Don Hannah’s one-person play, The Cave Painter, winner of the 2012 Carol Bolt Award, has somehow both made light of and emphasized the isolation of those affected by death. Dianne is a printmaker who bases her artwork on prehistorical bones and all too quickly finds herself to be surrounded by death in another sense. Dianne is additionally connected to the central theme, as she has, although seldom, been referred to as merely “Di”, which can be pronounced ’die’. Similar to Hannah’s other one-person play, The Woodcutter, Dianne retells past conversations and in doing so comes to the realization of how alone she truly is.

Dianne’s first encounter with death was the passing of her grammy when she was a child. Dianne found it upsetting to think she would never visit her in New York again. Later on in life, Dianne receives a phone call informing her that her father experienced a fatal heart attack while driving. At this point, Dianne had difficulty expressing the falsehood of Heaven to her young son, Ryan. Simon, the father of Dianne’s son, left her to be with his male lover and contracted AIDS. He returned to Dianne and Ryan before dying. Dianne’s sister, Steph, dies unexpectedly while in the hospital for knee surgery, and this is about the same time her mother beings showing the signs of mental deterioration. Her mother’s bewilderment exceeds the point where she doesn’t remember she ever had a daughter. In this way, Dianne had lost her mother. Once again finding love after Simon’s death, Dianne’s new husband, Pete, dies due to a massive coronary. Lastly, there is the metaphorical death of her son. After a particularly contentious accusation by Ryan, Dianne begins to argue with him about theism and abortion and Ryan tells his mother that she is “no longer welcome in his house” and “no longer a part of [her] granddaughters’ lives”. In this sense, Dianne had lost her son.

It is after hearing Dianne’s history of loss that one listens to what she says about death and old age. Although The Cave Painter is riddled with death, Hannah still expresses some things lightheartedly:

“Getting old is so sad, so unbearably sad, and the young don’t get it, they just don’t get it, and they won’t begin to get it for twenty or thirty years until overwhelming sadness hits them over the head and they go, ‘Oh my God, I had no idea! I had no idea it would all go to hell! I had no idea my body would turn to crap! I can’t believe I have this gas! I can’t believe I have to pee fifty times a day! Who knew I would be abandoned - who knew?’ Then they’ll understand why old people fart day and night, and obsess about their bowels and the obituary pages, because… because… Because at a certain point that’s what’s left: Who’s Dead Now and Metamucil” .

Hannah has presented a sensitive subject carefully and comically, while still maintaining the severity and significance of the issue. It is moments like these that seem rather trademark Don Hannah; where, regarding another issue, he so fluently fits little profound gems, such as “Nobody’s fucking normal! Some people are just uninteresting!”. Despite the fact that Hannah playfully comments on the signs of old age, he remains solemn in what may be the most straightforward, gut-wrenching, yet thought-provoking line in the play: “somewhere, somewhere deep in the night, I realized that everyone I wanted to phone, or spend time with, or talk to, is dead. (addressing the space around her) You’re all dead. And I feel so left behind. Like all of you are waiting for me”. 

The Cave Painter is difficult to read because Dianne’s capacity to love remains unchanged. After losing both Simon and Pete, Dianne seems to put quite a bit of emotional investment into her grandchildren, Maggie and Martha; however, Ryan cuts her out of their lives. Dianne’s relationship with Ryan is perhaps the most distressing, as we watch him transition from a silly, curious boy into a narrow-minded religious fundamentalist. Dianne witnesses her son changing from a young age, and although she jokingly nominates him for the “Twelve Year Old Prick of the Century”, she sincerely questions how her son has become such a stranger.

As specified by Hannah in his introductory notes and his interview, the set is a shifting landscape. The versatility of the space has allowed for the necessary transitions between time, ultimately the reason Dianne’s experiences are relived and why we can connect with the character in so many ways. The lighting cues encourage the willingness to suspend disbelief in the audience, and therefore sets the audience up to be fully engrossed in Dianne’s story.

It is Hannah’s ability and inclination to be meticulous in his process of character creation that credits his work. His unique storytelling, calling on Dianne’s memories to justify her thoughts, speaks true. It is for this reason we can sympathize with Dianne for fearing being lost and forgotten. By the end of the play, the audience has been acquainted with Dianne to the same degree one may be with a close friend. It is in this way that Hannah has reinvented the theatrical custom of character.

Don Hannah’s one-person play, The Woodcutter, presents Ted; a “small, wiry, rough-looking” man who the reader or audience will soon be intimately acquainted with. As this one-person play begins with Ted tripping over a stick, his inappropriate attire for a night in the woods sparks the curiosity of the reader. As the play progresses, we learn more than just Ted’s troubled past and the tragedy he is faced with, but his innermost conclusions on parenting, family, and the cycle of life.

Hannah has specified both in his interview and the notes preceding the play that Ted is talking to himself and the objects he encounters. As Ted’s dialogue transitions from outright frustration due to his helplessness, to the story of Hansel and Gretel, and then to his own mother, the reader is curious as to why he wanders the forest. The ambiguity of Ted’s circumstances resonates throughout the play, until the final moments that conclude the tragedy he has faced and reveal the reasoning of his whereabouts. Hannah has created a human being and introduced the reader to the misfortune he experienced since childhood. Hannah has not relied on theatrics to present Ted’s dark, intense story, and in doing so has created a character that emanates such truth.

There is no one single disastrous moment Ted has experienced, but a lifetime of difficulties. He explains how his world is changed by the death of his father, and his grandfather soon after; however, he is more upset when his older brother, Mike, leaves:

TED. “‘Dig the shit outta yer ears, I’m takin’ off.’

‘For good?’

‘Damn right.’

‘Where to?’

‘Somewhere I won’t go mental like here. Like New York or Montreal or somewhere.’

‘What’ll ya do there?’

‘I don’t give a fuck,’ he says. ‘So long as I get outta this shithole.’

And me?

And me?

I’m waitin’ for him ta say that he wants me ta take off with him, but he don’t. Takin’ off is just for him all by himself.”

Mike has clearly had a greater impact on Ted’s life: “when I [came] downstairs the mornin’ after Fa died, whole world was different, but that was nothin’ compared ta bein’ around once Mike’s gone”. He thought very highly of his older brother, and after Mike left, Ted continued to dream how much greater his life would have been if Mike returned, even in adulthood. Ted considered “what a different world it would a been all around” if Mike was to visit his family, thinking “all of us [would be] happy”. Ted breaks out of his reverie, claiming he “know[s] it could never’ve happened”. Mike, perhaps, played a similar role in Ted’s life as his children did. In all the time Ted seems to be unable to catch a break, his brother acted as his protector, and Ted felt that same responsibility to protect his children. In this way, Ted’s brother and children gave him a meaning. This makes it all the more difficult to hear Ted say his final words to his brother, and for Ted to accept what he has done.

The method of which Ted’s childhood is retold is truly enthralling. Ted’s way of speaking, which seems natural to the demographic and reflects his experiences, as well as his retelling of past conversations takes the reader out of the forest. Only a hooting of an owl, or the howling of a coyote can bring us back. The only difficulty in reading The Woodcutter is the lack of introduction to each character in Ted’s life. Since he is not directing his thoughts to anyone, there is no need to explain what his relationship with each person is. Although we are faced with this challenge, sufficient evidence is provided to connect relationships.

Ted’s only recount of happiness was when his children were born. He “was happy as happy”, as his children “changed [his] life”. The fact that any joy Ted experienced was through his children makes the conclusion additionally horrific. In this way, Hannah has succeeded in going in depth into the story of a man who would have otherwise been preconceived as a monster and a sociopath. Although it doesn’t change the degree of his actions, it provides a reason: he doesn’t want his children growing up as miserably as he did.

Although The Woodcutter builds up to an unexpected conclusion, there are many occasions throughout where we find ourselves listening to Ted’s accounts of many common problems, such as bipolarity: “Angie’s startin’ the coffee when I come into the kitchen, and she’s in one of her moods, I could tell when she poured water into the coffee maker and spilt some. She made a sound like it was all the water’s fault”. The truth behind Ted as a character is emphasized by Hannah’s willingness to get somewhat off topic.

The coarseness and simplicity of one person explaining a tragic story to absolutely no one is what sets this play up to be real. It is not often a person like Ted is able to receive sympathy; however, Hannah’s outstanding, unique storytelling has made it possible.

“Don Hannah is a playwright, dramaturge, and novelist who divides his time between Toronto and Nova Scotia. He was the inaugural Lee Playwright in Residence at the University of Alberta, and, most recently, was writer in residence at UBC’s Green College, and for the NotaBle Acts Theatre Festival. As a dramaturge, he has worked with playwrights from across the country, and for five years was on the faculty of the Banff Playwrights Colony. His published plays include the collection Shoreline and While We’re Young. His novel Ragged Islands received the Thomas H. Raddall Atlantic Fiction Prize. The Cave Painter was awarded the 2012 Carol Bolt Award.”

April 10, 2013 was the release of Hannah’s one-person plays The Woodcutter (2010) and The Cave Painter (2011), as a two-sided paperback. These plays are available together through Playwrights Canada Press.

Davin Allan: So I have read both The Cave Painter and The Woodcutter and the first thing that jumps to my mind is the single person structure. Of course, having only one actor fits in The Woodcutter as he is lost in the forest by himself, but I’m curious as to what your intention or motivation was in writing one person plays?

