Justice
Justice is an unquestionable good. Every society throughout time has had laws and has had punishments for the transgression of those laws. In the Old Testament, the Israelites were commanded to take an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. The transgressions of God's laws demands His justice and vengeance. Paul commands that the secular rulers be obeyed, “for he does not bear the sword in vain.” The great body of tragic work is based on the idea that the hero, though he may be pitied as a pawn of Fate, yet must bear the consequence of his flaw, because his flaw must be punished for justice to be satisfied.
It appeals to the human psyche in part because it is the most fundamental of laws, and also because it is the one law that is given consistent application in the world as we can see it. While mercy and altruism are rarely exemplified, and even more rarely rewarded in the present world, justice is done fairly consistently. At the very least, it is pursued and extolled more regularly than are the other virtues. One sees police cars and statues of Justice much more often than one sees busts of Mercy. It is natural to man, and normal to reality, and “revenge appeals to the dramatists because they are masters of reality, and not ideologues.” (Bentley, 328)
The Insufficiency of “Justice”
But too often does justice become an idol to be pursued for its own ends, or for selfish ends. Too often, the reflex for “justice can easily deteriorate into mere revenge, and drama into melodrama.”(Bentley, 326). There comes a point when justice is no longer justice, for “when men enjoy carrying out the lex talionis, something has been added to justice, namely cruelty.” (Bentley, 326) Justice cannot be anthropocentric; it cannot be accomplished merely by human laws or for human satisfaction, precisely because its source and reference point is not human, but divine. The ultimate end of Justice is not for each man to “get his own,” but to exalt the justice and preeminence of God.
There is definitely a place for justice, but it does not lie in man's power to accomplish by his own hand. Human justice by the lex talionis can only propagate violence via revenge; one act of “justice” requires another in order to atone for itself, and another to atone for that one, ad infinitum. “Leviticus is still ahead of the human race, which, in the theatre as elsewhere, is ever on the lookout for revenges.” (Bentley, 324) Justice is necessary in the context of ordained authority, indeed, this being the means which God has given to prevent a complete devolution into anarchy as individuals enact revenge upon each other, but this is an extension of God's enacting justice. But the traditional theme of justice in tragedy references justice's source no further than other individuals or the polis or capricious gods and goddesses, and thus relegates it to a vicious cycle from which there is only one escape: mercy, via forgiveness, and the redemption achieved thereby.
Mercy and Redemption
Mercy is unnatural and unnecessary. Man's natural instinct is to punish wrong-doing, not to forgive it—and there is nothing in justice that requires mercy to be granted. Indeed, by its very nature, mercy cannot be forced. That said, it is contingently necessary to the end of stopping the cycle of revenge among humans. On the other hand, there is nothing to say that this is itself a necessary end: all humans could destroy each other in self-enacted justice, and this would be no more than any of them deserved. God's justice would still be untouched were mercy never to be enacted either by Himself or by His creation.
However, God has, in His grace, decided to show mercy upon His creation: “...The LORD said in his heart, I will not again curse the ground any more for man's sake; for the imagination of man's heart is evil from his youth; neither will I again smite any more every thing living, as I have done.” (Genesis 8:21) Instead of immediately striking down every man in a world of rebels, He has granted us life and manifold blessings in the natural world: “for He maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.” (Matthew 5:45) Not only is this manifest in the physical blessings He sheds in His common grace, but also in the specific spiritual blessings He sheds upon His elect as He calls them to Himself, converting and sanctifying them. “There is a remnant according to the election of grace.” (Romans 11:5).
God thus enacts His eternal characteristic of mercy in space-time and gives it to humans. They are forgiven first at the ultimate level. This forgiveness then extends itself through them to others by virtue of the forgiveness and grace they've received; they are not in a superior position to those who have not received forgiveness and extend it as they realize they are given it. We must never conceive of mercy as in opposition to justice, and this previous point is how that position can be maintained: everyone is equally guilty and equally under the curse of Justice: “by the verdict of his own heart no guilty man is acquitted.” (Bentley, 330) But, because of the grace of God that has been given to us, we can see that we are not righteous, and we will come to a conflict less assured of our own rightness and more inclined to grant the same mercy that has been given us. “Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.”
This tragicomedy is better than, say Greek tragedy, precisely because of these elements of providence, and grace and mercy. It avoids the problem of irresponsibility in Greek drama, derived from the tension between the whims of the gods and the roots of justice lying in the polis. Because the source of justice is the same that condemns evil actions in accordance with the actor's innately evil character, there is no divine trickery here. The audience's sympathy for the character is thus not at the expense of God, but is rather derived from the gracious element whereby we realize that we are no better and are fully deserving of the same justice he deserves. Even if his story ends tragically, we can still sympathize, precisely because that could have been us, but for grace. “What if God, willing to shew his wrath, and to make his power known, endured with much longsuffering the vessels of wrath fitted to destruction: And that he might make known the riches of his glory on the vessels of mercy, which he had afore prepared unto glory.” (Romans 9:22-23)
Conclusion
“Art that is rightly condemned as 'mere propaganda' is often just such a virtuous display of moral disapproval: 'superior,' simplistic, one-sided, gutless.” (Bentley, 344) Christian writers ought to reflect the ultimate reality of both justice and grace. We cannot succumb to the “free” creativity of the Romantics nor to the stark pessimism of the Realists and Absurdists in theatre. Both end in philosophical absurdities that undermine the meaning of the play. The classical tragedy comes too close to blaspheming God with “the gods give and the gods take away, cursed be the gods,” and the comedy is saccharine and unrealistic. Our world is a tragicomedy—justice being the chief motivator for the action, mercy being the redeemer, both being exemplars of God's nature and thus of His glory—and we would do well to reflect that as we seek to explain the world to ourselves and unbelievers in our dramatic literature. A good Christian drama will be neither moralistic nor maudlin; rather, it will make the assertion of both guilt and grace, justice and mercy. It will not sacrifice the tragic for the comic, nor the comic for the tragic. Rather, it will engage them both: every character deserves a tragedy, but God has taken that upon Himself and made, by the deus ex machina of the Resurrection, a just way for mercy to be enacted and for the final destruction of all those comprehended in Christ, the ultimate Tragic Hero, to be averted.
Reference List
Bentley, Eric. The Life of the Drama. New York: Applause Theater & Cinema Books, 1964.
Westminster Confession of Faith. Accessed at http://www.reformed.org/documents/wcf_with_proofs/
on 23 December 2008.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Sunday, January 25, 2009
From the Ashes: The Tragicomedy of Justice and Mercy in a Providential History, Part 3
The Fall
The fall of man has given much trouble to evangelicals on apologetical grounds, and the inclusion of it as part of God's story may be seen as problematic both to Christians and non-Christians. It is one of those “chaotic” moments when God's purpose seems to have been thwarted and the characters to have revolted and upset the intended plot of the drama. How could a loving God subject His creation to frustration and provide for the damnation of millions by ordaining the fall of one? But perhaps the mainstream response is inappropriate.
The Westminster Confession affirms that the providence of God “extends itself even to the first fall, and all other sins of angels and men; and that not by a bare permission, but such as has joined with it a most wise and powerful bounding, and otherwise ordering, and governing of them, in a manifold dispensation, to His own holy ends.” (V.4) This is corroborated by Romans 8:20: “For the creature was made subject to vanity, not willingly, but by reason of him who hath subjected the same in hope.” Neither Adam nor Eve nor Satan subjected the creation in hope; by process of elimination we may conclude that God's providence and ordination did indeed extend to the Fall and the subjection of Creation to frustration and vanity, in order to bring about greater glory to Himself as He manifested His redemption of creation.
The Drama of the Fall
Thus far we have seen that the idea is not so theologically repugnant as it is made out to be. And on apologetical grounds, it can be defended by the argument that, God's glory being the highest good, anything He does to His glory is good. At this point it may be objected that the fall was not to His glory. The force of the argument is strong, however, there is biblical reason to reject it—Romans 8:20-21, for example. This is for the Christian, of course, the primary reason to accept or reject an argument. However, a literary argument can also be made that it was indeed to God's glory for the Fall to occur.
