In Oedipus Rex, a man finds himself in the extremely unfortunate position of killing his father and sleeping with his own mother, a result of cruel fate coupled with his own choices. Needless to say, everyone's lives in Thebes are ruined forever. This play and disturbing plot have been around for centuries, but it was the famed psychoanalyst Sigmund Freud who first attempted to make something out of this horrible tragedy. He decided to apply these events to all of us, claiming that everyone has roughly the same feelings as Oedipus, whether they try and avoid Fate or not. Freud called his hypothesis "The Oedipus Complex." Whether this hypothesis was just Freud projecting his childhood feelings on the world or just a lot of frippery could never be proven. But the hypothesis itself has fascinated psychology students everywhere, just like the story that was its basis.
Freud first used the term "Oedipus Complex" in 1910, but this topic would interest him for the rest of his life. He gave no end of thought to the possible combinations and scenarios associated with an Oedipus Complex, even going as far as to develop one for girls (which was sometimes referred to as an "Electra Complex", in honor of another Greek tragedy). According to Freud, an Oedipus Complex occurs between the ages of three and five in males. It is at this early stage in a child's development that he first recognizes the father figure as a potential threat to the relationship between him and his mother. Thus, he competes with his own father for his mother's affection, and, according to Freud, subconsciously "wishes to eliminate the father and possess the mother." This conflict of interests is eventually resolved, however, when the child outgrows this period and instead identifies with the father (and simultaneously, but briefly, rejecting his mother) until he finds an outlet for his love. Classical Freudian theory states that this resolution of the Complex is due to the male's "castration anxiety", but this explanation is clearly debatable.
It could be argued that the source of the Oedipus Complex, Oedipus Rex, is not a true example of Freud's shocking hypothesis. After all, Oedipus unwittingly (and, had he known the truth, unwillingly) fulfills his fate - but Freud claimed that this made the play and his hypothesis all the more true. Of Oedipus, Freud said:
"His destiny moves us only because it might have been ours –- because the oracle laid the same curse upon us before our birth as upon him. It is the fate of all of us, perhaps, to direct our first sexual impulse towards our mother and our first hatred and our first murderous wish against our father. Our dreams convince us that this is so."
Freudian foolishness? Perhaps. Then again, we can never truly know the inner machinations of our minds, no matter how advanced psychology may become. Until proven otherwise, the Oedipus Complex and Oedipus Rex will always be present in our minds, haunting in their ideas - or perhaps in their truths. (507)
Monday, January 19, 2009
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Thanatophobia in The Death of Ivan Ilyich
As evident in the title, Tolstoy's novella The Death of Ivan Ilyich is all about one man coming to terms with his own destruction. Webster's Medical Online Dictionary defines the term Thanatophobia very simply, stating it is merely "A fear of death." However, this seemingly straightforward answer proves to be a very complicated matter, as Ivan Ilyich Golovin learns. Though his thanatophobia grows ever larger as the story continues, Ivan Ilyich finally realizes just how beneficial death really is.
From Ivan Ilyich's perspective, death first enters the story when he accidentally bumps his side trying to put up curtains for his new house - proper curtains in a proper house that attempt to prove how proper Ivan Ilyich and his family are, when in reality they are like every other upper-middle-class family in Russia, or so it seems. Perhaps, then, his "bump on the side" is a punishment, from above, for living life so foolishly, so foppishly, so purposelessly. And yet, at the time of the incident, Ivan Ilyich believes his life is finally coming together, and that all is right with the world. In a disarmingly short amount of time, his "correct" life falls to pieces as he becomes completely bedridden, and, worse, as he becomes completely sure of his looming death.
At first, Ivan has the same reaction we all would have in his position: he is terribly frightened of death. He is unsure of the process, unsure of how much time he really has left, unsure of his disease, but most of all he is unsure about the nature of death. The process is to him so foreign and unknown that he cannot at first comprehend it. Ivan's chief joy in life is to have things go according to his will; he becomes upset when things do not happen as he so intended, such as his failure to get promoted. Death, certainly, was not in his plans at all.