Don Hannah: I’d never written one, simply. And so I just thought I’d give it a try. I started with The Cave Painter; it was the first. The Woodcutter evolved very differently. My editor at Random House asked me if I was interested in writing that story as a novel. And I tried and just couldn’t get it working; so I put it away. With The Cave Painter, my intention was to write a one-person show, as I was writing about someone who lost everyone. So someone who was talking to the dead was a big part of where it started. When I was struggling with that play and was unsure if it would work, a fellow playwright said that maybe The Woodcutter was meant to be my one-person show. Before these two plays, I was commissioned to write a play for the acting class at the University of Alberta, a play I would work on while they were in their first year, and the final production would be in their third year – a cast of twelve. Everybody played at least 2 characters. So another reason that I wanted to write a one-person play was that I wanted a break from the craziness of that project, that big play.

Davin Allan: While reading The Woodcutter, one can’t help but notice Ted’s way of speaking. I found it was difficult to read it completely smoothly at first, but it very quickly seemed natural as the character grew on me. I know many playwrights have written in an accent or speech pattern, so is this, as well as the setting of the forest, trying to emphasize Canadianism, or does it have another meaning?

Don Hannah: Canadianism, I don’t think so. The woods go back to Hansel and Gretel, and in terms of the language, that’s just the voice I heard. I wanted to find a voice for Ted that fits his past and his education. The play is not specific in terms of place – you could think this play is set in Northern Ontario or Nova Scotia, wherever there are woods. If you gave a sort of Southern spin to the language, it could be set in the South as well. Wherever there’s the demographic of the guy.

Davin Allan: I found The Cave Painter contrasted from The Woodcutter through the use of technology. Not only does Dianne mention Youtube and Google, but you have included very specific lighting notes. Although you have included notes on the use of lighting in The Woodcutter, it seems to help establish a natural atmosphere, while in The Cave Painter, it’s a little less natural. Could you comment upon the use of lighting in The Cave Painter?

Don Hannah: They are two very different kinds of one-person shows. They are different in the sense that The Woodcutter is a naturalistic play – a kind of play I don’t often write anymore, but it fit. So that the set itself, the woods, becomes the other character. He’s in dialogue with the wind and the coyotes and the things in his pocket. Cave Painter is set inside Dianne’s head, not obviously in a specific place in terms of her studio, or a room in her house. I wanted it to be a shifting landscape, so it could be the interior of a cave, it could be the museum where she goes to see Eva Hesse. The landscape of that play really is a very much internal landscape. Cave Painter is inside and insider her. Lighting cues are about the discovery of that external landscape, the wall looks like a cave, a room, so the lighting is to shift focus into the various manifestations of that interior space.

Davin Allan: The audience and reader really discover a lot about Ted and Dianne throughout the plays, as they both recall very detailed conversations. Do you have a process in creating such in-depth characters?

Don Hannah: That’s writing. It’s what I’ve always done. Either in writing for the theatre or fiction, I tend to know a lot more about the characters than what ultimately ends up on the page. For example, with Cave Painter, there was a whole long involved relationship between Dianne and Pete, her partner’s brother, who lives in Israel, and that was a big part of writing and research, but I don’t think his name is mentioned now. I spent a lot of time getting to know who these people are. A part of that is research and making things up, but it’s also a process of discovery. Once things move along, characters say things that surprise me. Woodcutter is simply someone talking to himself. The thing that even the actors don’t really understand until they are at a certain point in the rehearsal process is how significant the objects in the play are – that’s what he’s talking to. Ted’s talking to the dirt, the stones, etc. There is never a moment to break the fourth wall – neither play does this. In Cave Painter, Dianne’s talking to a series of people, and we sort of figure out who they are. A part of her explaining things to people is recounting those conversations.

Davin Allan: Do you feel as though there are any shared writing aspects between your plays and your novels?

Don Hannah: One is good break from the other. It’s interesting, my first novel happened because I worked on a play that just didn’t work as play. The same way the Woodcutter didn’t work as a novel. They feed each other in that way, but they are very different things. A play is closer to poetry than fiction; it’s just the bare bones. After working on a play, it’s nice to roll around in the mud with fiction; you can just expand on something. There is a chance to explore more in fiction, but in terms of theatre, I really like the discipline or writing something that’s lean and has the immediacy of an audience. They are very different things for me. I write about the same things, exploring issues that are very important to me. My last novel was about old age and death, as I was basically dealing with elderly people in my life, which is something you end up dealing with at a certain age. Those things are in Cave Painter, absolutely. Woodcutter, that world is unlike any world I’ve ever written about in prose. I don’t know very many people who move back and forth between plays and fiction. A whole lot of fiction writers aren’t comfortable in dialogue, and many playwrights don’t like writing prose.

Davin Allan: Both plays revolve around tragedy. It seems to me as though The Cave Painter builds up tension as the storytelling goes along, while The Woodcutter has more of a tragic realization at the end. In fact, I was so engaged while reading The Cave Painter, I unknowingly decided against annotating it while I was reading. Although these two plays have this common ground, are there any other ways that you feel these two plays complement or contrast each other?

Don Hannah: They contrast each other in the sense that I had very different motivation in writing them both. In Woodcutter, I wanted to make people look at someone from a vantage point that surprised them. It started off because there was a photograph of a guy in a newspaper, and my editor said you could tell by looking at this guy that he was a psychopath  My whole point with it is that by the end of the play, the truth of what had happened wouldn’t horrify you, so as much break your heart. It isn’t an awful story of a crazy, crazy man, but rather a story of someone who’s life had been so fucked up. In Cave Painter, I wanted to look at the story of Job, without religion. What happens if you take God out of the story of Job, what reasons are there to continue on? At the end of the play, she makes the decision to continue on, and why does she make this decision? With Woodcutter, I want to understand why people do terrible things. With Cave Painter, what happens when you remove everything, in terms of faith and God and the promise of heaven, and you hit rock bottom, what is it that will keep you going? And hopefully, by the end of the play, she has a reason.

You drive a vacant road and hear a song that takes you back;
realize, here and now, that you’re past innocence. Never return.
It’s a hollow feeling. Empty and strange. Like being on a cliff; maybe slipping
a bit. Wonder for a moment if you might be able to get it back.
If you drive the truck fast enough, if you make enough dust.

But you can’t.

Mourn the loss of this feeling: asking a girl or a boy to your room. Trembling and shaking together for the first time. You don’t want to, but you wonder how many first times of anything you’ll have again. This is the sickest pain there is:
wanting life to back up–wanting another moment as a child. This is the naked
we dream: the stark slap of darkness.

Reading Micah Ling’s poetry for the first time could be categorized as one of those experiences. Settlement, published by sunnyoutside, gives Canadian readers a sober North American perspective on Aboriginal and foreign affairs. For her latest book, historical elements of America’s and Palestine’s cultures help her to synthesize a thesis that appeals to her interest in foreign politics and her motherland’s culture. East and West political history mix with the exotic and the erotic of characters that sometimes come off as too weakened to be heard, perhaps lending itself to a theatricalization, more so than the theatrical format of the poems. Her thesis is synthesis.

Before introducing her book’s epigraph (Sherman Alexie’s ’Poetry = Anger x Imagination‘) she inserts to the left of it a critical remark under Acknowledgements:

‘This book is dedicated to the ongoing hope that there will be forward movement–justice, peace; something radical.’

It’s with the ire that the proper resolutions have yet to be achieved in American and in Israeli-Palestinian politics that the book commences.

There are two acts that compose this hypothetical play, like a thought experiment. The cast of Act One is made up of characters from all perspectives of the Dawes Act and Pine Ridge Reservation. The Dawes Act, enacted 1887, raped the Lakota Sioux Indians of their land by dividing it ‘into 40-180 acre allotments’. It was only the beginning of the government’s crimes, for in 1890, ‘Approximately 300 Lakota Sioux Indians were killed, including women and children, by the United States Cavalry’. It’s about the Wounded Knee Massacre, named for its proximity to Wounded Knee Creek, found on the reservation.

So, when Leonard Peltier, a member of the American Indian Movement, speaks about his view on the murder of two FBI agents near Wounded Knee Creek, which he was convicted for, it’s all contextual:

One sweet day, many years ago, more than one hundred years ago,
many people–hundreds of people; women and children–were killed
by United States Cavalry. One lovely day, many years later
nearly one hundred years later, two FBI agents were killed
in that same place. Place is what’s important–lives
of course, the hundreds many years ago, and the two, much later–but
about that place: Pine Ridge: Wounded Knee Creek: South Dakota.
Place yourself there. You’re tiny: you don’t get in the way
of wind or grass or emptiness. You’re barely in
that scene. But the day is gracious, for sure. It leads you on
to better days–you might not remember the place
but it will remember you, and notice you’ve passed it by.

There’s only one other Peltier poem in the book which also avoids the controversy of his innocence. But, as the poem above shows, Ling doesn’t focus on it. She is focussing on something more subtle, more vague, something with less conspiratorial inspiration. The idyllic element is certainly something that Canadian poets would find solace in. She focusses on the calm poetry of Peltier’s mind, opposite to his memoir My Life Is My Sun Dance, which focusses on his innocence and hardship.

This choice in tone helps to achieve Ling’s appeal to universalism: ‘Place is what’s important’. The poem comes under the title “Settlement”, which titles poems in both acts. Race and nationality aside, it’s the poet’s task to establish a humanistic idyll to advocate the needs of the people.