In contrast to the anthropocentric argument saying that God chiefly desires relationship with His creation is the theocentric vision of God revealing Himself and His glory to His creation by means of a story. As this is not a primarily theological paper, I will rely on the earlier discussion to support this assertion on theological grounds and shall attempt to defend it strictly on literary. Bentley says, “Without violence, there would be nothing in the world but goodness, and literature is not mainly about goodness; it is mainly about badness.” He is both right and wrong here: he is right in that literature is not only about goodness, and has badness as a prerequisite. Tension is necessary to a story. A tale without tension may be a recounting of facts, but is not a story, for there is no plot. It is merely a day to day living without any end to strive for. There is no beginning, no middle, no end; neither improvement nor decay. It is hard to see how this is even a coherent possible world with volitional beings. But in any case, a procession of events with no end, in either the temporal or logical sense, would certainly lack the ability to display the complex array of God's attributes—e.g., His justice, mercy, might, and love—is no story, and would seem a very boring way to live.
The Fall then introduced tension into the creation, and the the creation was left in the tension of waiting to see if good or evil would win, and men actively chose sides in the contest (all opting for the wrong side because of the natural corruption of their will). Thus was set the stage for the great tragicomedy of God's plan—the fatal flaw in each minor actor being original sin, the lex talionis being God's righteous judgment on them, and the happy ending—for those chosen by grace alone—being by God's forgiveness. Thus there is tension in this world, and good literature reflects that. Each event has its place in history, in its proper context. We should beware of saying that all things are good, because there is certainly and truly evil in the world. Sin alone is not glorious. However, the judgment of sin, or, alternatively, the redemption of sin, is glorious. But those require sin to set the tension and begin the cycle.
Modern liberalism, and to an increasing extent, “evangelicalism,” has weakened and cheapened the great tragicomedy of the history of the world by attempting to take the out the badness and reduce life to goodness—moralistic platitudes on what we ought to do, or simplistic, cringing platitudes on the nature of God. But Bentley was right in his assessment that badness is necessary to story, and thus to life. We must, however, disagree with Bentley's last clause—life is not chiefly about badness. Though we live in a world of pain and sorrow, underlying it all is the unifying thread of the goodness of God's glory, for which He ordains all things. And He will redeem the world, punishing evil and showing His grace to His people. So, while there is badness, and perhaps this world is mostly badness in some sense, it is a warp of badness against an immovable and eternal weft of goodness.
Tragicomedy's Tension
What then is tragicomedy, and how does history exemplify it? How is it most true to life and most effective as a dramatic genre? Tragicomedy can be defined in a number of ways. The modern tragedies, as discussed before, are generally a mixture of tragedy and comedy. They are fundamentally tragic, with comedy for embellishment. They comprise a laughing in the face of death; as such, they would be farcical in their absurdity were it not for the earnest straight face with which they are written and performed.
The other form is that of “a tragedy averted.” (Bentley, 316) There is all the tension of a traditional tragedy, and all the usual forms—tragic flaws, tragic heroes, destiny, etc. But despite all these things, which traditionally lead to a tragic ending, the final downfall and destruction of the hero is avoided, and a happy ending is achieved.
There is a special tension in tragicomedy, though, between the motivations that would traditionally result in tragedy and the extenuating circumstances that result in its aversion. And it is this tension and its resolution that is perhaps most intriguing about the genre. Bentley deals at length with the lex talionis: the idea that the punishment should fit the crime. This is what traditionally drives the
tragedy and makes it such a powerful vehicle for truth—men instinctively believe that justice ought to be done when moral laws are broken. But in tragicomedy, the punishment of the hero either does not materialize or is so considerably lessened by the time it is applied as to be dubiously fitting. This necessitates a discussion of Justice and Mercy and their interrelation.
To be continued.
The fall of man has given much trouble to evangelicals on apologetical grounds, and the inclusion of it as part of God's story may be seen as problematic both to Christians and non-Christians. It is one of those “chaotic” moments when God's purpose seems to have been thwarted and the characters to have revolted and upset the intended plot of the drama. How could a loving God subject His creation to frustration and provide for the damnation of millions by ordaining the fall of one? But perhaps the mainstream response is inappropriate.
The Westminster Confession affirms that the providence of God “extends itself even to the first fall, and all other sins of angels and men; and that not by a bare permission, but such as has joined with it a most wise and powerful bounding, and otherwise ordering, and governing of them, in a manifold dispensation, to His own holy ends.” (V.4) This is corroborated by Romans 8:20: “For the creature was made subject to vanity, not willingly, but by reason of him who hath subjected the same in hope.” Neither Adam nor Eve nor Satan subjected the creation in hope; by process of elimination we may conclude that God's providence and ordination did indeed extend to the Fall and the subjection of Creation to frustration and vanity, in order to bring about greater glory to Himself as He manifested His redemption of creation.
The Drama of the Fall
Thus far we have seen that the idea is not so theologically repugnant as it is made out to be. And on apologetical grounds, it can be defended by the argument that, God's glory being the highest good, anything He does to His glory is good. At this point it may be objected that the fall was not to His glory. The force of the argument is strong, however, there is biblical reason to reject it—Romans 8:20-21, for example. This is for the Christian, of course, the primary reason to accept or reject an argument. However, a literary argument can also be made that it was indeed to God's glory for the Fall to occur.
In contrast to the anthropocentric argument saying that God chiefly desires relationship with His creation is the theocentric vision of God revealing Himself and His glory to His creation by means of a story. As this is not a primarily theological paper, I will rely on the earlier discussion to support this assertion on theological grounds and shall attempt to defend it strictly on literary. Bentley says, “Without violence, there would be nothing in the world but goodness, and literature is not mainly about goodness; it is mainly about badness.” He is both right and wrong here: he is right in that literature is not only about goodness, and has badness as a prerequisite. Tension is necessary to a story. A tale without tension may be a recounting of facts, but is not a story, for there is no plot. It is merely a day to day living without any end to strive for. There is no beginning, no middle, no end; neither improvement nor decay. It is hard to see how this is even a coherent possible world with volitional beings. But in any case, a procession of events with no end, in either the temporal or logical sense, would certainly lack the ability to display the complex array of God's attributes—e.g., His justice, mercy, might, and love—is no story, and would seem a very boring way to live.
The Fall then introduced tension into the creation, and the the creation was left in the tension of waiting to see if good or evil would win, and men actively chose sides in the contest (all opting for the wrong side because of the natural corruption of their will). Thus was set the stage for the great tragicomedy of God's plan—the fatal flaw in each minor actor being original sin, the lex talionis being God's righteous judgment on them, and the happy ending—for those chosen by grace alone—being by God's forgiveness. Thus there is tension in this world, and good literature reflects that. Each event has its place in history, in its proper context. We should beware of saying that all things are good, because there is certainly and truly evil in the world. Sin alone is not glorious. However, the judgment of sin, or, alternatively, the redemption of sin, is glorious. But those require sin to set the tension and begin the cycle.
Modern liberalism, and to an increasing extent, “evangelicalism,” has weakened and cheapened the great tragicomedy of the history of the world by attempting to take the out the badness and reduce life to goodness—moralistic platitudes on what we ought to do, or simplistic, cringing platitudes on the nature of God. But Bentley was right in his assessment that badness is necessary to story, and thus to life. We must, however, disagree with Bentley's last clause—life is not chiefly about badness. Though we live in a world of pain and sorrow, underlying it all is the unifying thread of the goodness of God's glory, for which He ordains all things. And He will redeem the world, punishing evil and showing His grace to His people. So, while there is badness, and perhaps this world is mostly badness in some sense, it is a warp of badness against an immovable and eternal weft of goodness.