Entwined with all this confusion brought on by death is the slow realization that Ivan Ilyich Golovin is not really anything more than ordinary. His reference to "Kiezewetter's Logic" embodies both these hard truths: not only the grim inference of death, but also the equally-grim notion that he, Ivan Ilyich, is no more than an abstract like Caius. From these depressing thoughts, Ivan Ilyich develops an increasingly hysterical thanatophobia - he personifies Death as It, he convinces himself no one cares for him, and he even describes Life as nothing more than "a series of increasing sufferings [that] flies further and further towards its end - the most terrible suffering." He reaches the pit of despair following his communion, at which point he realizes the end is really here - and none of his questions concerning death have been answered.
But in the bottom of this "hole", which he falls through for a good two days, is a ray of light, a glimmer of hope of a life redeemed. Ivan Ilyich Golovin finally realizes what many of his "friends" probably never will - that his life was not "what is should have been." This knowledge finally breaks through the smog cloud of self-pity and self-glorification that has poisoned Ivan - and, indeed, all those in his social class - throughout his entire life. He realizes that death is the best thing that can happen, because it frees him from the pain of life and frees his family from the pain of his suffering. Light replaces death, and Ivan dies liberated from life and triumphant over death. Thus, his thanatophobia dies only as he himself draws his last gasp - but it is no matter, because Ivan Ilyich Golovin conquered life, death, and his fears. He truly dies a happy man. Perhaps, then, that bump on the curtain was not such a bad thing after all: a blessing rather than a chastisement. (643)
From Ivan Ilyich's perspective, death first enters the story when he accidentally bumps his side trying to put up curtains for his new house - proper curtains in a proper house that attempt to prove how proper Ivan Ilyich and his family are, when in reality they are like every other upper-middle-class family in Russia, or so it seems. Perhaps, then, his "bump on the side" is a punishment, from above, for living life so foolishly, so foppishly, so purposelessly. And yet, at the time of the incident, Ivan Ilyich believes his life is finally coming together, and that all is right with the world. In a disarmingly short amount of time, his "correct" life falls to pieces as he becomes completely bedridden, and, worse, as he becomes completely sure of his looming death.
At first, Ivan has the same reaction we all would have in his position: he is terribly frightened of death. He is unsure of the process, unsure of how much time he really has left, unsure of his disease, but most of all he is unsure about the nature of death. The process is to him so foreign and unknown that he cannot at first comprehend it. Ivan's chief joy in life is to have things go according to his will; he becomes upset when things do not happen as he so intended, such as his failure to get promoted. Death, certainly, was not in his plans at all.
Entwined with all this confusion brought on by death is the slow realization that Ivan Ilyich Golovin is not really anything more than ordinary. His reference to "Kiezewetter's Logic" embodies both these hard truths: not only the grim inference of death, but also the equally-grim notion that he, Ivan Ilyich, is no more than an abstract like Caius. From these depressing thoughts, Ivan Ilyich develops an increasingly hysterical thanatophobia - he personifies Death as It, he convinces himself no one cares for him, and he even describes Life as nothing more than "a series of increasing sufferings [that] flies further and further towards its end - the most terrible suffering." He reaches the pit of despair following his communion, at which point he realizes the end is really here - and none of his questions concerning death have been answered.
But in the bottom of this "hole", which he falls through for a good two days, is a ray of light, a glimmer of hope of a life redeemed. Ivan Ilyich Golovin finally realizes what many of his "friends" probably never will - that his life was not "what is should have been." This knowledge finally breaks through the smog cloud of self-pity and self-glorification that has poisoned Ivan - and, indeed, all those in his social class - throughout his entire life. He realizes that death is the best thing that can happen, because it frees him from the pain of life and frees his family from the pain of his suffering. Light replaces death, and Ivan dies liberated from life and triumphant over death. Thus, his thanatophobia dies only as he himself draws his last gasp - but it is no matter, because Ivan Ilyich Golovin conquered life, death, and his fears. He truly dies a happy man. Perhaps, then, that bump on the curtain was not such a bad thing after all: a blessing rather than a chastisement. (643)
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Going Native: A Comparison of Two Imperial Administrators
Douglas Kerr's "Three Ways of Going Wrong" is a convincing article that connects the African colonial stories of Kipling, Conrad, and Coetzee and successfully creates a "myth" that all three stories' plots follow. He is careful to point out, however, that Coetzee inverted the myth by telling his story from the eyes of the transgressor (the Magistrate), the one who "goes native". However, the Magistrate is quite different from someone of Kurtz's nature, and it is in this aspect that Kerr's argument of plot unification becomes unraveled.