Returning to her Acknowledgements: Mahasen Nasser-Eldin, a Palestinian filmmaker born in Jerusalem, the status of which is a central issue in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. “I’d like to thank everyone in both casts–especially Walid Husseini and Mahesen Nasser-Eldin, who have changed my life.” So, it’s no wonder that an article whose title is an allusion to one of Nasser-Eldin’s films, From Palestine with Love, contains the reader’s key to the book’s ties:

“It is abundantly clear that the oft-used Israeli canard of ‘no partner for peace’ is a complete and utter fabrication. Not only has Israel had a partner for peace, said partner has been rolling over making poodle eyes. The myth of America as honest peace broker has also been shattered irrevocably. When Erekat [Saeb Erekat, former Palestinian Chief of the Palestine Liberation Organization's Steering and Monitoring Committee] offered Israel the ‘biggest Jerusalem ever’ — including all settlements in the East Jerusalem save for Jabal Abu Ghneim, or Har Homa, it was turned down by Tzipi Livni, Israel’s then foreign minster, with full American backing. The peace process is not just farce but a fantasy.”

The political inconclusiveness kicked up like dust in Act One becomes inherent in Act Two, and follows Wyne’s view that “To be a Palestinian, whether Muslim or Christian, is to float in a grey zone of quasi-statelessness at the whim of bureaucratic apparatchiks.”

In Ramallah there is a line of people: always.
Children and elderly. Tired, tired people.
They push and ditch, anything within reason
to get through faster. Two to a tiny wedge-space,
turn-style. Clothes get caught, skin pinched;
they are screamed at, poked, despised for being,
but they’re through, today. They’re free
to walk past a wall covered in protest, circled
with razors. They climb the steps of a stinking bus
and hope they’re not followed. They sit in traffic
for the light that’s programmed not to change,
they pray for that light to finally, finally let them home.

There’s nothing ambiguous about it: the sense of the word ‘home’ is empty while the future of the Palestinian state remains ambiguous, a contingency always felt in the provisional Palestinian capital. Ling poetically expresses the injustice of the situation through poetry.

Another pertinent headline, “Eden Abergil Facebook Pictures: Israeli Soldier’s Photos Cause Outrage“, is followed by the opening statement: “A former Israeli soldier posted photos on Facebook of herself in uniform smiling beside bound and blindfolded Palestinian prisoners, drawing sharp criticism Monday from the Israeli military and Palestinian officials.”

It’s something already covered in poetry by Steven Heighton, which invokes, directly and indirectly, international contexts, German, Palestinian, and American, of the word ‘wall’:

Baffled in Ashdod, Blind in Gaza

Eden
Abergil,
Eden of Ashdod, you only did
what any young recruit might do —
what I might have done myself, a little scared, a little
stoned (on your own strength, Eden,
as if each beautiful bullet you packed
were a pill — designer hybrid
of Percocet and blow, to anneal you against all
that’s frail and slow, that’s bound,
beyond help) —
And so these Facebook pix
and that bit of bad press (don’t worry, Eden, the news —
save on Al Jazeera and in the tabloids of Tehran —
has already moved on).
You don’t get it. You protest. Your little shoot
killed no one! So, then, why are the great Jews —
the poets and performers, the scientists, inventors,
philosophers, reformers — those truest
People of the Book — all weeping quietly
in their tombs: Paul Celan,
Hannah Arendt, almond-bitter Mandel-
stam, Marx and Einstein, all of them sad
insomniacs of the hinterlife, tallowing
hours away in the earth
to understand this “Facebook,” as well as the smirk
this now-world wears: failed future that won’t leave them to sleep,
not even the adamant suicides — Benjamin, Levi, Celan —
especially not the suicides.
And you yourself sit baffled in Ashdod,
Eden, wondering why no one did
quite catch the joke — meantime the army’s marketing folks
Photoshop your face to a blur, but
too late, you’re famous! Your poses
pathogenic, spreading via tweets and texts, and sickening…
sickening no one at all — we’ve all gone immune — all
but the hopeful dead, though of course
they’re dead and can’t die again
of our indignities.
Eden,
Eden of ash, your grand-
parents were the Nazi War — Eden
of Ashdod, der Tod
is still in the story, the frontier
between millennia didn’t keep it out,
the Human Future didn’t phase it out,
now it’s posted, grinning, on your wall.

Let every wall wail.

“Palestinian Authority spokesman Ghassan Khatib condemned the photos and said they pointed to a deeper malaise – how Israel’s 43-year-old occupation of Palestinians has affected the Israelis who enforce it.

This shows the mentality of the occupier,” Khatib said, “to be proud of humiliating Palestinians. The occupation is unjust, immoral and, as these pictures show, corrupting.”

But Micah Ling doesn’t compromise her subject matter by making an appeal to every context of the word ‘occupy’, the more important matter behind the Eden Abergil controversy:

Occupation

:An activity that serves as one’s regular source of livelihood: vocation.
:The act or process of holding or possessing a place.
:Invasion, conquest, and control of a territory by force.
:An occupation that occupies is actively occupying.
:The occupancy of being occupied constantly occupies.

However, Heighton’s verse is more forgiving that his audience, present and future, may be less in the loop. Khatib and Ling seem to be on the same level, although Ling’s verse is dependent on further context.

Heighton’s allusions to literary figures seem impertinent to the political matter; Micah Ling reinforces her own poetry with allusions of the actual. She describes in Act Two’s forward that “there is rich culture and prospering business; however, the Israeli military maintains strict checkpoints, curfews, electricity cuts and is a general disruption to normal life.”

Micah Ling seems to strive for a concluding settlement, in spite of coming off as critical of the economic prosperity, which is already becoming integrated with the Palestinians in her play. It’s perhaps a distraction from a possible conclusion to the Israeli occupation. The quotidian life, simple equilibrium, is what they cheer for, and it’s heard in the bittersweet phrase “Yallah for the hot sun, / for changing clothes / three times a day.” Other times, she makes a subtle reference to the current situation of Native Americans in the post-industrially distracted American society: “Yallah / at the end of it all, past / the end of the day–into tomorrow.” ‘Yallah’ has the sense of ‘on y va‘, or, ‘unbelievable’, or more literally, ‘Oh God’. Sometimes, it’s like the sound of untranslatable hope.

Walid

Yallah. Yallah for a clear night
and the bobbing sea. Yallah
for the man picking plastic bags
from the sand to burn in the dumpster.
Yallah for skinny cats, all of them
trying to find scraps of sour meat.
Yallah for the hot sun,
for changing clothes
three times a day. Yallah
for the olive trees still there,
and the ones pulled up.
Yallah for dust in the clean laundry,
for the wind that mimics
the scattered day–the day
wasted, trying to exit. Yallah
at the end of it all, past
the end of the day–into tomorrow.
Yallah for meeting friends
at the bar on the other side. Yallah
for a meal and too much to drink.
Tomorrow is already here,
and you are happy. We are all happy
to see it: bright sun, brilliant sky,
too-clear sea. Yallah new day. Yallah.

The Prince of Denmark, from Shakespeare’s Hamlet, has gained a degree of literary magnetism due to his complexity: his atypical outlook, his melancholy, and especially his perplexing relationship with Ophelia. Hamlet’s feelings for Ophelia have been long argued; however, what should have been in question is his capacity for sexual attraction. Sparked by the actions of the play, Hamlet becomes aware that he is incapable of being sexually attracted to women or men, what we refer to in contemporary society as asexuality. Although Hamlet may have always had a capacity for romantic attraction, he has endured psychophysical change created through his recently developed misogynistic contempt. This led to his general loathing of both men and women and an abnormal view on relationships, causing the realization that he cannot sustain a sexual relationship, which he attempts to express in his love letter.

In Shakespeare’s England, no terminology existed to describe sexuality (Smith 11). Although non-traditional relationships occurred, they were not differentiated from others (Smith 11). Asexuality, a more recent concept to Western culture, is “a complete lack of sexual attraction and/or sexual interest” (Bogaert 4). Sexual attraction must not, however, be confused with romantic attraction. Romantic attraction is emotional attachment and a want for companionship, independent of sexual attraction: physical and sexual desire (Bogaert 9). This difference, of course, was not defined in Shakespeare’s England, and was referred to as just “love”. Despite the fact that the behaviour we have now linked to asexuality is not a common one in Shakespeare’s works, Hamlet’s sexual indifference is not an isolated incident. Falstaff, from Shakespeare’s Merry Wives of Windsor, “lack[s] significant sexual motive” (Tiffany 262), and there are asexual implications in plays like Epicœne, by Ben Jonson, who is contemporaneous with Shakespeare.

In Hamlet’s first appearance, he scorns “A little more than kin and less than kind” (1.2.65), insinuating both that he is not pleased in his mother’s remarriage, and he uses “kind” in a sense of how unnatural their relationship is (Greenblatt 342). Mournfulness and grief is overbore by disgust as Hamlet follows with a soliloquy in which he states his appal for the haste of his mother’s incestuous actions: “But two months dead – nay, not so much, not two” (1.2.138). Further insulting Gertrude, Hamlet compares her to a beast, implying a creature that “lacks the faculty of rational thought” (Greenblatt 344) “would have mourned longer” (1.2.151) for the death of Hamlet’s father. Prior to his cognizance and confrontation of his father’s ghost, he despised both his uncle and his mother, and begins targeting his frustration at not just Gertrude, but all women.