Tragicomedy's Tension
What then is tragicomedy, and how does history exemplify it? How is it most true to life and most effective as a dramatic genre? Tragicomedy can be defined in a number of ways. The modern tragedies, as discussed before, are generally a mixture of tragedy and comedy. They are fundamentally tragic, with comedy for embellishment. They comprise a laughing in the face of death; as such, they would be farcical in their absurdity were it not for the earnest straight face with which they are written and performed.
The other form is that of “a tragedy averted.” (Bentley, 316) There is all the tension of a traditional tragedy, and all the usual forms—tragic flaws, tragic heroes, destiny, etc. But despite all these things, which traditionally lead to a tragic ending, the final downfall and destruction of the hero is avoided, and a happy ending is achieved.
There is a special tension in tragicomedy, though, between the motivations that would traditionally result in tragedy and the extenuating circumstances that result in its aversion. And it is this tension and its resolution that is perhaps most intriguing about the genre. Bentley deals at length with the lex talionis: the idea that the punishment should fit the crime. This is what traditionally drives the
tragedy and makes it such a powerful vehicle for truth—men instinctively believe that justice ought to be done when moral laws are broken. But in tragicomedy, the punishment of the hero either does not materialize or is so considerably lessened by the time it is applied as to be dubiously fitting. This necessitates a discussion of Justice and Mercy and their interrelation.
To be continued.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
From the Ashes: The Tragicomedy of Justice and Mercy in a Providential History, Pt. 2
Providential History
We see then, that the anthropocentric foundation of Romanticism results in chaos and bears within itself the seeds of a latent existentialism. “How should we then live?” How should we, as Christian authors, then write? All literature is an expression of the author's worldview. Even in the famous dictum of John Cage--”I have nothing to say, I am saying it, and that is poetry”--his having “nothing to say,” let alone his saying it and analysis of what it means, speaks volumes about what and how he thinks of reality. Is it not strange, though, that those stories which most conform to the ideals of real life are those which are most enduring and touching to the human soul? “Eternity is in the heart of every man,” and thinking God's thoughts after him is the most coherent way of viewing the universe. It is not possible merely to report, as the Naturalists attempt. How one reports—nay, even the very fact of reporting—betrays a worldview giving significance to, if nothing else, the reporting itself. Christians thus ought not be afraid of not only reporting, but also analyzing. They have more philosophical right than anyone else to do so.
On the one hand, then, we need not be self-conscious as we write “Christian literature,” and we ought not write Christian literature for the sake of its being Christian literature. Rather, we ought to be fully conscious of our worldview and seek to understand it as fully as possible. When we write, our stories will then naturally fit into the form of our worldview and express it in concrete characters and plots.
What is the difference between being self-conscious of ourselves as writers as Christian literature and being fully conscious of our Christian worldview? Our worldview is neither egocentric nor anthropocentric. We should not be concerned with presenting ourselves primarily as Christian, nor primarily with trying to make other people Christians. Rather, we should first be Christian and exalt Christ in our literature and drama. And we may do this by following the examples of drama set forth for us in the narrative of Scripture.
Scripture presents God as providing for His people by His grace, on the basis of His eternal purpose promised to Abraham. It is best represented by a covenantal Reformed theology. The Scripture does not emphasize man's initiative or action (though his action is truly important, as will be discussed below), but rather God's sovereign power and action, both in despite of man's attempts to thwart Him and as in control of man's action.
The prophecies of Isaiah are examples of this:
The grass withereth, the flower fadeth: because the spirit of the LORD bloweth upon it: surely the people is grass. The grass withereth, the flower fadeth: but the word of our God shall stand for ever....With whom took he counsel, and who instructed him, and taught him in the path of judgment, and taught him knowledge, and shewed to him the way of understanding? Behold, the nations are as a drop of a bucket, and are counted as the small dust of the balance: behold, he taketh up the isles as a very little thing....Have ye not known? have ye not heard? hath it not been told you from the beginning? have ye not understood from the foundations of the earth? It is he that sitteth upon the circle of the earth, and the inhabitants thereof are as grasshoppers; that stretcheth out the heavens as a curtain, and spreadeth them out as a tent to dwell in: That bringeth the princes to nothing; he maketh the judges of the earth as vanity. Yea, they shall not be planted; yea, they shall not be sown: yea, their stock shall not take root in the earth: and he shall also blow upon them, and they shall wither, and the whirlwind shall take them away as stubble. To whom then will ye liken me, or shall I be equal? saith the Holy One. Lift up your eyes on high, and behold who hath created these things, that bringeth out their host by number: he calleth them all by names by the greatness of his might, for that he is strong in power; not one faileth. (Isaiah 40: 7-8, 13-15, 21-26)
The Psalmists, also, emphasize not what they and Israel are doing, but rather what God has done and is doing on behalf of His people, and for the glory of His name. Psalm 2 asks “why do the heathen rage, and the people imagine a vain thing?” (Psalm 2:1) Ezekiel proclaims from God, “I do not this for your sakes, O house of Israel, but for mine holy name's sake, which ye have profaned among the heathen, whither ye went.” (Ezekiel 36:22) Paul exalts Christ, saying “For of him, and through him, and to him, are all things: to whom be glory for ever.” (Romans 11:36)
God is thus both the author and chief actor of His providential history, and He has written the story to His own glorification. What implications does this have for us as we analyze the procession of history and compare it to a well-formed drama? We can analyze it as having a meaning derived from God's character and His purposes for it (which are ultimate insofar as He is understood as the ultimate being). It is not chaos, though it may sometimes seem so. We may be forced to relegate some events to the realm of mystery—i.e., we cannot explain ourselves how they fit into the plan of God, but we can rest assured that they do and that they further the plot of His story in a way that may only be seen when the story is completed.
Providence, Plot, and Character
This would seem to imply a sort of despairing fatalism over our actions in history. If God has ordained everything and works everything out, it would appear there is no significance to human action. But on the contrary, we have a part to play. A plot would not exist without action, and action would not exist without actors. Further, the characterization of each actor is important to the plot—would Joseph's brothers have sent him to Egypt had they not been of a jealous turn and he of a somewhat prideful and boastful character?
Though we must insist that the plot is primary over the characters—the characters exist to serve the plot, not vice versa—yet remains the paradox that the characters of the actors are crucial to the story and that the story would not happen without them. This can be defended by two points. First is the earlier observation that nothing would be acted without actors, which is self-evident. The other is that, for a literary plot to be believable, it must proceed from believable actions of characters—e.g., it would not be believable for a Willy Loman to finally succumb to the job offered by his neighbor, conceivable that Willy would just leave his family without money, knowing that Willy is as loving as he is (weak though he is as well). He thus solves the problem by killing himself so his family can have his insurance money. The characters thus must have personality, and must maintain a consistent personality—one subject to change, indeed, but not comprising merely an amalgam of unrelated actions. This is a reflection of God's rationality in driving His plot, and of His providential use of agents—the Westminster Confession puts it well: “God from all eternity, did, by the most wise and holy counsel of His own will, freely, and unchangeably ordain whatsoever comes to pass; yet so, as thereby neither is God the author of sin, nor is violence offered to the will of the creatures; nor is the liberty or contingency of second causes taken away, but rather established.” (III.1)
History as “His Story”
We must disagree with Bentley on his discussion of plot, at least as applied to the procession of history's events: “plot, then, is nothing if not artificial. Plot results from the intervention of the artist's brain, which makes a cosmos out of events that nature has left in chaos.” (Bentley, 15) Of course he is forced to this conclusion by his worldview, but a Christian must see the plot of history as rather governing the events—the events would not exist, let alone chaotically, without their Creator and His purpose for each event in the plot. Creation is created as a cosmos and needs no further re-arrangement. Christian writers should reflect this, again emphasizing the continuity of history as part of the plan of God. It is not merely a random assortment of brute facts, but is a rational outworking of a preceding plan. The events are not a priori to the plan, but a posteriori. Chance and chaos should play no part in Christian drama, except insofar as it represents merely the ignorance of man as to God's providence: “The lot is cast into the lap, but its every decision is from the Lord.” (Proverbs 16:33)
We see then, that the anthropocentric foundation of Romanticism results in chaos and bears within itself the seeds of a latent existentialism. “How should we then live?” How should we, as Christian authors, then write? All literature is an expression of the author's worldview. Even in the famous dictum of John Cage--”I have nothing to say, I am saying it, and that is poetry”--his having “nothing to say,” let alone his saying it and analysis of what it means, speaks volumes about what and how he thinks of reality. Is it not strange, though, that those stories which most conform to the ideals of real life are those which are most enduring and touching to the human soul? “Eternity is in the heart of every man,” and thinking God's thoughts after him is the most coherent way of viewing the universe. It is not possible merely to report, as the Naturalists attempt. How one reports—nay, even the very fact of reporting—betrays a worldview giving significance to, if nothing else, the reporting itself. Christians thus ought not be afraid of not only reporting, but also analyzing. They have more philosophical right than anyone else to do so.