In "The Heart of Darkness", Joseph Conrad creates a primordial setting in which a man named Kurtz becomes a fallen hero for the Empire. His capacity to collect rubber is unmatched, but as he becomes more and more acquainted with the local lifestyle, he finds himself unable to resist the call of the wild people and that of the wild forest itself. Kurtz has an insatiable greed for power, so much so that he achieves a supernatural status in both races: a god to the natives, and a Lucifer (a fallen angel) to the Empire. In the pursuit of power, Kurtz loses all inhibitions due to his time spent deep in the recesses of the Congo. His outpost is lined with poles, atop of which sit the severed heads of his enemies. When he is finally forced to leave with the rest of the men, Kurtz becomes increasingly weak as he leaves his place of power, and perhaps more clear-headed as well. His famous last words, "The horror!" indicate that he finally had an epiphany and has seen the evils of his ways, presumably before going to meet the evilest one of them all. There is no doubt in anyone's mind of the nefarity with which Kurtz strays from imperial decree and goes, as Kerr puts it, "beyond the pale."
On the other hand, Coetzee's Magistrate does not appear to have evil intentions when he "goes native". Rather, his interest in not just the barbarian girl but also the barbarians themselves and their culture is more like an intellectual curiosity - at first. However, as he becomes more and more associated with the barbarian girl, and finally when he is arrested, he is viewed as someone who became too close to the barbarians, someone who sympathizes with them. Whether he is genuine in this emotion is debatable: the Magistrate is a man who likes to think he is doing something noble and just so it can be recorded in history, when he reality he doubts everything about himself and the people around him. However insecure the Magistrate may be, his reasons for fighting the will of the Empire are far more benevolent than those of Kurtz'.
Both the Magistrate and Kurtz have steely resolves, yet both ultimately fail in their quests. The Empire triumphs, leaving Kurtz dead and the Magistrate, in effect, a non-entity. This similarity is one that Kerr could have pointed out: that no matter how the individual fights, the Empire wins, even in the face of defeat (as in "Waiting for the Barbarians"). The cold sunglasses of Colonel Joll represent much more than a fashion statement. His face is the impassive face of any Empire: a face that betrays no emotions, save for the unending quest for eternal self-preservation. It is a quest that neither the fanaticism of Kurtz nor the pathos of the Magistrate can extinguish, revealing, in the end, how similar they are. (575)
In "The Heart of Darkness", Joseph Conrad creates a primordial setting in which a man named Kurtz becomes a fallen hero for the Empire. His capacity to collect rubber is unmatched, but as he becomes more and more acquainted with the local lifestyle, he finds himself unable to resist the call of the wild people and that of the wild forest itself. Kurtz has an insatiable greed for power, so much so that he achieves a supernatural status in both races: a god to the natives, and a Lucifer (a fallen angel) to the Empire. In the pursuit of power, Kurtz loses all inhibitions due to his time spent deep in the recesses of the Congo. His outpost is lined with poles, atop of which sit the severed heads of his enemies. When he is finally forced to leave with the rest of the men, Kurtz becomes increasingly weak as he leaves his place of power, and perhaps more clear-headed as well. His famous last words, "The horror!" indicate that he finally had an epiphany and has seen the evils of his ways, presumably before going to meet the evilest one of them all. There is no doubt in anyone's mind of the nefarity with which Kurtz strays from imperial decree and goes, as Kerr puts it, "beyond the pale."