Hamlet, engrossed in his diatribe following the court’s exeunt, rants about the physical and moral weakness of all women, without considering the virtue and intention of his uncle, Claudius as well. “Frailty, thy name is woman!” (1.2.146), blaming not one single act of infidelity on one woman in particular, Hamlet confirms his hatred is misogyny. Hamlet refers to Gertrude’s insatiable sexual appetite as “an unweeded garden / That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature / Possess it merely” (1.2.135-7). Hamlet is frustrated that his mother’s sexual activity did not die with his father.

It seems as though Hamlet’s hatred of women triggered the realization of his lack of capacity for sexual affection. This can be seen when Hamlet tells Ophelia “Get thee to a nunnery” (3.1.122) at the mere insinuation of a relationship between the two. Hamlet has adopted an unhealthy concept of relationships and marriage, due to the psychological tampering caused by mother’s second marriage. He assumes marriages occur only to procreate, as he rejects Ophelia because he does not wish to be “a breeder of sinners” (3.1.122-3). Hamlet, in this sense, has blindly connected companionship and sexual attraction, and feels he is unable to reciprocate in a relationship, as he has no sexual interest.

Most non-asexual people tend to have their romantic and sexual attractions directed to the same person, while asexual people are only capable of romantic attraction (Bogaert 11). If Hamlet were capable of both types of attraction, he would be able to distinguish the two, and therefore not have such an unnatural view on marriage. Hamlet, at one point, refers to his uncle Claudius as “dear mother” (4.3.51), and upon query responds: “My mother. Father and mother is man and wife, man and wife is one flesh, and so my mother” (4.3.53-4). Although this is a religious reference (Greenblatt 396), Hamlet has established that he does not, in any way, want a sexual relationship, especially one that leads to marriage.

Not only have the incestuous actions of his mother developed Hamlet’s misogynistic sentiment, however, the betrayal in general, both from his mother and his uncle, has caused Hamlet to question the fundamentals of life. “O God, O God, / How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable / Seem to me all the uses of this world!” (1.2.132-4). As Hamlet is convinced he cannot find companionship without sexual affection, he finds no appropriate reason for his existence. This speech is the first indication of Hamlet’s suicidal contemplations.

Full of melancholy, Hamlet explains to Rosencrantz and Guildenstern a concern that many present-day asexual people claim to share:

“What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason, how infinite in faculty, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god – the beauty of the world, the paragon of animals! And yet to me what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me – no, nor women neither” (2.2.293-9).

At first glance, it seems that Hamlet is stating that although the human race is full of possibility, he detests them for their actions; however, considering the context, the word ‘man’ would be used to encompass all of humankind. Therefore, specifying “no, nor women neither” refutes the claim that “man”, in this case, means humanity, and instead refers to the male sex. With that in mind, Hamlet is declaring that he is not sexually interested in man or woman.

It is evident that Hamlet has, once again, unthinkingly connected romance with sex. It seems as though he is frustrated, as he can find beauty in people and the world, however, he feels he is not sexually attracted to, or delighted by men or women.  Ultimately, Hamlet doesn’t understand the appeal of sexual activity compared to the vast complexity of human capability, a concept that many present-day asexual people are also concerned with (Asexuality Archive, 20).

It is often argued that Hamlet has unconscious sexual desire for Gertrude, according to the Freudian Oedipus Complex (Jones 99). If this were the case, Hamlet’s manifestation of sexual attraction would refute the idea that Hamlet demonstrates features of the contemporary definition of asexuality. Jones’ argument tries to explain Hamlet’s procrastination as evidence of the psychodynamic conditions of his Oedipal desires (99-100). Although it is another argument in itself, it does need to be touched upon.

It cannot be proved that Hamlet has unconscious feelings towards his mother due to the amount of time it takes for Hamlet to exact his revenge on Claudius. Although psychoanalysis can prove effective in many cases, textual evidence proves more advantageous. The most time-consuming action Hamlet underwent was to “find grounds / More relative” (2.2.580-1) than what he has been told by the ghost of his father. He takes time to “catch the conscience of the King” (2.2.582), a more human thing to do compared to the reckless murders that occur in many of Shakespeare’s other tragedies.

It is nonsensical to argue that, psychoanalytically, Hamlet did not avenge his father in act III scene III because he unconsciously idolizes Claudius for succeeding in what Hamlet wanted (Jones 101), while there is textual evidence that says otherwise. When Hamlet enters behind Claudius, while he is in some act of repentance, he draws his sword, ready to exact his revenge. He hesitates and vows to murder him in a moment “that has no relish of salvation in’t” (3.3.92), such as when he’s “drunk asleep, or in his rage, / Or in th’incestuous pleasure of his bed” (3.3.89-90). Hamlet’s justification for this postponement is to ensure “his soul may be as damned and black / As hell whereto it goes” (3.3.94-5), rather than a psychodynamic dilemma. Although this does not, in any way, prove Hamlet to lack sexual attraction in general, it establishes the belief that he does not suffer from Oedipal desires.

The letter Hamlet sent to Ophelia seemingly explains his affection for her; however, his true intent is not always interpreted. “Doubt thou the stars fire, / Doubt that the sun doth move, / Doubt truth to be a liar, / But never doubt I love” (2.2.116-9). It seems as though Hamlet is telling Ophelia the only thing she can be certain about is his love; however, it is quite the opposite. Stephen Greenblatt has written that, in the instance of the third line, the word “doubt” is used as the word “suspect” (361). The words “doubt” and “suspect” are antonymous, as to “doubt” is to feel uncertain, while to “suspect”, in this case, is to feel something is likely true. This ambiguous duality of the word “doubt” is an autoantonym: “a word that has a homograph that is an antonym” (The Online Dictionary of Language Terminology). Applying the autoantonym to the text, Hamlet’s letter is telling Ophelia to suspect astronomical facts, which at the time were not necessarily facts, to be true, but to not suspect an uncertainty to be true: the uncertainty being Hamlet’s love.

This short poem is heptasyllabic, excluding the last line. John Barton, co-founder of the Royal Shakespeare Company, believes that missing syllables are non-accidental and that “short lines [in a verse] can always tell you something, usually about the characters’ intentions” (35). The missing syllable in the last line draws our attention and changes the meaning completely. If the word “you” filled in as the missing seventh syllable, it would mean, taking into account the use of the autoantonym, “never suspect I love you”; however, with the missing syllable it stands as “never suspect I love”. The syllable has been intentionally withdrawn to emphasize the idea that Hamlet does not “love”: he lacks sexual attraction and interest.

The conclusion of Hamlet’s letter to Ophelia is clearer than the beginning; however, it still needs to be looked at with some care. “O dear Ophelia, I am ill at these numbers. I have not art to reckon my groans. But that I love thee best, believe it. Adieu. / Thine evermore, most dear lady, whilst this machine is to him” (2.2.120-3). As there is no defined distinction between sexual and romantic feelings in Shakespeare’s England, Hamlet classifies both as love. It seems as though Hamlet, when he tells Ophelia “I love thee best”, is attempting to explain that she is the closest he has come to love someone, as all he feels is romantic attraction, rather than sexual.

Although it fundamentally means he is having difficulty expressing himself, Hamlet being “ill at these numbers” and not being able to “reckon [his] groans”, or “count . . . or number [his] groans metrically” (Greenblatt 361), refers us back to the missing syllable of his verse. Ending the letter with “whilst this machine is to him”, this being the only use in all of Shakespeare’s works of the word “machine” (Goddard 404), is explained as while “this body belongs” to him (Greenblatt 361). Regardless of whether “him” refers to God or to Hamlet’s psyche, it seems to say Hamlet’s incapacity for sexual attraction is life-long. For these reasons, the letter he is sending has a very apologetic tone, rather than a declaration of love from the man who normally has such a playful, flirtatious way with words.

Hamlet’s relationship with Ophelia has always been a highly debated topic. Although he may have romantic interest in her, Hamlet demonstrates features of the contemporarily defined sexual orientation, asexuality. Subconsciously triggered by his mother’s second marriage, leading to his sentiment of human insignificance, Hamlet never has and never will experience sexual attraction. He tries to explain to Ophelia in his “love” letter that he was both incapable and unwilling to partake in sexual relations with her, or any other person; however, no word, in Elizabethan times, existed.

 Works Cited

Asexuality: A Brief Introduction. AsexualityArchive.com, 2012.

“Autoantonym.” Def. 25 March 2013. The Online Dictionary of Language Terminology. 7 April 2013 <www.odlt.org>.

Barton, John. Playing Shakespeare. New York: Anchor Books, 1984.

Bogaert, Anthony F. Understanding Asexuality. Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers Inc., 2012.

Goddard, Harold C. “Hamlet to Ophelia.” College English April 1955: 403-415.

Greenblatt, Stephen. “Hamlet.” The Norton Shakespeare: Tragedies. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2008.

Jones, Ernest. “The Oedipus Complex as an Explanation of Hamlet’s Mystery: A Study in Motive.” The American Journal of Psychology 21.1 (1910): 72-113.

Jonson, Ben. Epicene. Cambridge: Chadwyck-Healey, 1997.

Shakespeare, William. The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. Ed. Stephen Greenblatt. 2nd Edition. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2008.

Smith, Bruce R. Homosexual Desire in Shakespeare’s England: A Cultural Poetics. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1995.