On the one hand, then, we need not be self-conscious as we write “Christian literature,” and we ought not write Christian literature for the sake of its being Christian literature. Rather, we ought to be fully conscious of our worldview and seek to understand it as fully as possible. When we write, our stories will then naturally fit into the form of our worldview and express it in concrete characters and plots.
What is the difference between being self-conscious of ourselves as writers as Christian literature and being fully conscious of our Christian worldview? Our worldview is neither egocentric nor anthropocentric. We should not be concerned with presenting ourselves primarily as Christian, nor primarily with trying to make other people Christians. Rather, we should first be Christian and exalt Christ in our literature and drama. And we may do this by following the examples of drama set forth for us in the narrative of Scripture.
Scripture presents God as providing for His people by His grace, on the basis of His eternal purpose promised to Abraham. It is best represented by a covenantal Reformed theology. The Scripture does not emphasize man's initiative or action (though his action is truly important, as will be discussed below), but rather God's sovereign power and action, both in despite of man's attempts to thwart Him and as in control of man's action.
The prophecies of Isaiah are examples of this:
The grass withereth, the flower fadeth: because the spirit of the LORD bloweth upon it: surely the people is grass. The grass withereth, the flower fadeth: but the word of our God shall stand for ever....With whom took he counsel, and who instructed him, and taught him in the path of judgment, and taught him knowledge, and shewed to him the way of understanding? Behold, the nations are as a drop of a bucket, and are counted as the small dust of the balance: behold, he taketh up the isles as a very little thing....Have ye not known? have ye not heard? hath it not been told you from the beginning? have ye not understood from the foundations of the earth? It is he that sitteth upon the circle of the earth, and the inhabitants thereof are as grasshoppers; that stretcheth out the heavens as a curtain, and spreadeth them out as a tent to dwell in: That bringeth the princes to nothing; he maketh the judges of the earth as vanity. Yea, they shall not be planted; yea, they shall not be sown: yea, their stock shall not take root in the earth: and he shall also blow upon them, and they shall wither, and the whirlwind shall take them away as stubble. To whom then will ye liken me, or shall I be equal? saith the Holy One. Lift up your eyes on high, and behold who hath created these things, that bringeth out their host by number: he calleth them all by names by the greatness of his might, for that he is strong in power; not one faileth. (Isaiah 40: 7-8, 13-15, 21-26)
The Psalmists, also, emphasize not what they and Israel are doing, but rather what God has done and is doing on behalf of His people, and for the glory of His name. Psalm 2 asks “why do the heathen rage, and the people imagine a vain thing?” (Psalm 2:1) Ezekiel proclaims from God, “I do not this for your sakes, O house of Israel, but for mine holy name's sake, which ye have profaned among the heathen, whither ye went.” (Ezekiel 36:22) Paul exalts Christ, saying “For of him, and through him, and to him, are all things: to whom be glory for ever.” (Romans 11:36)
God is thus both the author and chief actor of His providential history, and He has written the story to His own glorification. What implications does this have for us as we analyze the procession of history and compare it to a well-formed drama? We can analyze it as having a meaning derived from God's character and His purposes for it (which are ultimate insofar as He is understood as the ultimate being). It is not chaos, though it may sometimes seem so. We may be forced to relegate some events to the realm of mystery—i.e., we cannot explain ourselves how they fit into the plan of God, but we can rest assured that they do and that they further the plot of His story in a way that may only be seen when the story is completed.
Providence, Plot, and Character
This would seem to imply a sort of despairing fatalism over our actions in history. If God has ordained everything and works everything out, it would appear there is no significance to human action. But on the contrary, we have a part to play. A plot would not exist without action, and action would not exist without actors. Further, the characterization of each actor is important to the plot—would Joseph's brothers have sent him to Egypt had they not been of a jealous turn and he of a somewhat prideful and boastful character?
Though we must insist that the plot is primary over the characters—the characters exist to serve the plot, not vice versa—yet remains the paradox that the characters of the actors are crucial to the story and that the story would not happen without them. This can be defended by two points. First is the earlier observation that nothing would be acted without actors, which is self-evident. The other is that, for a literary plot to be believable, it must proceed from believable actions of characters—e.g., it would not be believable for a Willy Loman to finally succumb to the job offered by his neighbor, conceivable that Willy would just leave his family without money, knowing that Willy is as loving as he is (weak though he is as well). He thus solves the problem by killing himself so his family can have his insurance money. The characters thus must have personality, and must maintain a consistent personality—one subject to change, indeed, but not comprising merely an amalgam of unrelated actions. This is a reflection of God's rationality in driving His plot, and of His providential use of agents—the Westminster Confession puts it well: “God from all eternity, did, by the most wise and holy counsel of His own will, freely, and unchangeably ordain whatsoever comes to pass; yet so, as thereby neither is God the author of sin, nor is violence offered to the will of the creatures; nor is the liberty or contingency of second causes taken away, but rather established.” (III.1)
History as “His Story”
We must disagree with Bentley on his discussion of plot, at least as applied to the procession of history's events: “plot, then, is nothing if not artificial. Plot results from the intervention of the artist's brain, which makes a cosmos out of events that nature has left in chaos.” (Bentley, 15) Of course he is forced to this conclusion by his worldview, but a Christian must see the plot of history as rather governing the events—the events would not exist, let alone chaotically, without their Creator and His purpose for each event in the plot. Creation is created as a cosmos and needs no further re-arrangement. Christian writers should reflect this, again emphasizing the continuity of history as part of the plan of God. It is not merely a random assortment of brute facts, but is a rational outworking of a preceding plan. The events are not a priori to the plan, but a posteriori. Chance and chaos should play no part in Christian drama, except insofar as it represents merely the ignorance of man as to God's providence: “The lot is cast into the lap, but its every decision is from the Lord.” (Proverbs 16:33)
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
From the Ashes: The Tragicomedy of Justice and Mercy in a Providential History, Pt. 1
Introduction
History is a tragicomedy, and this is best. Much ink has been spilt over the question of what literary genre is best and whether or not the best art will conform to life or is purely creative. We will take the position that art should conform to life at its root and that the genre is best which best conforms to reality. But the metaphysical question of reality's nature must be resolved before we can discuss how reality affects art. We shall thus deal with this question, seeking to paint the frame of reality and history in dramatic terms—as being a coherent plotline with crucial characters and an order and purpose derived from the intention of its Author. We shall then analyze it and demonstrate its effectiveness in affecting the human heart and soul for good, attempt to demonstrate that such a philosophy of life and art is necessary to the preservation of art and criticism, and that, in artistic terms, such a dramatic view of reality itself is at once biblically, philosophically, and artistically satisfying.
As we shall attempt to demonstrate, the drama of history best fits the form of a tragicomedy. The tragicomic drama relies for its effectiveness on the tension between justice and mercy, retribution and forgiveness. The struggle and synthesis of these in dramatic literature shall thus be analyzed, as well as how the drama of history exemplifies this, making the fundamental framework of ultimate reality a beautiful work of art itself and reinforcing the idea that art should be mimetic of life.