On the other hand, Coetzee's Magistrate does not appear to have evil intentions when he "goes native". Rather, his interest in not just the barbarian girl but also the barbarians themselves and their culture is more like an intellectual curiosity - at first. However, as he becomes more and more associated with the barbarian girl, and finally when he is arrested, he is viewed as someone who became too close to the barbarians, someone who sympathizes with them. Whether he is genuine in this emotion is debatable: the Magistrate is a man who likes to think he is doing something noble and just so it can be recorded in history, when he reality he doubts everything about himself and the people around him. However insecure the Magistrate may be, his reasons for fighting the will of the Empire are far more benevolent than those of Kurtz'.
Both the Magistrate and Kurtz have steely resolves, yet both ultimately fail in their quests. The Empire triumphs, leaving Kurtz dead and the Magistrate, in effect, a non-entity. This similarity is one that Kerr could have pointed out: that no matter how the individual fights, the Empire wins, even in the face of defeat (as in "Waiting for the Barbarians"). The cold sunglasses of Colonel Joll represent much more than a fashion statement. His face is the impassive face of any Empire: a face that betrays no emotions, save for the unending quest for eternal self-preservation. It is a quest that neither the fanaticism of Kurtz nor the pathos of the Magistrate can extinguish, revealing, in the end, how similar they are. (575)
Monday, November 24, 2008
Initial Responses to WFB
When I first began reading Waiting for the Barbarians, I didn't like the story so much as I liked the relatively "normal" wrtiting style. After the pretentiousness of Conrad and the stream of consciousness of Faulkner, I was more than ready to encounter a simplistic, straight-forward, plot-driven novel like the one Coetzee writes.
The storyline itself, however, did not grab my interest - at first. Coetzee's Magistrate (the narrator) plays the atypical "white knight", caring for Colonel Joll's prisoners in a motherly fasion. He immediately believes in their innocence, and he grows increasingly hateful of Colonel Joll for his torture tactics, which result in the death of the old prisoner. When the Colonel finally does leave, the Magistrate is relieved to be "alone again in a world [he] know[s] and understand[s]." Unfortunately, after this incident, his world will never be the same again. The visit from Colonel Joll is the first stone tossed by the Empire; by the end of the novel, the outpost has been buried by an empirical avalanche.
I think part of the reason the story did not initially appeal to me was the apparent lack of depth concerning our narrator. At first, he is merely an opposite to the dark forces of the Empire. HIs personality and character are revealed more and more as the novel progresses, and there are sides of him that are positively disturbing. Take, for example, his utterly bizarre relationship with the barbarian girl. When he brought her into his home, I believed he was just being a Good Samaritan. Then, at night, he begins that strange ritual of rubbing her broken ankles and cleaning her legs. This interaction would be similar to that of a lover, but the Magistrate hardly ever considers actually having intercourse with his slave (yes - she is no better than a slave to him, I think). Eventually, he is even repulsed by her. The Magistrate's frequent mood swings and his over-sexuality add to the novel as a whole, because the narrator is no longer just a good man protecting against the Empire - in some senses, he is a barbarian himself. (355)
The storyline itself, however, did not grab my interest - at first. Coetzee's Magistrate (the narrator) plays the atypical "white knight", caring for Colonel Joll's prisoners in a motherly fasion. He immediately believes in their innocence, and he grows increasingly hateful of Colonel Joll for his torture tactics, which result in the death of the old prisoner. When the Colonel finally does leave, the Magistrate is relieved to be "alone again in a world [he] know[s] and understand[s]." Unfortunately, after this incident, his world will never be the same again. The visit from Colonel Joll is the first stone tossed by the Empire; by the end of the novel, the outpost has been buried by an empirical avalanche.