Tiffany, Grace. “Falstaff’s False Staff: “Jonsonian” Asexuality in The Merry Wives of Windsor.” Comparative Drama. Vol. 26. No 3. Comparative Drama, 1992.

Not all literature that consists of an adventure brands the protagonist as a hero; however, Yann Martell’s Life of Pi contains many patterns of a monomyth quest. The Heroic Monomyth, also known as the hero’s journey, explains the common stages of a quest in many classic stories. The novel is split into three sections, each with a specific purpose. The first section introduces the readers to the protagonist, while the second section is the actual journey he partook in. The final section is the ambiguous conclusion, leaving the reader questioning the story. Following Piscine Molitor Patel’s endeavor, many of his heroic qualities are exposed. Due to his innovative thoughts and curiosity towards religion, his developed skills, and the quest patterns he experienced, Pi Patel portrays heroic qualities.

In “Part One: Toronto and Pondicherry”, the reader follows Pi’s thoughts, introducing them to his beliefs and ideologies. What contrasts Pi from any other sixteen year old, is that he questions his beliefs and independently inquires about religious practices. Pi is dissimilar to the student body of his school as he has been brought up in the peculiar environment of a zoo, leading him to have an advanced view on societal aspects of his community by comparing it to the animals in his home. Pi is not inevitably more intelligent than others his age; however, he is ambitious; he was eager to learn and to experience all he could, a very significant heroic quality. Ambition, a quality that is shared among many protagonists, can be a positive characteristic as much as it can be a flaw.Pi had controllable ambitions that do not require him to violate his ethics, vouchsafing him as a true hero.

In “Part Two: The Pacific Ocean”, Pi is faced with the hardships of, as stated in the section’s title, the Pacific Ocean. Pi is forced to care for himself, along with an adult Bengal tiger, developing skills involving acquiring food, fresh water, and shelter. Not every child who has attended a summer camp is classified as a hero – Pi adapts to his situation hastily whilst under the hungry eye of a Bengal tiger. Pi’s acquisitions assist his change to suit the circumstances, a change that some heroes must make, and extends his survival. These significant changes and acquired skills constitute Pi’s heroic status.

Life of Pi follows many patterns of a monomyth quest. Pi Patel’s family is moving to Toronto, and Pi refuses his Call to Adventure, as he does not want to leave. Following The Crossing of the First Threshold and the Belly of the Whale, Pi gains a Supernatural Aid: an adult Bengal tiger. “Then Richard Parker, companion of my torment, awful, fierce thing that kept me alive”(Yan 316). There are many instances in which Pi states that he would not be able to contain his loneliness if Richard Parker, the tiger, was not there with him. A large majority of Pi’s adventure consists of The Road of Trials, as each day, if not each hour, is an ordeal. Pi’s incessant Atonement with the Father is rather Pi confronting his true beliefs with God. The Ultimate Boon, being the moment that Pi arrives on the shores of Mexico is followed instantly by the Apotheosis when Richard Parker runs off into the wild. Life of Pi also features many monomyth patterns about the return, such as Rescue from Without, Pi’s need of assistance before he could lead a regular life, The Crossing of the Return Threshold, Pi’s attempt to retell his story to the members of the Japanese Ministry of Transport, and Master of Two Worlds, which is portrayed in the first section of novel, when there is a chapter about Pi in the future. Pi Patel’s quest mimics the journeys of the heroic protagonists in classic literature.

Piscine Molitor Patel’s endeavor is a journey; however, thus said, he is not inevitably a hero. His controllable ambitions, acquired abilities, and his monomyth quest constitute his heroic status. Regardless of that, the members of the Japanese Ministry of Transport do not believe his story, Pi is still a hero.

Edward Albee’s The Goat; or, Who is Sylvia? has been written with explicit literary and dramatic intention, seen through the published subtitle. The aim of Albee’s play is to define modern tragedy as a contemporary adaptation of the genre from the fifth-century. Albee’s revival of theatric principles from the dramatic theory in Aristotle’s Poetics, as well as the characteristic and plot parallels between The Goat and Sophocles’ Oedipus the King, consummates his definition. This drama, therefore, extends Greek tragedy into the modern world.

Fifth-century Greek tragedy revolved heavily around religion and mythology, as such faith predominated the lives of Greek peoples (Morris and Powell 119). Religion, however, in contemporary Western culture, does not remain, to the same degree, as such a powerful authority. Therefore, the context of a neo-classical play, such as Albee’s, should reflect the cultural influences of the period. For example, instead of taking place in Thebes in Ancient Greece, such as Sophocles’ Oedipus the King (Sophocles 143), it takes place merely in “the present” (Albee 1567). In this way, Albee is able to utilize and comment upon the fundamentals of Greek tragedy, while theatricalizing contemporary socio-political issues.

The Goat is immediately connected to Greek tragedy merely through the title. Tragedy, from the Greek tragōidia, translates as “goat song”, as goats were often sacrificially slaughtered as a gift to the gods (Morris and Powell 318). In this way, Albee has symbolically brought tragedy to the stage by the conclusive killing of the goat at the end of the play.  For this reason, it is clear that Albee’s idea of modern tragedy lies within ancient tragedy, rather than another historical theory.

Albee has mimicked many other elements of an Aristotelian tragedy, as outlined in Poetics. Catharsis, the release of tension (Morris and Powell 328), is one of the more commonly occurring concepts of Aristotle’s dramatic theory, and it occurs in The Goat upon the presenting of the goat carcass to Martin, and the rest of the audience. In addition, Albee has seamlessly followed Aristotle’s beliefs of the trajectory of a tragic plot. After the anagnorisis, “recognition” (Morris and Powell 329), in this case of Martin’s relationship with Sylvia, the audience is informed of Martin’s hamartia, “fatal flaw” (Morris and Powell 329), ultimately leading to the katastrophê, “the reversal of fortune” (Morris and Powell 329). It can be seen through the imitation of Aristotle’s ideal tragedy that Albee believes it to be the best model. It is also Aristotle’s view that the protagonist is not deserving of their misfortune, which is paralleled in The Goat, as Albee has attempted to recreate this, seen through Martin’s generally positive parenting and pleasant marriage. In following this system, Albee is further glorifying Aristotle’s concepts, and therefore, all the Greek tragedies that thereafter followed his model.

Although it is subjective to the audience, both fear and pity can be aroused from “spectacular” (Aristotle 36) means, such as the destruction of Martin’s home and the murder of his lover, Sylvia, or “inner” (Aristotle 36) means, such as the deterioration of Martin’s family, the loss of his best friend, and the changing relationship with his son. Aristotle believed Sophocles’ Oedipus the King to be a perfect example of a play that causes the audience to feel both fear and pity (Aristotle 36). Albee has based his entire theatrical work on Aristotle’s dramatic theory, which was the basis of Greek theatre, concluding his definition of modern tragedy to be derived from that of ancient tragedy.

The Goat coincides with the Greek belief that “tragedy is fundamentally about transgression and the violation of boundaries” (Constantinidis 189). This can be seen through the many parallels to the Aristotelian plot structure, as well as content from Greek tragedies, most notably, Sophocles’ Oedipus the King.  Oedipus’ incestuous acts violated a taboo that differentiates human society. Regardless of the incognizance in Oedipus’ case, and although Martin’s actions were different, the comparison of Albee’s play is still effective, as the act of bestiality creates the same ‘shock value’ in contemporary Western culture. This initial shock is what creates the downward spiral of tragic occurrences in both cases: the destruction of the protagonist’s home and family and the death of their lover being the end result.

Although all Greek tragedy cannot be summarized into a cohesive statement, the majority of plays share many themes.  Stratos E. Constantinidis’ belief that “Greek tragedy focuses on behaviour that is violent or sexual in nature and whose transgressive force is often increased by being located within the nexus of family relationships” encapsulates the events of both The Goat and Oedipus the King. In this way, both plays are fundamentally presenting the same thing.

Martin, the aging protagonist of The Goat, is very well a contemporary Oedipus. Not only do they both, inadvertently or not, breach social boundaries, however, they share many character traits as well. Martin, described as “a decent, liberal, right-thinking, talented, famous, gentle man” (Albee 1581), happens to be at the peak of his career, receiving the top award in his field. Oedipus, for the most part, fits this description, as he is very loyal over his new home and kingdom, talented, as seen through his outwitting of the Sphinx, and famous, as he is now King of Thebes. The only difference may be that Oedipus, seen through his accusatory attitude, is not quite as gentle as Martin.

Martin and Oedipus are living at the high points of their lives: both destined to shift from prosperity to sorrow. Although it could be argued the character of Martin better fits Arthur Miller’s theory of tragedy, as he is a common man (Silver), since he is the winner of the ‘Pritzker Prize’, described as “architecture’s version of the Nobel” (Albee 1573), he has achieved greatness. In a very contemporary sense, Martin’s career-related and assumed financial success, as well as his loving family, fulfil the requirement of greatness a protagonist has in an Aristotelian tragedy (Silver).  By replicating Oedipus in this way, Albee has set the stage to recreate a tragedy of similar calibre, establishing the genre can be authentic in a contemporary setting.