These two major points—analysis of tragicomedy and the conformity of reality to its form, and the dramatic form of history itself—shall be the focus of this essay.
Literature and Life
Should art conform to life? Can it? It is typical to be told, in Romantic fashion, that true art is spontaneously created. One cannot allow himself to be limited by forms and modes. To attempt to conform to reality is to limit one's creative abilities and submit to arbitrary conventions about the nature of reality. But this assumes a number of things about man and his abilities. The Romantic idea is based on the concept that man is truly the measure of all things; indeed, it goes beyond the Deism of the preceding Neoclassical period, in which Alexander Pope asserted that man should only be concerned with the mundane things which are proper to him, to the idea that man is barely, if at all, answerable to anything outside of himself. Further, his creative abilities are unbounded by “nature.” Nature is whatever proceeds from the writer, freely and spontaneously. Man has creative abilities without bounds and without an objective reference point.
But does this not ultimately end in an art without purpose, “a sound and fury, signifying nothing”? If each man is the measure of his own work, and if his creations have meaning as his creation of them grants purpose to them, then there is no transcendent order beyond himself. There is no reason for him to expect that it will impress anyone else with the same urgency or message that he meant for it. It implies a chaotic world with no transcendent order—that is, such a one in which literary conventions, if enforced, would be arbitrary of necessity. But this is to undermine all framework of dramatic and literary theory. If each author is the sole judge of his own work, then it follows as a corollary that no one else may dare presume to judge it. If no one may judge it on any level, then literary criticism is ended, and we have a mass of narcissists writing plays for themselves. Without order to drama, an author may elicit feeling in others—a grin or even grim laughter or despair—but no serious intellectual engagement; one may produce a melodrama or farce, but never a tragedy or comedy. The reason one may not interact with anything based in this literary theory is simply because one can neither ask nor answer the question which is most proper to literature, insofar as literature is a concrete manifestation and application of philosophy: “why?”
Sisyphus and Hell
But what if there is no transcendent order to the universe? What if life is chaotic and without meaning or direction, and one does not know and cannot answer “why?” On these grounds, wouldn't a dramatic theory reflecting this be appropriate? Some, such as Samuel Beckett, have applied this to such plays as Waiting for Godot. Godot is without a traditional plot structure and has a directionless story; the characters' end state is no different from their beginning state, despite the many things that happen in between. The events within the play have no effect on the characters or their situation. It would be a comic tragedy, a grim laughing in the face of despair, were there at least a downfall into darkness, but there is no tragic hero and no downfall. The characters begin as fallen and remain as fallen, with no lasting relief in the meantime. Eric Bentley puts it thus: “The motto of the movement is...that hell is the place we are already in.” (Bentley, 338) “The movement of a modern tragedy is all that Schiller's Mary Stuart is not: its movement is simply and steadily down to defeat.” (Bentley, 339)
This is obviously an untenable literary theory for any Christian, and especially those who view all reality as constant evidence of a loving and providential God who is immanently involved in His creation. This shall be discussed further below. But it even seems internally inconsistent. If there is no meaning, then why bother to write drama and present it as drama? If there is no message, why bother to present something that transmits a message? There is substance to Bentley's analysis: “if a transcendence by beauty argues an unflinching courage, transcendence by courage argues a courage just as unflinching in the face of a world even more comfortless.” (Bentley, 339-340) To know that the world is meaningless and still to live on does argue a sort of courage. Most men would quail, and it takes a grand effort to overcome the despair resulting from such a reflection. But in the final analysis, the effort is still Sisyphian, and the world is still meaningless, and thus even the effort itself is ultimately meaningless and will make no impression on the plot of the world, or even on the character of the actor. Even his courage is worthless, and the Sisyphus who continues to roll the stone is of no more meaning than he who sits down and lets himself be crushed beneath its weight.
On the other hand, the fact that such courage does exist, and the fact of our admiration of it—when we do not cynically laugh at it—is evidence that the world is not as we think it is. If the author wishes courage to be admired, he is upholding courage as a transcendent good, or at least as something intrinsically valuable. And this is ultimately in defiance of his own worldview.
History is a tragicomedy, and this is best. Much ink has been spilt over the question of what literary genre is best and whether or not the best art will conform to life or is purely creative. We will take the position that art should conform to life at its root and that the genre is best which best conforms to reality. But the metaphysical question of reality's nature must be resolved before we can discuss how reality affects art. We shall thus deal with this question, seeking to paint the frame of reality and history in dramatic terms—as being a coherent plotline with crucial characters and an order and purpose derived from the intention of its Author. We shall then analyze it and demonstrate its effectiveness in affecting the human heart and soul for good, attempt to demonstrate that such a philosophy of life and art is necessary to the preservation of art and criticism, and that, in artistic terms, such a dramatic view of reality itself is at once biblically, philosophically, and artistically satisfying.
As we shall attempt to demonstrate, the drama of history best fits the form of a tragicomedy. The tragicomic drama relies for its effectiveness on the tension between justice and mercy, retribution and forgiveness. The struggle and synthesis of these in dramatic literature shall thus be analyzed, as well as how the drama of history exemplifies this, making the fundamental framework of ultimate reality a beautiful work of art itself and reinforcing the idea that art should be mimetic of life.
These two major points—analysis of tragicomedy and the conformity of reality to its form, and the dramatic form of history itself—shall be the focus of this essay.
Literature and Life
Should art conform to life? Can it? It is typical to be told, in Romantic fashion, that true art is spontaneously created. One cannot allow himself to be limited by forms and modes. To attempt to conform to reality is to limit one's creative abilities and submit to arbitrary conventions about the nature of reality. But this assumes a number of things about man and his abilities. The Romantic idea is based on the concept that man is truly the measure of all things; indeed, it goes beyond the Deism of the preceding Neoclassical period, in which Alexander Pope asserted that man should only be concerned with the mundane things which are proper to him, to the idea that man is barely, if at all, answerable to anything outside of himself. Further, his creative abilities are unbounded by “nature.” Nature is whatever proceeds from the writer, freely and spontaneously. Man has creative abilities without bounds and without an objective reference point.
But does this not ultimately end in an art without purpose, “a sound and fury, signifying nothing”? If each man is the measure of his own work, and if his creations have meaning as his creation of them grants purpose to them, then there is no transcendent order beyond himself. There is no reason for him to expect that it will impress anyone else with the same urgency or message that he meant for it. It implies a chaotic world with no transcendent order—that is, such a one in which literary conventions, if enforced, would be arbitrary of necessity. But this is to undermine all framework of dramatic and literary theory. If each author is the sole judge of his own work, then it follows as a corollary that no one else may dare presume to judge it. If no one may judge it on any level, then literary criticism is ended, and we have a mass of narcissists writing plays for themselves. Without order to drama, an author may elicit feeling in others—a grin or even grim laughter or despair—but no serious intellectual engagement; one may produce a melodrama or farce, but never a tragedy or comedy. The reason one may not interact with anything based in this literary theory is simply because one can neither ask nor answer the question which is most proper to literature, insofar as literature is a concrete manifestation and application of philosophy: “why?”