I think part of the reason the story did not initially appeal to me was the apparent lack of depth concerning our narrator. At first, he is merely an opposite to the dark forces of the Empire. HIs personality and character are revealed more and more as the novel progresses, and there are sides of him that are positively disturbing. Take, for example, his utterly bizarre relationship with the barbarian girl. When he brought her into his home, I believed he was just being a Good Samaritan. Then, at night, he begins that strange ritual of rubbing her broken ankles and cleaning her legs. This interaction would be similar to that of a lover, but the Magistrate hardly ever considers actually having intercourse with his slave (yes - she is no better than a slave to him, I think). Eventually, he is even repulsed by her. The Magistrate's frequent mood swings and his over-sexuality add to the novel as a whole, because the narrator is no longer just a good man protecting against the Empire - in some senses, he is a barbarian himself. (355)
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Konrad Korzeniowski's Letters En Route to the Congo
- Begins with a very Romanticized childhood story of knowing he wanted to go to Africa when he was younger; characteristic of Conrad's grandiose style
- Past experiences: one year spent at Malay Archipelago, two years as "master" of an Austrailan boat in Pacific and Indian Oceans (the Otago, Jan. 1888 - Mar. 1889)
- No apparent reason for either of these professions, nor of journeying to Africa
- Original name: Konrad N. Korzeniowski; alternate names: C. Korzeniowski, Conrad Korzeniowski, Conrad, J. C. Korzeniowski
- Writes to: Uncle Alexander (dies shortly before seeing him), Aunt Marguerite (widow of Alexander), Maryleczka (cousin), Karol (cousin); all very warm with family members
- Departure for Africa very inauspicious, according to Conrad: rain, "dismal day", etc.
- Pretty pessimistic view on life: "in this wicked world", "One doubts the future", definition of life: "A little illusion, many dreams, a rare flash of happiness followed by disillusionment, a little anger and much suffering, and then the end"
- Is disheartened and "uneasy" about the fact that "there are only 7 per cent. who can do their three years' service!" But Conrad leaves himself after only six months, along with the other 60% of the Company's employees
- Isn't looking forward to the twenty-day trek to Leopoldville on foot ("How horrible!") and is interested in the prospect of commanding a "sea-going ship" following his return
- Why did Conrad take this job?
- Past experiences: one year spent at Malay Archipelago, two years as "master" of an Austrailan boat in Pacific and Indian Oceans (the Otago, Jan. 1888 - Mar. 1889)
- No apparent reason for either of these professions, nor of journeying to Africa
- Original name: Konrad N. Korzeniowski; alternate names: C. Korzeniowski, Conrad Korzeniowski, Conrad, J. C. Korzeniowski
- Writes to: Uncle Alexander (dies shortly before seeing him), Aunt Marguerite (widow of Alexander), Maryleczka (cousin), Karol (cousin); all very warm with family members
- Departure for Africa very inauspicious, according to Conrad: rain, "dismal day", etc.
- Pretty pessimistic view on life: "in this wicked world", "One doubts the future", definition of life: "A little illusion, many dreams, a rare flash of happiness followed by disillusionment, a little anger and much suffering, and then the end"
- Is disheartened and "uneasy" about the fact that "there are only 7 per cent. who can do their three years' service!" But Conrad leaves himself after only six months, along with the other 60% of the Company's employees
- Isn't looking forward to the twenty-day trek to Leopoldville on foot ("How horrible!") and is interested in the prospect of commanding a "sea-going ship" following his return
- Why did Conrad take this job?
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Closure in Faulkner's "The Sound and The Fury"
I believe the only event in the final "Dilsey" section of the novel that signifies closure was Quentin's robbery of her brother. Her departure leaves the family completely devoid of any variety in their daily lives, and now the remaining household members will be forced to deal with each other in the same boring routine until another member (presumably Mother) dies. Apart from the drama that Quentin causes, there is nothing else out of the ordinary in this section. It's true that Dilsey, Frony, Luster, and Benjy go to church, but they attend services occasionally according to the novel. It's also true that Luster deviates from the standard road to the graveyard (for the first time ever, perhaps), which completely upsets Benjy. However, this is quickly remedied by Jason, who forces Nancy back onto the old path. Neither of these events are life-changing or particularly significant, but they do give us examples of the continuing decay of the once-proud Compson family. I may not agree with Dilsey's statement, "I seed de beginnin, en now I sees de endin," because I don't see the ending quite yet; there is no question, however, that the end is near for not only the Compson family but also for the atmosphere of the old Deep South. (212)
Monday, October 27, 2008
Flower Symbology in "The Sound and the Fury"
Throughout Faulkner's classic novel The Sound and the Fury, there is a great deal of folkloric references made by a variety of characters. However, most of these concern "Southern regional and Negro folk beliefs" (2), which are not widely known. Thankfully, Charles D. Peavy explains the many allusions to Southern life that Faulkner makes in his article, "Faulkner's Use of Folklore in The Sound and the Fury".