Martin, however, is not the only character afflicted by tragedy. Stevie, Martin’s once-loving wife, mirrors Jocasta, Oedipus’ mother and wife. Although the circumstances are different, the ordeal faced by these women is very similar and exceptionally tragic. Through no action of her own, Stevie’s marriage, family and life have been “brought . . . down to nothing!” (Albee 1596). She speaks of more than simply marriage when she accuses that Martin has “broken something and it can’t be fixed!” (Albee 1596). The tragedy faced by Stevie justifies, to the audience, her killing of Sylvia.

Stevie, proving herself a vindictive tragic heroine, took as drastic an action as Jocasta. When she enters “dragging a dead goat . . . blood is down [her] dress, on her arms” (Albee 1604), she parallels the vengeance of Medea, from Euripides’ play, who “think[s] it right to murder just for a thwarted bed” (Euripides 185). Although Stevie does not mimic Jocasta’s suicidal actions, they share the same intent. Jocasta, following through with the most selfish action possible, hanged herself to escape her dishonourable life. Stevie’s most selfish act would be to murder the one who Martin claims loves him. In doing so, Stevie establishes the same calamity as her ancient Greek counterpart as well as emphasizing the overall tragedy of the situation by bringing a goat, a symbol of Greek tragedy, on the stage.

The destruction of the nuclear family, in the case of The Goat, is a modern version of the tragedy faced by Jocasta and her children, Antigone and Ismene. “Risking all / to shoulder the curse that weighs down my parents, / yes and you too – that wounds us all together. / What more misery could you want?” (Sophocles 184). Oedipus, in some of the last words of the play, explains to his juvenile daughters/sisters “Such disgrace, and [they] must bear it all!” (Sophocles 184). Although they are too young to understand, Oedipus is telling them they are the product of incestuous acts, they will never live a normal, married life, and they will have no family.

Billy, Martin’s son, is destined to face a similar life upon the destruction of their family. Ending The Goat, Billy questions “[to one, then the other; no reaction from them] Dad? Mom?” (Albee 1604). Billy is not asking for anything in particular; however, the lack of response and subsequent tableau signifies their change in relationship and that Billy is on his own. This symbolic collapse of the family concludes the play, as, from what we have seen, it is the most important aspect of Martin’s life. By continuing to imitate the characters and causes of tragedy in Oedipus the King, Albee reinforces his definition of modern tragedy.

Oedipus the King seems to be the epitome of Greek tragedy, according to Aristotle. In Poetics, he constantly refers to the plot of Sophocles’ play to assist in his definitions, such as in his differentiation of “simple and complex plots” (Aristotle 35). Aristotle states a tale should “thrill with horror and melt to pity at what takes place”, and that Oedipus does so (36). Therefore, it is clear that Albee intended to use Oedipus the King as a basis for his play to again connect to Aristotle and his beliefs, and he does so to reinforce his definition of modern tragedy as a contemporary adaptation.

In writing The Goat; or, Who is Sylvia?, Albee establishes his belief in the Aristotelian theory of tragedy.  By following the elements of Aristotle’s dramatic theory from Poetics, and mimicking what seems to be Aristotle’s favourite tragedy: Sophocles’ Oedipus the King, Albee has created a story that both coincides with his opinion of the historical theory of tragedy and presents the nuclear family in a contemporary setting. In doing so, Albee proves the best definition of modern tragedy is a contemporary version of the genre from ancient Greece that follows Aristotle’s dramatic theory.

Works Cited

Albee, Edward. “The Goat; or, Who Is Sylvia?” Gainor, J. Ellen, Stanton B. Garner Jr. and Martin Puchner. The Norton Anthology of Drama, Volume 2: The Nineteenth Century to the Present. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2009.

Aristotle. “Poetics.” Greenwald, Michael L., Roger Schultz and Roberto D. Pomo. The Longman Anthology of Drama and Theater. New York: Addison-Wesley Educational Publishers Inc., 2001.

Constantinidis, Stratos E. Text and Presentation 2004. McFarland and Company, Inc., 2004.

Euripides. “Medea.” Greenwald, Michael L., Roger Schultz and Roberto D. Pomo. The Longman Anthology of Drama and Theater. New York: Addison-Wesley Educational Publishers Inc., 2001.

Morris, Ian and Barry B. Powell. The Greeks: History, Culture, and Society. Upper Saddle River: Prentice Hall, 2010.

Silver, Cassandra. “Historical Theories of Tragedy.” Mississauga: University of Toronto, Mississauga, 5 April 2013. Lecture.

Sophocles. “Oedipus the King.” Gainor, J. Ellen, Stanton B. Garner Jr. and Martin Puchner. The Norton Anthology of Drama, Volume 1: Antiquity through the Eighteenth Century. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2009.

Greek women were restricted to living within a patriarchal society in Classical Greece; however, they were depicted in prominent roles in fifth-century drama. Although some plays presented women as mere housewives, others often put them in the position of political leaders, heroines, and murderers. The purpose of the female being staged in socially unconventional ways is to reinforce what will be defined as the ‘ideal image’: a perfect wife, regarding a woman’s familial, social, cultural, and lawful role in the oikos. The oikos is a term describing the many aspects of both the home and family.[1] The emphasis of the ideal image can be seen through varying works of fifth-century dramatists. In Aristophanes’ Lysistrata, female citizens work together to end the Peloponnesian War for the sole purpose of returning to their homes as wives, mothers, and homemakers. The female protagonist of Sophocles’ Antigone breaks the law and risks her life for the honour of her family. Euripides’ Medea presents a woman who had lived as the ideal image until her husband left and the play theatricalizes the aftermath. The thoughts and actions of female characters, such as Lysistrata, Antigone, and Medea, are used to stress the importance of the Greek patriarchy and the women fulfilling their duties.

Misogyny is a reoccurring theme in Ancient Greece, and women were not only thought of as inferior and having dangerous intentions[2] but they were “an evil thing in which [men] may all be glad of heart while they embrace their own destruction”. [3] The only independence women were permitted was within the oikos, as they were expected to obey their husbands at all times;[4] however, in Classical Greek drama, there are instances where women would challenge men, society, and politics. In doing so, Greek playwrights attempt to give advice about the role of women, as “it is always clear in the drama, that these are not foreign women acting normally but Athenian women acting abnormally”.[5]

All Greek tragedians and comedians were male, usually writing plays for male audiences.[6] In comedies, male playwrights would both blatantly and subtly reinforce female inferiority through mockery, such as in Lysistrata; an all-male audience would find it humourous to witness women being involved in politics, as it is irregular. In tragedies, the ideal woman, wife, or mother is depicted and, through the actions of the play, act as an example of what a woman should and should not do. These tragedies, in particular, use the effect of “fear and pity, . . . aroused by . . . the inner structure of the piece”,[7] as well as katharsis, the release of tension experienced by the audience following powerful emotions.[8] These methods are used so the audience is emotionally invested in the play, and therefore able to consider the meaning. Through this medium, playwrights were both entertaining and didactic.

Lysistrata, in Aristophanes’ Old Comedy, gathers women from various city-states who work together in an attempt to end the Peloponnesian War. Although the broad concept seems proto-feminist, it is rather the opposite: depicting women as lustful and selfish. The initial reason these women agree to band together is because they “pine for [their] children’s fathers when they’re off at war”[9] therefore insinuating a woman’s first concern is sexual. Regardless of their oath to refuse sexual activity until the war is over, Lysistrata finds it difficult to “keep the wives away from their husbands”[10] suggesting women are weak and lack self-discipline. The women’s reasoning to end the war is, ultimately, to return to their families, especially their husbands, re-establishing the “domestic order” of the household.[11] In doing so, the women must leave their temporary role in politics, to return to mundane housework and the responsibilities of the oikos. Not only does this maintain that women should obediently fulfil their duties, but as the ideal image, women should enjoy doing them. This play has a positive and encouraging influence on the ideal image, as it could give Greek women a sense of pride in their responsibilities, and their completion of them.

It is arguable that, based on the plot, Lysistrata and the group of Greek women succeeded in some form of liberation from the patriarchy; however, this exists for entertainment, rather than a criticism of the system. The Greece that is depicted in Lysistrata is a fantastical one, where all men are idiotic and insatiable. The concept of women “protecting” the men, and “manag[ing] the money”[12] seemed so improbable that it was something to laugh at, and this mockery reinforces the ideal image by stressing women’s subordination. When the women “keep men away from their hair-pies”,[13] it causes the Greek men to complain that their genitals are “bursting out of [their] skin”,[14] and that they are incapable of completing everyday tasks. Not only does the unlikelihood of this occurring insult women, but it also supports the ideal image, insinuating the little influence women have on men is sexual. Therefore, the women’s attempt to take control of the acropolis in Lysistrata acts as a form of comedy, strengthens the belief that women are inferior, and proposes that women should be satisfied with their position in the oikos.

Antigone, Oedipus’ daughter in Sophocles’ tragedy, begins the play with a clear conception of what the playwright believes to be the ideal image. Antigone tells her sister, Ismene, “we must remember, first, that we were born / Women, who should not strive with men”.[15] This establishes that Antigone’s morals coincide with the ideal image, identifying her as a grounded, loyal character. Creon, the King of Thebes, decrees that “No one shall honor [Polynices] with a grave, and none / Lament, but let his corpse be left unburied”.[16] Polynices, Antigone’s brother, returned from exile and “tried to burn his native land”[17], and for that reason, it was ruled that his body may not be buried, a dishonour for both him and his family.