Sisyphus and Hell
But what if there is no transcendent order to the universe? What if life is chaotic and without meaning or direction, and one does not know and cannot answer “why?” On these grounds, wouldn't a dramatic theory reflecting this be appropriate? Some, such as Samuel Beckett, have applied this to such plays as Waiting for Godot. Godot is without a traditional plot structure and has a directionless story; the characters' end state is no different from their beginning state, despite the many things that happen in between. The events within the play have no effect on the characters or their situation. It would be a comic tragedy, a grim laughing in the face of despair, were there at least a downfall into darkness, but there is no tragic hero and no downfall. The characters begin as fallen and remain as fallen, with no lasting relief in the meantime. Eric Bentley puts it thus: “The motto of the movement is...that hell is the place we are already in.” (Bentley, 338) “The movement of a modern tragedy is all that Schiller's Mary Stuart is not: its movement is simply and steadily down to defeat.” (Bentley, 339)
This is obviously an untenable literary theory for any Christian, and especially those who view all reality as constant evidence of a loving and providential God who is immanently involved in His creation. This shall be discussed further below. But it even seems internally inconsistent. If there is no meaning, then why bother to write drama and present it as drama? If there is no message, why bother to present something that transmits a message? There is substance to Bentley's analysis: “if a transcendence by beauty argues an unflinching courage, transcendence by courage argues a courage just as unflinching in the face of a world even more comfortless.” (Bentley, 339-340) To know that the world is meaningless and still to live on does argue a sort of courage. Most men would quail, and it takes a grand effort to overcome the despair resulting from such a reflection. But in the final analysis, the effort is still Sisyphian, and the world is still meaningless, and thus even the effort itself is ultimately meaningless and will make no impression on the plot of the world, or even on the character of the actor. Even his courage is worthless, and the Sisyphus who continues to roll the stone is of no more meaning than he who sits down and lets himself be crushed beneath its weight.
On the other hand, the fact that such courage does exist, and the fact of our admiration of it—when we do not cynically laugh at it—is evidence that the world is not as we think it is. If the author wishes courage to be admired, he is upholding courage as a transcendent good, or at least as something intrinsically valuable. And this is ultimately in defiance of his own worldview.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Community in the Silence of the Universe
Colin Cutler
DL Western Literature II
Professor Mark Filiatreau
15 May 2007
Edith Kern ends her essay “Drama Stripped for Inaction” with the assertion that “Beckett’s characters in this play glorify rather the all-surpassing power of human tenderness which alone makes bearable man’s long and ultimately futile wait for a redeemer and which, in fact, turns out itself to be the redeemer of man in his forlornness” (Kern 1954, 7). While her earlier analysis of the characters’ “confusion” is correct, she is incorrect to imagine that their community is any sort of redemption, or that Beckett intended it to be.
First, Kern’s earlier statement intended to support her assertion is self-contradictory. She writes “neither can get along for any length of time without the other’s tenderness which is alone capable of breaching momentarily the gap of loneliness that separates man from man” (Kern 1954, 4). To understand the contradiction in this statement, one must understand the nature of the “gap” of which Kern speaks in postmodern literature, including Beckett. This gap is one of alienation. Man cannot understand another man, and he cannot even understand himself; this gap is by definition unbreachable. Thus, if man is truly separated by such a gap of loneliness from another man, then the other man cannot reach him. Conversely, if a man is able to reach another by any means, then they were actually not separated by any such a gap. In the system which Beckett portrays, there is no room for any true redemption by other men; the best that the characters could hope for by this means is an alleviation of their misery. This alleviation itself, however, must be based on the subjective reception of that tenderness rather than on the tenderness itself. Thus, any ameliorative quality cannot be based in community, but in what a single person makes of that community; in any case, it cannot most certainly not be a full redemption, which is by nature excluded from this system.
Further, Beckett does not portray community as a redeemer. At best, he portrays it as a necessary evil. In Act II, when Estragon returns, Vladimir offers the tenderness which Kern noted, but Estragon recoils with “Don’t touch me! Don’t question me! Don’t speak to me! Stay with me!” (Beckett, 63) Estragon does not wish to be touched, but at the same time, he cannot bear to be alone. Further, Estragon is hurt that Vladimir could sing without Estragon’s presence. Vladimir says “I missed you…and at the same I was happy” (Beckett, 64). When Vladimir begins to wonder at this, he progresses from being “joyous” to being “gloomy” (64). The following lines are crucial to the argument (65):
Estragon: You see, you feel worse when I’m with you. I feel better alone, too.
Vladimir: (vexed) Then why do you always come crawling back?
Estragon: I don’t know.
They both feel a need for community and cannot get along without it, but at the same time it increases their pain. Beckett’s portrayal, then, is not one of redemption, but of a painful association which neither can live without.
Besides Beckett’s portrayal of the consequences of community, his portrayal of what community does not provide is also telling. The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language defines redeem as “to set free; to rescue or ransom…To make up for.” In contrast to Kern’s assertion of a “redemption,” Beckett’s characters remain in despair and pointlessness. They are most emphatically not set free or rescued from their aimlessness by community, nor is their despair made up for by their association. Far from being redeemed by their community, they resolve in the final lines of the play to hang themselves on the morrow, with only one event that could possibly redeem them from such a fate (Beckett 1954, 109):
Estragon: If we parted? That might be better for us.
Vladimir: We’ll hang ourselves to-morrow. (Pause.) Unless Godot comes.
Estragon: And if he comes?
Vladimir: We’ll be saved.
Beckett’s characters are trapped and waiting for someone to give them meaning; alone, they can only make stabs in the dark. Far from redeeming them from their dilemma, their association with each other only slightly alleviates this despair, while simultaneously accentuating it. Thus, Kern’s exaltation of community to the status of their “redeemer” is incorrect; the hope of Beckett’s characters lay not in each other, but in Godot.
Reference List
Beckett, Samuel. Waiting for Godot. 1954. New York: Grove Press, Inc.
Kern, Edith. 1954. Drama Stripped for Inaction: Beckett's Godot. Yale French Studies 14,
M O T L E Y Today's French Theatre: 41-47. http://links.jstor.org/sici?sici=00440078%281954%290%3A14%3C41%3ADSFIBG%3E2.0.CO%3B2-X
DL Western Literature II
Professor Mark Filiatreau
15 May 2007
Edith Kern ends her essay “Drama Stripped for Inaction” with the assertion that “Beckett’s characters in this play glorify rather the all-surpassing power of human tenderness which alone makes bearable man’s long and ultimately futile wait for a redeemer and which, in fact, turns out itself to be the redeemer of man in his forlornness” (Kern 1954, 7). While her earlier analysis of the characters’ “confusion” is correct, she is incorrect to imagine that their community is any sort of redemption, or that Beckett intended it to be.
First, Kern’s earlier statement intended to support her assertion is self-contradictory. She writes “neither can get along for any length of time without the other’s tenderness which is alone capable of breaching momentarily the gap of loneliness that separates man from man” (Kern 1954, 4). To understand the contradiction in this statement, one must understand the nature of the “gap” of which Kern speaks in postmodern literature, including Beckett. This gap is one of alienation. Man cannot understand another man, and he cannot even understand himself; this gap is by definition unbreachable. Thus, if man is truly separated by such a gap of loneliness from another man, then the other man cannot reach him. Conversely, if a man is able to reach another by any means, then they were actually not separated by any such a gap. In the system which Beckett portrays, there is no room for any true redemption by other men; the best that the characters could hope for by this means is an alleviation of their misery. This alleviation itself, however, must be based on the subjective reception of that tenderness rather than on the tenderness itself. Thus, any ameliorative quality cannot be based in community, but in what a single person makes of that community; in any case, it cannot most certainly not be a full redemption, which is by nature excluded from this system.
Further, Beckett does not portray community as a redeemer. At best, he portrays it as a necessary evil. In Act II, when Estragon returns, Vladimir offers the tenderness which Kern noted, but Estragon recoils with “Don’t touch me! Don’t question me! Don’t speak to me! Stay with me!” (Beckett, 63) Estragon does not wish to be touched, but at the same time, he cannot bear to be alone. Further, Estragon is hurt that Vladimir could sing without Estragon’s presence. Vladimir says “I missed you…and at the same I was happy” (Beckett, 64). When Vladimir begins to wonder at this, he progresses from being “joyous” to being “gloomy” (64). The following lines are crucial to the argument (65):
Estragon: You see, you feel worse when I’m with you. I feel better alone, too.
Vladimir: (vexed) Then why do you always come crawling back?
Estragon: I don’t know.
