Tragedy: The Myth of Fall

A flashback on my favorite study on theory of literature: Northrop Frye's "Archetypal Criticism: Theory of Myths: The Mythos of Autumn: Tragedy" (Northrop Frye, "Anatomy of Criticism: Four Essays." Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press. 1973).

'In contrast with comedy, which deals with characters in society, tragedy is more concentrated on a single individual.
The tragic hero is indeed very great, but there is something on the side of him, compared to which he is small. This can be God, deities, fate, accident, or some other aspects.

The center of tragedy is in the hero's isolation.
Concerning something beyond, its name is variable, yet the form of which it manifests itself is fairly constant. Whatever the context is, tragedy tends to lead up to an epiphany of law ("what is, and must be").

The vision of law in tragedy operates as a revenge.
The tragic hero provokes enmity or inherits a situation of enmity, and the return of the avenger constitutes the catasthrope.
The tragic hero is a disturbance toward the balance in nature, which sooner or later must right itself.
The righting of the balance is called "nemesis."
The agents can be human/ghostly/divine vengeance/divine justice/accident/fate or the logic of events, but the underlying point is that the nemesis happens!

There are two reductive formulae which are frequently used to explain tragedy:

(1) the theory that all tragedy exhibits the omnipotence of an external fate, and
(2) the theory that the act which sets the tragic process going must be primarily a violation of moral law, whether human or divine.

Tragedy seems to elude the antithesis of moral responsibility and arbitrary law, as well as the antithesis of good and evil.
Anyone who is used to think archetypally of literature will realize that there is a mimesis of sacrifice within tragedy.'

Storms... Bring Out Eagles

When the “storms of life”
Gather darkly ahead,
I think of these wonderful words
I once read…

And I say to myself,
As threatening clouds hover,
“Don’t fold up your wings
And run for cover.”

But, like the eagle,
Spread wide your wings
And soar far above
The troubles life brings.

For the eagle knows
That the higher he flies,
The more tranquil and brighter
Become the skies.

And there is nothing in life
We were ever asked to bear
That we can’t soar above
On the wings of prayer.

And in looking back over
The storm you passed through,
You’ll find you gained strength
And new courage, too.

For in facing life’s storms
With an eagle’s wings,
You can fly far above
Earth’s small, petty things.



- Helen Steiner Rice -

A Painting on My Bedroom's Wall

I see a river and a mill,
Standing on the foot of a hill.
I think the river holds its smile,
For no laughter's heard at the while.
Two damsels sit still in their boat,
And the boys run as if afloat.
I see a barn and a farm's yard,
Two gardens full-covered with sward,
White fences dividing the lawns,
The farmer gives a constant frown!
I see a stallion and a mare,
Two ducks, two sows, and no mad hare!

I believe I see them all talk,
In ways that doesn't move the clock.
I love the river and the mill,
Though forever they will stand still.

I love their silence even more,
And hear it rushing to the shore.


Shamantika -- June 24, 2002 (09.38 p.m.)

Somewhere Between Was and Am

A man sat underneath a tree
In the vast overgrowing city,
Among three huge shopping malls,
That stand on the space which once
Were children's playgrounds,
Mossy swamps and rice fields.

He was naked,
Despite the piece of cloth
Wrapping his loins.
His head was shaved,
Though not his beard.
Staring at the vehicles
Passing and honking before him,
There was barely light in his eyes.

The world around him
Spoke of things not perceived,
Screamed of intelligence unintelligible.
Too much...
Too harsh...
Hush...!

No longer could he hear
The sound of the rushing world.
No longer would he be able to see
The flashing lights before him.
Soon everything would fade.
Soon all would end.
By the end of the day,
As the sun set behind the skyscrapers,
The light would disappear,
And he would be gone,
Though he still was.

Then,

Peace.



---Shamantika---

[Upon my last visit to Surabaya, March 20, 2010]

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both.

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I --

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

(Robert Frost -- 1874-1963)

The Words of the Preacher

Do not say, “Why were the old days better than these?”

For it is not wise to ask such questions.

True, Your Majesty.

But if thou live in our days,

Thou would consider those verses a hundred times over.

Still, Your Majesty.

I live in my time and consider my days hundreds of nights.

Thy verses I keep in the depth of my heart:

“And I declared that the dead, who had already died,

Are happier than the living, who are still alive.”

(Ecclesiastes 4:2, 7:10)

Frank Herbert's DUNE: The Future of Our Earth?

One of the science fictions that really give me the shudder is Frank Herbert’s Dune. I shiver not because of what the book exposes, but the possibility that the fiction of this story might one day become real in our own world.

Paul Atreides was the heir of the Atreides dynasty, a highly honored clan in the universe. At 17, he and his parents moved to the planet Arrakis, the home of spice and the driest place in the galaxy. In this universe, spice is the means of transaction, a sort of “money” or “foreign exchange” as we may put it in our word. Whoever controls Arrakis controls the universe. But, the natives of Arrakis themselves are wretched people, scorched by the sun and lived in dunes – forever treasuring a drop of water like precious diamond.

There was an instance where Paul’s would-be mistress, Chani, asked him what his home planet was like. Paul explained of springs, streams, rivers and oceans – things she had never heard, never seen, and never imagined – and her heart melt with longing for such beautiful a place.

It is a wonderful and very complicated work, but the thing that stabs me most is the probability that one day, our beloved Earth will turn out exactly like Arrakis! Alvin Toffler, the futuristic scientist, once predicted that in the age to come, people won’t be fighting and struggling for solid gold or black gold (petroleum), but for “blue gold” – WATER! There will come a day when water becomes so rare, mankind will prize it like prizing pure gold!