Sensitive to both her religious and familial duties, Antigone justifies the idea of burying her brother, despite the personal consequences[18]. In doing so, Antigone dismisses Creon’s order for the honour of her oikos, and therefore reinforcing the ideal image of women. Ismene, on the other hand, is the antithesis of Sophocle’s perception of this image: unwilling to assist her sister, Antigone, in burying Polynices and honouring her family. Additionally, Ismene attempts to lie, claiming her “sharing in this burial”[19]; however, Antigone does not allow this. Ultimately, Antigone acts upon her strong morals, accepting her punishment.

The strongest connection between Antigone and the ideal image is not the sacrifice of her finite life, but the sacrifice of her afterlife. Antigone’s integrity and pious life would have granted her a pleasant afterlife; however, the honour of her family is more important than this. She fulfils her duty to bury her brother, knowing that it could be means for punishment in her afterlife. She says she “must please the dead below [for] much longer”[20] than she must please Creon, insinuating that she will spend eternity with her immoral family.[21]

Sophocles, as Aristophanes did, comments on a positive aspect of the ideal image. When Antigone is found hanged in her rocky prison, Haemon, her fiancé, kills himself. His disastrous actions are due to the loss of his love; however, it expresses that the heart and soul of the oikos lie within the woman. In doing so, Sophocles conveys his impression of the ideal image of women being that of a loyal, honourable, and committed wife and lover. It is clear that Sophocles has expressed through his play that he believes sacrifices must be made for the good of the oikos, and that the ideal woman would do anything to honour the family.

Medea, from Euripides’ tragedy of the same title, is introduced as a woman who has been living  “an unassailable married life of devotion to [her husband] and their children”.[22] Euripides seems to use the character Medea as an example of why a woman must control her emotions and consider the greater good; otherwise, the oikos is unstable. The events of the play commence after it is discovered Jason, Medea’s husband, is to marry the king of Corinth’s daughter. Medea, “spurned and desolate”,[23] decides to take her revenge on both Jason, and his new bride. Medea sends a poisoned gown and diadem as a gift, so when “she puts it on, / the girl will die in agony”.[24] Medea has selfish intentions, rather than considering what is best for the oikos, as Jason attempts to explain to her that he “wanted [their] children to be reared in a manner worthy of [his] ancestry”[25]. Although Medea’s situation was dreadful, she was unable to consider what was best for her family, and therefore contradicts the ideal image.

Euripides expresses the idea that Greek women take their lives and positions in society for granted. Jason, who at times represents an authorial character, continues to remind Medea that she “[has] a home in Hellas instead of some barbarian land”.[26] In doing so, Euripides explains that women have no need to reject their position in society, as they have a home, a family, and a loving and protective husband. This point is emphasized when Jason responds to Medea’s stubbornness: “You women are all the same. If your love life goes all right, everything is fine; but once crossed in bed, the liveliest and best that life can offer might as well be wormwood”.[27] Thus said, Euripides is indicating the correlation between a woman’s sense of self-assurance and the strength of her oikos.

As part of her act of vengeance, Medea drastically rejects the ideal image: “Never again alive shall he see the sons he had by me”.[28] For the mere fact of Jason not being able to be with his sons, and despite the chorus’ attempts at changing her mind, Medea slaughters her two sons.  In doing so, Medea has contradicted all her duties, representing the opposite of all women. Medea, “think[ing] it right to murder just for a thwarted bed”,[29] has corrupted and destroyed all aspects of her oikos. She has been banned from Corinth, rejected by her husband, and has murdered her children, instead of rearing and protecting them. The chorus, which, in fifth-century drama, often gives advice to characters, as well as the audience,[30] sing “Those that spill the blood of family / Stain themselves with heaven’s anger, / Haunt their homes with doom forever”.[31] This message is a clear indicator of Euripides’ moral standing. Medea’s actions have resulted in the destruction of her oikos, and, arguably, her sanity. Euripides has emphasized, through drastic measures, the importance of commitment, loyalty, and, selflessness, and, essentially, the antithesis of the ideal image.

Although many Greek playwrights have depicted women as inferior for the purpose of comedy and entertainment, it greatly reflects their idea of the ideal image. While some portrayals of Greek women attempt to encourage their duties within the oikos in a positive manner, the majority tend to do so in a demeaning fashion. The ideal image of women is represented and reflected upon through the abnormal occurrences in fifth-century drama. The women that want to return as housewives in Aristophanes’ Lysistrata, the self-sacrifice for familial honour in Sophocles’ Antigone, and the vengeful rampage of the heart-broken wife in Euripides’ Medea indicate the respective playwrights’ concept of the ideal image; therefore, bridging the gap between the reality of women in Classical Greece, and what is depicted onstage.

Bibliography

Agard, Walter R. “The Antigone of Sophocles.” Vol. I, in Classics in Translation, edited by Paul MacKendrink and Herbert M. Howe, 155-156. Wisconsin: Univeristy of Wisconsin Press.

Aristophanes. Lysistrata. Vol. 1, in The Norton Anthology of Drama, by J. Ellen Gainor, Stanton B. Garner Jr. and Martin Puchner, edited by Peter Simon, translated by Jeffrey Henderson, 190-224. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2009.

Aristotle. Poetics. In The Longman Anthology of Drama and Theater, by Michael L. Greenwald, Roger Schultz and Roberto D. Pomo, translated by Samuel Henry Butcher, 35-36. New York: Addison-Wesley Educational Publishers Inc., 2001.

“Chapter 15: Fifth-Century Drama.” In The Greeks: History, Culture, and Society, by Ian Morris and Barry B. Powell, 317-336. Upper Saddle River: Pearson Education Inc, Prentice Hall, 2010.

“Chapter 3: The Greeks at Home.” In The Greeks: History, Culture, and Society, by Ian Morris and Barry B. Powell, 28-40. Upper Saddle River: Pearson Education Inc, Prentice Hall, 2010.

Euripides. Medea. In The Longman Anthology of Drama and Theater, by Michael L. Greenwald, Roger Schultz and Roberto D. Pomo, translated by Paul Roche, 164-186. New York: Addison-Wesley Educational Publishers Inc., 2001.

Gainor, J. Ellen. “Aristophanes.” Vol. I, in The Norton Anthology of Drama, by J. Ellen Gainor, Stanton B. Garner Jr. and Martin Puchner, 187-190. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2009.

Hesiod. Works and Days. Perseus Digital Library. http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/text?doc=Perseus%3Atext%3A1999.01.0132%3Acard%3D42 (accessed March 1, 2013).

Rich, Alysse. “Lysistrata and Old Comedy.” Lecture. Mississauga, ON: University of Toronto Mississauga, 19 September 2012.

Rich, Alysse. “Performance Conventions of Greek Theatre.” Lecture. Mississauga, ON: University of Toronto Mississauga, 21 September 2012.

Shaw, Michael. “The Female Intruder: Women in Fifth-Century Drama.” Classical Philology (The Univeristy of Chicago Press) 70, no. 4 (October 1975): 255-266.

Sophocles. Antigone. Vol. 1, in Classics in Translation, edited by Paul MacKendrick and Herbert M. Howe, translated by Maurice F. Neufeld, 156-173. Wisconsin: University of Wisconsin Press, 1959.

Every year I’ve attended the Kingston WritersFest, I’ve been fortunate enough to meet many great writers from all walks of life. Steven Heighton has been there every year I have, who, with so many expressive and entertaining works, and being a Queen’s alumnus, was one of the reasons I started attending. His latest published work is The Dead Are More Visible and after reading it this past summer, I immersed myself in his previous works. Kingston, Japan, and a mix of self- and relationship-conflicts colour the stories, but his works as a whole cover many other subjects which I wanted to ask him about, to see how former themes have developed since a book such as his collection of essays on the role of the artist in today’s technological world, The Admen Move on Lhasa, or the first poetry of his I read, The Ecstasy of Skeptics, thick with cultural allusions and urgent yet opaque expressions. This is an email interview taking place in December:

Jay Miller: In your recent collection The Dead Are More Visible, the first short story, “Those Who Would Be More,” has this great paragraph that begins with genki, defining the joy the character felt that day as only expressible with that Japanese word. “No English word quite substitutes and I know that for the rest of my life, whenever I feel the way I feel today, genki is how I’ll want to describe it.” Since you described this feeling as unique to Japanese language, I was wondering, do you recall ever dreaming in Japanese? What is there to say of the subconscious and language in regards to one’s disposition?

Steven Heighton: To my ear, “genki” has a gorgeously onomatopoeic quality–i.e., the acoustical shape and texture of the word perfectly embody the idea it expresses.  Basically it means healthy, thriving, vital, very well.  Beautiful word.  As for dreaming in Japanese, yes, toward the end of our nine-month stay I had a purely verbal dream in which a poem came to me, pre-translated into very simple, imperfect Japanese.  It was a sort of haiku.  I rendered it back into English and published it as part of a longer poem in The Ecstasy of Skeptics (1995).

You mention the subconscious and language.  I would guess that every new language you learn, or even dabble in, adds a new verbal stratum or ground-layer deep in the subconscious.  In other words, it enriches the humus of sounds and semantics from which your mind is able to draw on when you compose poems.

Jay Miller: In the story “Swallow,” a character happens to induce a coma by consuming a high dosage of sleeping pills. Are sleep and death themes that you will further develop in your new writing, or are these topics that are bothering you less nowadays?

