhaps his connection between the texts is more generalized for being grounded in the direct similarities of their plot, or for his acknowledgement of their shared adherences to established elements of tragic convention--such as those established by Aristotle in his Poetics. Although valid, this is likely the least engaging aspect of his essay--perhaps for its lack of risk. On the other hand, however, the information that the essay presents in these sections does an admirable job of recapping important details about the texts and about the fundamental expectations of tragedy; in that particular capacity it may exceed the Hawkins essay, filling in details about the subject matter that are important for students to remember in order to build a more complex and measured understanding of the material.

However, while both essays address the question of free will versus fate, the most compelling point within Villanueva’s essay was ultimately facilitated by his particular exploration of this question, as well as its centrality to the later stages of his argument. From the middle to the end of his essay, Villanueva reveals the hand of fate in each of the works that he examines, and in his conclusion, extends this connection further into biblical allusion. In doing so, he presents the reader with a conundrum--although the hand of fate is strong in each of these works, Christian doctrine still purports mankind’s free will. With this in mind, he asserts that each of the tragic heroes ultimately chose what was “right” according to each of their respective cultures, but were still punished by the cruelty of fate, revealing much of the fallibility of individuals and cultures. He suggests a compelling argument for the relativity of morals--that each culture’s ideas of barbarism and of nobility are beyond the grasp of absolutes. While Hawkins’ essay is creative and skillfully crafted, it somewhat neglects this point in favor of the factors that unify each culture; when read together, the essays provide a breadth and balance of ideas that are useful for the prospective student of tragedy and African literature to bear in mind.

Part II: The Sacred Music of Tragedy

          If we accept Nietzsche’s assertion that Greek tragedy is a “metaphysical miracle”--an equal “coupling” of the Apolline and Dionysiac--and we agree to measure an artist’s mastery of the tragic form with an eye for the skillful manipulation of these forces’ ebb and flow within a work, we will almost certainly find Soyinka and the Ancient Greek tragedians crossing paths more frequently than they diverge (14). However, on the level of the Apolline alone, with its roots in the visual arts and the lucid poetics of dialogue, it may be the case that we are met with the most cultural divergence--albeit in a manner that is both fortunate and necessary. The chosen language, as well as the articulated “dream images” in one culture’s Apolline vein, may not translate so wholly and satisfactorily into another (15). It is a divergence that is fruitful for its challenges to our cultural expectations, as well as the reflection that such a challenge necessarily invites.

At the same time that we acknowledge the intellectual benefits of these differences, however, we must also turn our attention to other forces at play within these tragic works, perhaps more culturally unifying for their role in the erasure of self; their evocation of simultaneous dread and “blissful ecstasy” which “rises up from man’s innermost core” (16). Although the Dionysiac, when encountered in the works both of Soyinka and the Ancient Greeks, will inevitably reflect unique elements of each original culture in its circumstance, the sublime “intoxication” of its music--whether reverberating through the beat of drums or in its “reveling choruses”--effectively speaks some message across cultures, seeking “to destroy individuality and redeem it with a mystical sense of unity” (18).

          While the Dionysiac is often fittingly described in terms of its intoxicating properties, in tragedy, that state is frequently also depicted as sacred--an association perhaps less strange or paradoxical that it may initially appear. Through the musical traditions of many cultures, the sacred and intoxicating may be shown to merge. For example, in the Dattilam, an ancient Indian musical compendium, we see these themes combine in the mythic origin of the lute and drum. When Soma (as the personification of an intoxicating Vedic ritual drink) was stolen from the gods, the goddess Vāc (as the personification of sacred speech) offered herself as the price to buy it back; on gaining Soma, however, she refused to return, and retreated into the woods--the gods cursed the woods, but the trees would not harm her, instead dispersing her into the “drum, the lute, the reed-pipes” (Nijenhuis* 65). In this manner, the myth explores not only the origin of the instrument’s sound, but also the capacity of its music to evoke the sacred or otherwise guide towards spiritual transcendence. Echoes of these themes are present in Soyinka’s Death and the King’s Horseman, as well as Euripides’ Bacchae; while each scene is made distinct through the precise Apolline tempering of its respective culture and historical circumstances, the haunting Dionysian presence of this seeming paradox still remains potent, an intact spiritual bridge between disparate cultures.

          With the myth of Vāc still fresh in our minds, let us first turn to the role of the drum in these sacred rites. At the beginning of the ritual in Death and the King’s Horseman, the distant drumming from the village is the unifying pulse of the ceremony; it functions to signal the sacred timing throughout the ritual, and to progressively guide Elesin into a hypnosis, more receptive to his ordained sacrifice--but it also stages for the reader an almost instinctive sense of foreboding for what is about to transpire, casting Elesin’s individual words and actions in a much more ominous light. The beginning drum beat signals to Elesin and to the community that the king’s dog has been killed. The ritual has already begun, and yet directly after the commencement of this rhythmic initiation, his beautiful new bride emerges to stand “shyly by the door,” causing Elesin to remark that their “marriage is not yet wholly fulfilled”--a brief, yet telling flicker of hesitation during a moment when timing is everything (32).