The most interesting point in this article that I found was Peavy's discussion of the relevance of flowers in the novel, specifically Benjy's attraction to the jimson weed. To begin with, the jimson weed (Datura stramonium) is a member of the nightshade family and is by consequence poisonous. As Peavy points out, the fact that Luster and his relatives even allow Benjy to play with the weed is quite surprising given its potentially life-threatening toxicity. Furthermore, the jimson weed is quite malodorous, and it is sometimes referred to as the stinkweed. This association can be important in a number of ways, but I believe it is most central as an extension of the theme of smell. Quentin associates honeysuckle with Caddy, sex, and incest; Benjy associates the smell of trees with Caddy; and the family in general identifies the smell of jimson weed (a bad smell) with Benjy (a bad person in terms of luckiness).
Another interesting point concerning the jimson weed is its physical appearance. The weed, which has white or yellowish leaves, is closed for the majority of the day; only later does it open to emit its pungent odor. However, when closed, the weed stands erect and is viewed by both whites and blacks alike as a phallic symbol. During the scene where Benjy chases Temple Drake (which later results in his castration), there are a number of jimson weeds where she walks, and they "slash" at her legs. The sexual overtones of this chase is revealed given the physical description of the weed and the associations that come with it.
The most prevalent reference to a flower apart from the jimson weed is the "cornflower blue" of Benjy's eyes. This vivid phrase was not first used in The Sound and the Fury, however. Faulkner used it in a short story, titled "The Kingdom of God" published four years prior to the publication of his novel. In this story, another mentally-handicapped boy like Benjy is given "cornflower blue" eyes. This light, easy color represents innocence in both Benjy and the other character. Indeed, another name for the cornflower is in fact "Innocence." Thus, like the jimson weed, cornflower represents much more than just a flower chosen at random by Faulkner; like the entire rest of the novel, these two references served a specific purpose. As the readers, we just have to take it upon ourselves to find out what this purpose is, which makes reading The Sound and The Fury all the more enjoyable. (484)
The most interesting point in this article that I found was Peavy's discussion of the relevance of flowers in the novel, specifically Benjy's attraction to the jimson weed. To begin with, the jimson weed (Datura stramonium) is a member of the nightshade family and is by consequence poisonous. As Peavy points out, the fact that Luster and his relatives even allow Benjy to play with the weed is quite surprising given its potentially life-threatening toxicity. Furthermore, the jimson weed is quite malodorous, and it is sometimes referred to as the stinkweed. This association can be important in a number of ways, but I believe it is most central as an extension of the theme of smell. Quentin associates honeysuckle with Caddy, sex, and incest; Benjy associates the smell of trees with Caddy; and the family in general identifies the smell of jimson weed (a bad smell) with Benjy (a bad person in terms of luckiness).
Another interesting point concerning the jimson weed is its physical appearance. The weed, which has white or yellowish leaves, is closed for the majority of the day; only later does it open to emit its pungent odor. However, when closed, the weed stands erect and is viewed by both whites and blacks alike as a phallic symbol. During the scene where Benjy chases Temple Drake (which later results in his castration), there are a number of jimson weeds where she walks, and they "slash" at her legs. The sexual overtones of this chase is revealed given the physical description of the weed and the associations that come with it.
The most prevalent reference to a flower apart from the jimson weed is the "cornflower blue" of Benjy's eyes. This vivid phrase was not first used in The Sound and the Fury, however. Faulkner used it in a short story, titled "The Kingdom of God" published four years prior to the publication of his novel. In this story, another mentally-handicapped boy like Benjy is given "cornflower blue" eyes. This light, easy color represents innocence in both Benjy and the other character. Indeed, another name for the cornflower is in fact "Innocence." Thus, like the jimson weed, cornflower represents much more than just a flower chosen at random by Faulkner; like the entire rest of the novel, these two references served a specific purpose. As the readers, we just have to take it upon ourselves to find out what this purpose is, which makes reading The Sound and The Fury all the more enjoyable. (484)
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