Steven Heighton: Apparently not.  I recently finished a story–it will be appearing in the winter issue of Zoetrope: All-Story–called “Who Now Lies Sleeping.”  It’s told by three people–three voices–and each testimony touches on sleep and dreams.  In two of three cases, the characters are unable to get to sleep and instead lie awake thinking things over.  But prospective readers should have no fear: I don’t describe anyone’s dreams in the story, and the story itself is not, I think, soporific.  In fact it’s about ice hockey and gay marriage–a thematic combination that’s probably odd enough to keep any reader awake till the conclusion.

Jay Miller: ”Those Who Would Be More” and “Swallow” aren’t the only two stories where you feature non-English words without translation. Do you have any comments about the role of the translator of today? I know you published a series of “imitations” of poetry in the past; if “imitation” is in the style of John Donne’s translations or Ezra Pound’s, tell me, is there not also translation as “interpretation”, or are these one in the same?

Steven Heighton: I call my translations “approximations.”  For me, the act of translating poems I admire constitutes a kind self-administered clinic or apprenticeship; I get to work and study with a great writer for as long as it takes me to complete the translation.  (In the case of my version of “Le Bateau Ivre,” Rimbaud’s 100 line symbolist masterpiece, it took me two years, off and on.)  By the time I finish the work, I feel I know the translated poem inside out and I’ve figured out how the poet achieves his or her effects.

And of course you’re right: one can translate not only a poem but another translator’s translation–or even another translator’s style of translation.

Jay Miller: On your position that all writing is religious (“not as specific creed, or institution, but as all-embracing perspective”), is that a linguistic inevitability that you gained sight of by your linguistics studies or is it an idea more associable to your fondness for poets like Margaret Avison?

Steven Heighton: In The Admen Move on Lhasa I argue that all literary writing has a religious element.  As you know, I wasn’t talking about organized religion.  It’s more a matter of religion and literature sharing the same fundamental insight–that everything is connected–which, of course, is also the basic insight of postmodern physics.  To get back to language and translation for a moment: it’s interesting to note that the word “religion” is cognate with words like “ligature” and “ligament,”and implies connection on a deep level (the Latin root is ligatus, ”to bind.”)  But no, it wasn’t studying etymologies that led me to equate literature and religion.  Rather, it was realizing, as years passed, that literature, or let’s say art in general, had become my religion.  I figured that if art (along with love/sexuality) was fulfilling the same function and addressing the same needs as religion, they must have something essentially in common.

Jay Miller: In Lhasa you talk about glibness and serious humour, and a Kingston poet earns a mention: Jason Heroux. He’s got a new poetry book coming out soon with Mansfield Press. I was wondering about your relationship with him and if you have any comments about his writing, because, beyond featuring modernity in a sort of skeptical way, I don’t sense much of an influence from either of you on the other’s writing.

Steven Heighton: Jason and I have nothing in common as writers.  I just dig his stuff and I like him personally.  Come to think of it, a lot of writers I admire are as different from me as they could possibly be.

Jay Miller: Of course Toronto, Montreal and Vancouver have their metropolitan writing communities, but at the Kingston WritersFest you were able to preach with the choir of voices that described a past richness in the local community. Certainly I know plenty of young writers today who call themselves Kingstonian, though I’m sure your count of Kingston writers is greater than mine. And many fewer bookstores stand in the city today than in your youth. What do you foresee for Kingston’s literary community?

Steven Heighton: Sadly, I’m out of touch with the younger writers in Kingston right now.  I’m not happy about it, but there it is.  I’m writing full-time, trying to make a living by publishing fiction (mainly), so for the last ten years I’ve been bunkered down, just doing the work and trying to help raise a (small) family.  Anyway, what this means is that I don’t have the necessary info to “foresee” or predict where the community might be headed.

As for bookstores, there were more than you could easily count when I arrived here from Japan in 1988.  The attrition is worrisome and sad, to be sure, though it’s certainly not a localized phenomenon, and I think Kingston has been hit a lot less hard than many small cities.  All I can say is, support the small stores–don’t buy from Amazon, who are corporate tax-dodgers anyway–don’t be lazy and opt for online convenience when shopping for books or shoes or computers, or before long we’ll have no downtowns, no public life, and no literary gathering places–or at least none that actually have books on their shelves.

I got off topic and onto my soapbox.

Anyway, thanks for the questions.

Jay Miller: A big thanks for making such thorough and intriguing replies and for always taking genuine interest in my curiosities. I hope to ask you some more questions very soon.

For the winter-spring of 2013 Steven Heighton is the Mordecai Richler Writer in Residence at McGill University, and is also working on a new novel and new poems.  In May, Palimpsest Press will reissue his first poetry collection, Stalin’s Carnival (originally published by Quarry Press in 1989), with a preface by Heighton and an introduction by Ken Babstock.

Aaron, the villainous Moor, and Titus, the prestigious Roman general, from Shakespeare’s Titus Andronicus, contrast deeply in morals and many elements of the play evoke their divergency. Aaron is further characterized into a more complex individual throughout the play by comparison to the actions and values of Titus. The contribution to the ongoing theme of governance of parenthood, their respective religious references, and the metaphor of the dominant skin colour elucidate the dissimilarities between these characters. The analysis of Aaron’s character from his monologue (4.2.87-104), juxtaposed to the perception of Titus, creates a more dynamic description of this seemingly malicious character. This consideration of Aaron’s motives and values alter how the audience or reader interprets his actions throughout the entire play.

AARON. Stay, murderous villains! will you kill your brother?
Now, by the burning tapers of the sky,
That shone so brightly when this boy was got,
He dies upon my scimitar’s sharp point
That touches this my first-born son and heir!
I tell you, younglings, not Enceladus,
With all his threatening band of Typhon’s brood,
Nor great Alcides, nor the god of war,
Shall seize this prey out of his father’s hands.
What, what, ye sanguine, shallow-hearted boys!
Ye white-limed walls! ye alehouse painted signs!
Coal-black is better than another hue,
In that it scorns to bear another hue;
For all the water in the ocean
Can never turn the swan’s black legs to white,
Although she lave them hourly in the flood.
Tell the empress from me, I am of age
To keep mine own, excuse it how she can. (4.2.87-104)

In a play where nearly every character has an immediate family member involved in the conflict, to some extent, the themes of family and parenthood arise. Titus’ questionable fatherhood is exhibited through the dismissal and murder of his sons: “Nor thou nor he are any sons of mine. / My sons would never so dishonour me” (1.1.290-291). Titus’ conviction of honour powerfully regulates his fathering to an extent where he murders his son Mutius because he stands in his way (1.1.87).

Dissimilarly, Aaron, upon taking his child for the first time, has the prompt compulsion to protect his son from Chiron and Demetrius by threatening “He dies upon my scimitar’s sharp point / That touches this, my first-born son and heir” (4.2.91-92). Aaron’s unforeseen compassion for his son, compared to Titus’ brutality, can be judged as a nearly noble act; therefore, the reoccurring theme of the governance of parenthood that is evoked in this passage alters the overall outlook of Aaron’s character throughout the play.

Nearly all characters in Titus Andronicus allude to the gods in a form or worship, prayer, or vernacular discourse. The frequency of these colloquial references signifies these characters as a conjunctive group of mortals. Titus’ utterances of the gods, whether it be “Pallas” (4.3.56), “Saturn” (4.3.57), “Jupiter” (4.3.79), or “Hyperion” (5.2.56), reassures the audience or reader that Titus, although high in honour, is a member of the mortal society. The use of allusion, in this sense, is an indication of being human.

Although Aaron references Greek gods, while Titus references Roman gods, their respective use of allusion have the same effect: “I tell you, younglings, not Enceladus, / With all his threat’ning band of Typhon’s brood, / Nor great Alcides, nor the god of war, / Shall seize this pray out of his father’s hands.” (4.2.92-95). Regardless as to whether these vernacular references are of Greek or Roman gods, Aaron is compared to Titus and all other humans; therefore, the use of allusions has proved Aaron to be as imperfect as any member of society.

The immoral acts of Aaron’s proclaimed history have inevitably tainted his character; however, his use of metaphor in his monologue adds a layer of depth to his disposition, to an extent that the audience or reader can feel a degree of sympathy. Aaron believes that “all the water in the ocean / Can never turn the swan’s black legs to white” (4.2.100-101), an indication that he has been a victim of racism in an intolerant society. Especially in comparison to Titus, a man of high honour and status, Aaron is an outcast.

Regardless of whether Aaron’s affliction has influenced the decisions he has made; it is evident he has lived in struggle, and he can now, in a sense, be regarded as human. Aaron attempts to defend his pride by declaring that “Coal-black is better than another hue / In that it scorns to bear another hue” (4.2.98-99). This metaphor of the manifestation of racial discrimination and isolation that Aaron has endured does not justify his actions; however, it proposes a possible influence of his behaviour and proves Aaron to be a more complex character than was once thought.

Due to Aaron’s malicious undertakings, he is initially viewed as sociopathic. Aaron’s underlying complexity of character is stressed when in comparison to Titus. Through the theme of governance of parenthood echoed thorough Aaron’s unexpected solicitude for his son, the use of vernacular allusions by all of society, and the metaphor that represents Aaron’s struggle, we can see he is layered with unseen sentiment. The changing outlooks of Aaron, as a character, influence how he is perceived throughout the play, proving this passage to be very important. As Aaron is compared to Titus, attributes other than wickedness are revealed, conceivably denying him as an unconditionally evil character.