The signs of this occurrence have begun taking place in our day. People start having difficulty getting clean water for their daily needs. Some springs have dried up. The oceans are polluted and contaminated. Environmentalists shout warnings against water contamination.

Has anyone taken heed?

If we continue taking these environmental problems for granted, it is not impossible that in the near future we shall be craving for clean water and won’t be able to find it! Will we rather let our next generations living in a planet like Arrakis, the center of the universe yet the most wretched planet in the galaxy – a place where its inhabitants would give away anything in exchange for water supply?

Save our planet! Love our forest! Be kind to nature!

Somewhere Between Keats and Kipling

I love poetry. I love it especially when it’s symbolic. I love it most when it’s archetypal. Analyzing poetry can be as fun as opening a wrapped present and find another wrapping inside – then you can go on and on unwrapping it until you find the real gift inside. And what satisfaction you feel when you hold that tiny, precious gift between your fingers!

I took Romantic Poetry as my major in college, and focused on the works of Keats. I love his dreamlike ideas, his archetypes and fine touch. I graduated after writing a thesis on his Endymion: A Poetic Romance.

Yet, somehow, whenever life trials get the best of me, seldom do I reflect on the great works of those Romantic poets I love so dearly. It is a simple poem by Rudyard Kipling that I mostly read over and over. And with each reading I find new strength and hope, whatever trouble may befall. It goes like this:

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

Or, being hated, don’t give way to hating,

And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream – and not make dreams your master;

If you can think – and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with triumph and disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

And stoop and build ‘em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breathe a word about your loss,

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the will which says to them: “Hold on”;

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue;

Or walk with kings – nor lose the common touch;

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;

If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty-seconds’ worth of distance run –

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,

And – which is more – you’ll be a Man, my son!

Simple, isn’t it? It’s very much like a father’s admonition to his son. Sometimes, when things get so out of hand and we feel like losing our grip, it is not the great ideas and deep, wise words that can steady our feet.

All we need is some comforting words from one who really cares…

A Little Butterfly

I found a pretty, little butterfly

Trapped in my living room, one day.

It flapped its wings against the window,

Tirelessly – hopelessly –

Fighting hard to reach the outside world:

The sky, the wind, the sunlight gleam.

“Don’t worry, little thing,” said I.

“I’ll set you free, you’ll see.”

I opened the window to let it fly away

To freedom and – OH! –

It flew straight into a spider’s web

And ended in the spinner’s mouth!

I felt so sorry and began to sob,

“I thought I was doing good…”

But you were, said a still, small voice.

To the starving spider.

Text and Interpretation

“The death of the writer.”
Have you ever heard of the phrase? Post-modern theory of literature claims that a writer is dead, even when he/she is still alive. When? As soon as his/her work is published!
The point is: once a literary work goes out into the open, it is no longer regarded as sole property of the writer. From the moment it comes into publication, it becomes the reader’s and society’s full right to give interpretations of the context. Hence: publication is the death of the writer.
Shakespeare (bless his soul!) would have no right to refute in case someone came up with conclusions that Hamlet was a double-minded man and Macbeth a total psycho. Ayu Utami cannot object when others judge her novels, Saman and Larung as obscene, and Dan Brown must remain silent as public denounce Da Vinci Code as heresy.
Regardless of the author’s idea and intention, public interpretation of a literary work can grow broad and unlimited. Sometimes, interpretations vary and take on a new course in keeping up with the trend of time. Here are some examples:
· Luc Besson’s The Messenger gives us a brand new angle at viewing the legend of Jeanne D’Arc. Instead of a saint, we are presented with an ordinary peasant girl who’s mentally disturbed from childhood at the heart of the story. So, we wonder: are the voices she hears truly a message from God or mere delusions?
· Peter Jackson made a wonderful interpretation of J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings when he transferred the role of Arwen Undomiel from the appendix to the core of the story. I doubt if Tolkien would consent to it, but it certainly made the whole story more understandable and enjoyable to fans and movie-goers worldwide.
· And these days, we’ve got Daniel Craig playing Agent 007. Contradictory to the classical version of Ian Fleming’s James Bond, this British secret agent actually falls in love with a single woman, no longer beds hot chicks and cares nothing if his martini’s shaken or stirred.
This is the 21st century. Interpretation is in the hand of the readers. Let’s see who’ll come up next and set the world onto a brand new course in defining the classic.

Shelley

If there is a poet I greatly admire for the finest, musical quality of his works, it’s Shelley. But rhymes only would speak too little to depict the man.
Percy Bysshe Shelley, eldest son of Sir Timothy Shelley and husband of Mary W. Godwin Shelley (author of FRANKENSTEIN), was one of England’s most celebrated poets – who was also recorded as one of the most revolutionary writers in British history.
Noteworthy for his outspoken views on politics, Shelley was forced to undergo exile in Italy, where he continued to write on behalf of the oppressed of his people. (It is worth noting that the majority of British citizens in those days – children included – were hard-laborers with little or no prospect of gaining a better standard of living.)
Shelley wrote in MEN OF ENGLAND: A SONG (1819):

Sow seed – but let no tyrant reap;
Find wealth – let no impostor heap;
Weave robes – let not the idle wear;
Forge arms – in your defence to bear.

Shelley, the revolutionist, died a month before his 30th birthday. The ship he boarded drowned on the voyage from Leghorn to Lerici.
Like most defenders of human rights, he was silenced…