Here, the intended function of the drums is at once communal and sacred, concerned with Dionysiac immersion into a ritual of transcendence which concerns the fate of all; the presence of the bride, however, gives Elesin a moment of pause with the fleshly concerns of the self. This ruin of the fleshly is strongly in accordance with Nietzsche’s distinction between the “Dionysiac Greeks” and the so-called “Dionysiac barbarians;” Soyinka’s representation is in line with that of the Greeks (19).  In the former, the Dionysiac impulse is moderated by the Apollonian through a “timely reconciliation”--a phenomenon not of “lust and cruelty” but of unifying joy, awe, and horror, “bemoaning . . . fragmentation into individuals” (20). Each extreme elevates the other, paving the way for the sacred even among the revelatory and terrible--but this balanced negotiation is delicate. Tellingly, the tragic conflict in Soyinka’s work confronts such a concept of fragmentation, placing communally driven transcendence as the sustaining natural order; a sacred rite tragically fated to be broken.

          Unsurprisingly, this moderating role of the drum is not limited only to these Indian and African narratives; its sacred rhythm accompanies significant meaning in Euripides’ Bacchae as well, signaling the passage of another key Dionysian element--the chorus. The chorus of women worshippers appear, dancing and singing with their drums. In their exclamations of worship, the women reveal the mix of the sacred and terrible in their song for Bacchus. First, they quickly reveal the communal nature of their celebration, speaking as if it were an all-consuming tide in which those must join or else be swept aside: “Who’s in the street? Who’s there? Who? / Let him stay inside/ out of our way” (91-93). Here is the dramatic Greek equivalent of Nietzsche’s medieval German “singing and dancing throngs, constantly increasing, wandering from place to place” (17). The women, however, immediately express the sacred nature of their ecstatic worship: “Let every mouth be pure/ completely holy, / speak no profanities” (94-96). And yet, while the women stress the pious nature of such celebrations, they twist their hair with wild snakes, “stung to frenzied madness” (132-135, 151). In this vein, the Bacchic women patently exemplify Nietzsche’s conception of the Greek Dionysian as emerging from “that peace accord” with the Apollonian--the embodiment of that strange yet sacred frenzy.

Likewise, in Death and the King’s Horseman, the sacred Dionysian effect of the chorus is revealed very early, through the interactions of the village women and the playful, mischievous goading of Elesin. When the women of the chorus praise him for his honor, Elesin replies, “Words are cheap. …Well tell me, is this how/ A man of honour should be seen” (11)? As he “roars with laughter,” the women rush to acquire exquisite cloths for him, grateful for his forgiveness, and eager to extend a behavior not unlike worship. Elesin, Iyaloja, and the Praise-Singer each offer their comments on the situation, but these are rhythmically punctuated by the obedient repetitions of the worshipful chorus, over and over again, not unlike the beat of drum in their cadence: “For a while we truly feared/ Our hands had wrenched the world adrift/ In emptiness” (11). The chorus’ repetitions are akin to the beat of the drum in terms of their rhythm, but more importantly are alike in terms of their function and spiritual implications--they are an integral part of a sacred music, an established communal and metaphysical order. They must serve Elesin. The drum must beat. The King’s horseman must die; and each must occur at its ordained moment, lest the world be wrenched adrift “in emptiness” (11).

This Dionysian effect is demonstrably registered through the beat of the drum and the rhythm of the chorus; but what words may aptly be used to explain this cross-cultural thematic resonance? Although this experience is difficult to pinpoint, we may turn to the philosophizing of Nietzsche for assistance in the description of an object which by its nature resists the confinement of words. In his early essay, On Music and Words, he describes the relationship of this “song-text” to the actual experience of music. For Nietzsche, the two are analogous to the relationship of “an Egyptian hieroglyph of bravery” to an actual encounter of a brave warrior in the flesh: “During the highest revelations of music we even feel involuntarily the crudeness of every figurative effort. . . . The symbol, in the face of the god really revealing himself, has no longer any meaning” (37). This may seem potentially reductive of cultures and their meanings; perhaps we have a certain responsibility to be inherently wary of thought processes which wholly cast such distinctions aside for the sake of any such “primal Oneness” (17). Perhaps there are greater lessons to be gained from the Apollonian, expressed in the stately oration of tragedy; but to ignore the presence of its sacred music would also be a mistake. Let us, as readers, negotiate the Apolline and Dionysian as these tragic authors did, taking in the lessons of both the solemn and the sublime.

* Note: Dattilam: A Compendium of Ancient Indian Music, trans. Emmie te Nijenhuis

Part III: Research Plan

Due to an interest in expanding my knowledge of Wole Soyinka’s work, I looked into some of his other plays, but ultimately found an essay in European-language Writing in Sub-Saharan Africa which briefly delineates the Yoruba view of satire’s instrumental function in tragedy and in society:

“The Yoruba laughs too readily in ‘tragedy’ because he does not moralize on the event, but identifies the issues behind the event; …has no sympathy for what man is, but is concerned about man’s action. …It helps man’s evaluative effort to apprehend certain ‘essences’” (Gérard 727).

This conception of laughter in tragedy as a necessary “instrument for change” and evaluative tool is interesting-- the evaluative aspect is certainly in keeping with our course’s definition of tragedy. On the other hand, in many ways, the incorporation of comedy into tragedy pushes against that definition, as well. Yet comedy in tragedy is not exactly an anomaly, and certainly is not limited to the Yoruba, either; I would like to understand more about the ways it has been used (and perhaps misused).

So, I propose to write a research paper on the importance of satire and humor in the Yoruba conception of tragedy, perhaps taking another look at Death and the King’s Horseman, but primarily looking at one of Wole Soyinka’s other plays, the more distinctly satirical Kongi’s Harvest. If it makes sense to do so and is not too much information to process at once, it might also be interesting to examine the comedy of these African tragedies alongside comedy in Shakespeare’s tragedies--I expect that there are differences and similarities in their functions that may shed light on one another.

Any thoughts on how to proceed from here?