They both feel a need for community and cannot get along without it, but at the same time it increases their pain. Beckett’s portrayal, then, is not one of redemption, but of a painful association which neither can live without.
Besides Beckett’s portrayal of the consequences of community, his portrayal of what community does not provide is also telling. The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language defines redeem as “to set free; to rescue or ransom…To make up for.” In contrast to Kern’s assertion of a “redemption,” Beckett’s characters remain in despair and pointlessness. They are most emphatically not set free or rescued from their aimlessness by community, nor is their despair made up for by their association. Far from being redeemed by their community, they resolve in the final lines of the play to hang themselves on the morrow, with only one event that could possibly redeem them from such a fate (Beckett 1954, 109):
Estragon: If we parted? That might be better for us.
Vladimir: We’ll hang ourselves to-morrow. (Pause.) Unless Godot comes.
Estragon: And if he comes?
Vladimir: We’ll be saved.
Beckett’s characters are trapped and waiting for someone to give them meaning; alone, they can only make stabs in the dark. Far from redeeming them from their dilemma, their association with each other only slightly alleviates this despair, while simultaneously accentuating it. Thus, Kern’s exaltation of community to the status of their “redeemer” is incorrect; the hope of Beckett’s characters lay not in each other, but in Godot.
Reference List
Beckett, Samuel. Waiting for Godot. 1954. New York: Grove Press, Inc.
Kern, Edith. 1954. Drama Stripped for Inaction: Beckett's Godot. Yale French Studies 14,
M O T L E Y Today's French Theatre: 41-47. http://links.jstor.org/sici?sici=00440078%281954%290%3A14%3C41%3ADSFIBG%3E2.0.CO%3B2-X
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
Jaques the Melancholy: Post-Modern Philosophy in "As You Like It"
By Colin Cutler
Literary Criticism For
Literature 210 DL (Dr. Hake)
DL Western Literature I
5 December 2006
Francis Schaeffer, in his How Should We Then Live?, explored the dilemma of post-modern man: how does one reconcile the particular with the universal—how does one endue facts with true meaning without depriving the facts of actual being? Schaeffer asserts that only Christianity can satisfactorily reconcile them; many non-Christian philosophers have attempted to give meaning to facts without losing them, but find that it is impossible for their humanistic philosophy. This has led to the dichotomy of pessimistic rationalism and optimistic irrationality, with one choice giving up hope of meaning and reducing life to mere facts, and the other living in a denial of reality and hoping to create its own meaning. Neither can be simultaneously true, nor can man totally deny either meaning or reality, so the two are held in everlasting tension (Schaeffer 2005, 174). Jaques the Melancholy, of Shakespeare’s As You Like It, is an example of this dilemma.
Jaques exemplifies the post-modern philosophical position perfectly. He alternates between these two opposing views: at times he is obsessed with the apparent facts and sardonically derides anyone who he believes ignores these facts. At other times, he voices a hope of escape, but only in madness or in solitude.
In Scene II, Jaques told the Duke of a jester whom he had met in the forest (As You Like It, II.vii.). The jester looked upon a time-piece and remarked, “And so, from hour to hour, we rot and rot; and thereby hangs a tale.” The jester spoke of how human life passes with no visible benefit; the fool was bound by the particular and could give no meaning to it, for there was nothing outside of himself that could do so. Jaques heartily approved the jester’s sentiments, which spoke of life as far as anyone could see it with his natural eyes: the jester presupposed that there was nothing beyond his own life and experience—that death was the ultimate end.
The famous “Seven Ages of Man” speech (As You Like It, II.vii.) examines the periods of a man’s life, concluding with old age, which Jaques says “is second childishness and mere oblivion, sans teeth, sans eyes, sans everything.” In other words, life goes on and then one dies—that is the end. Further, he opens the soliloquy with the words “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players,” which expounds upon the Duke’s fatalistic attitude in the preceding lines (As You Like It, II.vii.135-138). This is the rationalistic theory of man as a machine, as a mere particular. He exists, but whatever he does has no eternal meaning. Small wonder then that Jaques is apathetic toward the world and man’s place in it!
Convinced of the hopelessness and meaninglessness of life, Jaques ridicules those who do not think as he does, whom he perceives as blind optimists and fools. As the couples are arriving for the marriage ceremony, he speaks of them as “very strange beasts, which in every tongue are called fools” (As You Like It, V.iv.36). Though this is said specifically at the entrance of Touchstone and Audrey, who would certainly deserve the description, it does refer to all the lovers, as shown by Jaques’ reference to “another flood” (As You Like It, V.iv.36).
Jaques the Melancholy also sensibly describes Touchstone and Audrey’s marriage as unsure; their “loving voyage is but two months victuall’d” (As You Like It, V.iv). Touchstone had already mentioned the possibility of getting out of marriage at some time (As You Like It, III.iii). Their marriage was based on nothing more than a whim and feelings and had no basis in real vows or reason; this perspective could be identified with the optimistic irrationality which is diametrically opposed to Jaques’ rationalistic thinking.
In Scene II, one of the Duke’s courtiers related a story of Jaques’ moralizing on the plight of a wounded deer (As You Like It, II.i.47-59). Jaques drew three lessons from this situation. First, he compares the deer’s “weeping into the needless stream…giving thy sum of more to that which had too much” to human nature. Two interpretations are possible: that men are often sad and add copious tears to the infinite pain of the world, or that too many men are already in the world and the addition of more only adds to the misery. Either way, Jaques emphasizes the pain of living and the utter meaninglessness of attempting to contribute to something whose measure is full.
Second, he notes that the deer seeks solitude for his suffering. This also lends itself to a comparison with human nature. Those who suffer wish to suffer alone—“thus misery doth part the flux of company.” In isolation, one is free to brood upon his suffering without interruption either by those who would attempt to cheer him or by those who would mock or superciliously ignore him.
Third, Jaques delivers a bitter speech against the herd that ignored their suffering fellow, which “is just the fashion”—it is typical of human nature, as well. He compares the herd of deer to wealthy men who ignore the plight of the needy—or, by extension, those who ignore the dire warnings of pessimists or are unable to answer their questions. Jaques despises these men, who are complacent in their opulence and pass by without regard for their suffering neighbors whom they could assist with financial or spiritual generosity.
Jaques sees no hope for the human condition. He clearly identifies the difficulty in which humanistic man finds himself, but he can offer no remedy. Thus, he finds his solace only in perpetual melancholy and in the hope of madness. He says to Rosalind that he loves melancholy “better than laughing” (As You Like It, IV.i.3). Further, he takes pride in his own melancholy, for it is not mere imitation, but “is a melancholy of mine own” (As You Like It, IV.i). This is his chief reason for his pride: that the melancholy is his own invention, a conglomeration of those ideas he believes best fit his standards.
Jaques may see a possible escape in madness. After describing the fool’s discussion of time and meaninglessness, he cries “O noble fool! A worthy fool! Motley’s the only wear” (As You Like It, II.vii.33-34). Jesters and fools of medieval times were usually considered to be either mentally weak or mad, and they were thus given free rein to speak their minds. Jaques certainly desired this freedom to speak his mind without restraint or moral liability. He may have even hoped to actually fall into madness in an escape from the pessimism and melancholy of his realistic thinking.
This is the irrational optimism of which Francis Schaeffer speaks. Post-modern man is unable to live with the meaninglessness of his particularistic worldview, so he seeks escape in creating his own meaning, however absurd. This meaning may be madness or unrestrained freedom to voice one’s beliefs or even isolation, all of which Jaques advocates. The common thread in these is that their value stems from Jaques’s own mind: he grants them meaning, and thus they have meaning. He never answers the question, however, of whether they really have meaning, or if they only have meaning in his own mind.
This leads us to the last point of Jaques’s philosophy: he is selfish. He points out others’ foibles not to reform them, but to please himself with the satisfaction of calling them foolish. He focuses on his own melancholy without attempting to touch others. Indeed, when invited to dance, Jaques scoffs and declares that he will spend the rest of his life in a solitary cave (As You Like It, V.iv).
Jaques clearly exhibits the post-modern philosophy in his worldview: he is cynical and jaded, and derisive towards anyone who looks only at positive things. Further, his only source of hope is in his own definition of meaning. He creates hope out of nothing, yet he lives in constant tension because he knows that he cannot live in pure melancholy, nor can he accept pure optimism—thus he cannot settle on a solid foundation and must hope for madness to relieve him. Long before Nietzsche and Sartre, Shakespeare had already created Jaques as an archetype of the post-modern man—brooding, despairing, and absurd.
Reference List
Schaeffer, Francis A. How Should We Then Live?, 50th L’Abri Anniversary Ed., 2005.
Wheaton: Crossway Books.
Shakespeare, William. As You Like It, 1998. Mineola, New York: Dover Publications,
Inc.
Literary Criticism For
Literature 210 DL (Dr. Hake)
DL Western Literature I
5 December 2006
Francis Schaeffer, in his How Should We Then Live?, explored the dilemma of post-modern man: how does one reconcile the particular with the universal—how does one endue facts with true meaning without depriving the facts of actual being? Schaeffer asserts that only Christianity can satisfactorily reconcile them; many non-Christian philosophers have attempted to give meaning to facts without losing them, but find that it is impossible for their humanistic philosophy. This has led to the dichotomy of pessimistic rationalism and optimistic irrationality, with one choice giving up hope of meaning and reducing life to mere facts, and the other living in a denial of reality and hoping to create its own meaning. Neither can be simultaneously true, nor can man totally deny either meaning or reality, so the two are held in everlasting tension (Schaeffer 2005, 174). Jaques the Melancholy, of Shakespeare’s As You Like It, is an example of this dilemma.
Jaques exemplifies the post-modern philosophical position perfectly. He alternates between these two opposing views: at times he is obsessed with the apparent facts and sardonically derides anyone who he believes ignores these facts. At other times, he voices a hope of escape, but only in madness or in solitude.
In Scene II, Jaques told the Duke of a jester whom he had met in the forest (As You Like It, II.vii.). The jester looked upon a time-piece and remarked, “And so, from hour to hour, we rot and rot; and thereby hangs a tale.” The jester spoke of how human life passes with no visible benefit; the fool was bound by the particular and could give no meaning to it, for there was nothing outside of himself that could do so. Jaques heartily approved the jester’s sentiments, which spoke of life as far as anyone could see it with his natural eyes: the jester presupposed that there was nothing beyond his own life and experience—that death was the ultimate end.
The famous “Seven Ages of Man” speech (As You Like It, II.vii.) examines the periods of a man’s life, concluding with old age, which Jaques says “is second childishness and mere oblivion, sans teeth, sans eyes, sans everything.” In other words, life goes on and then one dies—that is the end. Further, he opens the soliloquy with the words “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players,” which expounds upon the Duke’s fatalistic attitude in the preceding lines (As You Like It, II.vii.135-138). This is the rationalistic theory of man as a machine, as a mere particular. He exists, but whatever he does has no eternal meaning. Small wonder then that Jaques is apathetic toward the world and man’s place in it!
Convinced of the hopelessness and meaninglessness of life, Jaques ridicules those who do not think as he does, whom he perceives as blind optimists and fools. As the couples are arriving for the marriage ceremony, he speaks of them as “very strange beasts, which in every tongue are called fools” (As You Like It, V.iv.36). Though this is said specifically at the entrance of Touchstone and Audrey, who would certainly deserve the description, it does refer to all the lovers, as shown by Jaques’ reference to “another flood” (As You Like It, V.iv.36).
Jaques the Melancholy also sensibly describes Touchstone and Audrey’s marriage as unsure; their “loving voyage is but two months victuall’d” (As You Like It, V.iv). Touchstone had already mentioned the possibility of getting out of marriage at some time (As You Like It, III.iii). Their marriage was based on nothing more than a whim and feelings and had no basis in real vows or reason; this perspective could be identified with the optimistic irrationality which is diametrically opposed to Jaques’ rationalistic thinking.
In Scene II, one of the Duke’s courtiers related a story of Jaques’ moralizing on the plight of a wounded deer (As You Like It, II.i.47-59). Jaques drew three lessons from this situation. First, he compares the deer’s “weeping into the needless stream…giving thy sum of more to that which had too much” to human nature. Two interpretations are possible: that men are often sad and add copious tears to the infinite pain of the world, or that too many men are already in the world and the addition of more only adds to the misery. Either way, Jaques emphasizes the pain of living and the utter meaninglessness of attempting to contribute to something whose measure is full.
Second, he notes that the deer seeks solitude for his suffering. This also lends itself to a comparison with human nature. Those who suffer wish to suffer alone—“thus misery doth part the flux of company.” In isolation, one is free to brood upon his suffering without interruption either by those who would attempt to cheer him or by those who would mock or superciliously ignore him.
Third, Jaques delivers a bitter speech against the herd that ignored their suffering fellow, which “is just the fashion”—it is typical of human nature, as well. He compares the herd of deer to wealthy men who ignore the plight of the needy—or, by extension, those who ignore the dire warnings of pessimists or are unable to answer their questions. Jaques despises these men, who are complacent in their opulence and pass by without regard for their suffering neighbors whom they could assist with financial or spiritual generosity.
Jaques sees no hope for the human condition. He clearly identifies the difficulty in which humanistic man finds himself, but he can offer no remedy. Thus, he finds his solace only in perpetual melancholy and in the hope of madness. He says to Rosalind that he loves melancholy “better than laughing” (As You Like It, IV.i.3). Further, he takes pride in his own melancholy, for it is not mere imitation, but “is a melancholy of mine own” (As You Like It, IV.i). This is his chief reason for his pride: that the melancholy is his own invention, a conglomeration of those ideas he believes best fit his standards.
Jaques may see a possible escape in madness. After describing the fool’s discussion of time and meaninglessness, he cries “O noble fool! A worthy fool! Motley’s the only wear” (As You Like It, II.vii.33-34). Jesters and fools of medieval times were usually considered to be either mentally weak or mad, and they were thus given free rein to speak their minds. Jaques certainly desired this freedom to speak his mind without restraint or moral liability. He may have even hoped to actually fall into madness in an escape from the pessimism and melancholy of his realistic thinking.
This is the irrational optimism of which Francis Schaeffer speaks. Post-modern man is unable to live with the meaninglessness of his particularistic worldview, so he seeks escape in creating his own meaning, however absurd. This meaning may be madness or unrestrained freedom to voice one’s beliefs or even isolation, all of which Jaques advocates. The common thread in these is that their value stems from Jaques’s own mind: he grants them meaning, and thus they have meaning. He never answers the question, however, of whether they really have meaning, or if they only have meaning in his own mind.
This leads us to the last point of Jaques’s philosophy: he is selfish. He points out others’ foibles not to reform them, but to please himself with the satisfaction of calling them foolish. He focuses on his own melancholy without attempting to touch others. Indeed, when invited to dance, Jaques scoffs and declares that he will spend the rest of his life in a solitary cave (As You Like It, V.iv).
Jaques clearly exhibits the post-modern philosophy in his worldview: he is cynical and jaded, and derisive towards anyone who looks only at positive things. Further, his only source of hope is in his own definition of meaning. He creates hope out of nothing, yet he lives in constant tension because he knows that he cannot live in pure melancholy, nor can he accept pure optimism—thus he cannot settle on a solid foundation and must hope for madness to relieve him. Long before Nietzsche and Sartre, Shakespeare had already created Jaques as an archetype of the post-modern man—brooding, despairing, and absurd.
Reference List
Schaeffer, Francis A. How Should We Then Live?, 50th L’Abri Anniversary Ed., 2005.
Wheaton: Crossway Books.
Shakespeare, William. As You Like It, 1998. Mineola, New York: Dover Publications,
Inc.
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