July 17, 2001

On Leopards

    "...And lo!
    almost at the beginning of the rise
    I faced a spotted Leopard, all tremor and flow

    and gaudy pelt. And it would not pass, but stood
    so blocking my every turn that time and again
    I was on the verge of turning back to the wood"
    -Dante, Inferno, I.31-36
The Divine Comedy is the path Dante took to escape the tyrrany of the beast, led "forth through an eternal place" by Virgil. Traditionally, commentators have seen the following biblical passage as the literary source of Dante's leopard. It shares the same tone of the menacing tyranny of brutes over men, and connects it with man's fallen nature:
    "... a leopard shall watch over their cities: everyone that goeth out thence shall be torn in pieces: because their transgressions are many, and their backslidings are increased."
    Jeremiah 5:6
Borges gives a much different account. According to him, Dante was inspired by a live animal, a caged leopard in Florence:
    "The leopard did not know, could not know, that it yearned for love and cruelty and the hot pleasure of tearing flesh and a breeze with the scent of deer, but something inside it was suffocating and howling in rebellion, and God spoke to it in a dream: You shall live and die in this prison, so that a man ... may ... put your figure and your symbol into a poem."
    -Jorge Luis Borges, The Maker
Borges suggests that what is brutal in us must suffer a terrible oppression at God's own hands for the sake of poetry. Art requires and allows us mastery over our animal natures, which otherwise would lord it over us, as it does in Jeremiah and Inferno I.

And yet there is nothing but sympathy for the beast -- we feel an agony at its fate. The situation is even more poignant in Rilke's poem "The Panther":
    "As he paces in cramped circles, over and over,
    the movement of his powerful soft strides
    is like a ritual dance around a center
    in which a mighty will stands paralyzed"
    -Rainer Maria Rilke, The Book of Hours
Here again we have the tragedy of caged vitality. "It seems to him there are / a thousand bars; and behind the bars, no world." The loss is great and must be mourned. But is not something also gained? Poetry is the panther's ritual dance, metre is in its soft strides, and a tyrannizing and unifying idea is its center. Can this be enough to compensate for the loss of a world?

It's up to you, gentle reader, to decide. Open the cage if you dare. Let the leopard rip across the savannahs of your mind. Give it the hot pleasure of tearing your flesh. The poet has taken pains to dominate it. Now, let it dominate you.

I'll be surprised if you come back here alive.

July 16, 2001

On Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy

    I had a ' kind of imposthume in my head', which I was very desirous to be unladen of, and could imagine no fitter evacuation than this.' Besides, I might not well refrain for 'one must needs scratch where it itches.' I was not a little offended with this malady, shall I say my mistress Melancholy, my Egeria, or my 'evil genius'? and for that cause ... I would ... comfort one sorrow with another, idleness with idleness, 'as an antidote out of a serpent's venom', make an antidote out of that which was the prime cause of my disease. I can affirm with Marius in Sallust, 'That which others hear or read of, I felt and practised myself; they get their knowledge by books, I mine by melancholizing.'"
Burton is offering us a buffet of unappetizing images to understand his work and the reasons for his work. The work is an evacuation of an ulcer full of puss. Writing is to scratch where it itches. The disease he is trying to cure of is also his mistress, his divine counselor, his evil genius, the source of his knowledge. The work is sympathetic magic, poison to be swallowed as an antidote to poison. The work is as much the product of Melancholy as it is its cure.

And there's more:
    "As that great captain Zisca would have a drum made of his skin when he was dead, because he thought the very noise of it would put his enemy to flight, I doubt not but that these following lines, when they shall be recited, or hereafter read, will drive away melancholy (though I be gone) as much as Zisca's drum could terrify his foes."
The work is the very skin of the author, stretched out in such a way that readers will continue to invoke his zeal against his sworn enemy, melancholy, well after his death. For this purpose:
    "I have laid myself open (I know it) in this treatise, turned mine inside outward."
Evacuation, scratching, drinking venom, stretching skin over a drum, turning one's insides out, all of these visceral images suggest that the work is the activity and product of an organic agony.

Whether it will prove to be the relief of agony is doubtful at best. These passages come in the midst of an excruciatingly long apology for the work he is about to present. He tells us that he hopes reading it will in itself be a cure for melancholy, but he fears that melancholiacs might find it only aggravates their distemper. He mentions several chapters that melancholiacs might think about skipping. In other words, he distrusts the organic impetus for his writing, scrupulously concerned that it might not be for the best.

Truth is, we can't be sure that our work will further agonize the world, or cure it. Still, our agony demands that we work. When all is said and done, our work will probably only contribute to the greatest of all agonies -- life itself.

July 15, 2001

The Real Oedipos Complex

    "Wherever I go, a poet has gone before me."
    -Sigmund Freud
Freud's sensational theories of sex and aggression have focused an intense but narrow attention on Oedipos' tragic relations with his father and mother. Certainly, this myth has something to tell us about that crucial organism, the family, and no therapist can really ignore it. But there are things of even greater value in Sophocles' word hoard, and the Oedipos' story neither begins or ends with parricide and incest. Shall we have a look and see?

Oedipos' name means "swollen foot", and refers to the fact that he was hung out to die in the wild as an infant. His swollen foot is the mark of early abandonment by his parents, and we should know Oedipos as a wounded person from then on. He is adopted by a royal family, and is told by a prophet that he will commit heinous deeds upon his parents. It is in fleeing evil that he is set on a collision course with his real parents. He kills his father because he was being a roadhog; as the highways back then admitted of great viciousness, this deed is seen as a mark of his manly virtue.

He comes to Thebes, and rids it of the nuisance of the sphinx, not though might but through his knowledge of human development. The answer to the sphinx's riddle "What animal first has four legs, then two, and finally three?" is "A man, in his incarnations as a crawling baby, walking adult, and old man with cane." This is at one level an innocent exchange, but at another level it is darkly portentous. The Oedipos myth discusses the stresses that human development puts on the family, and this riddle is the perfect figure for it. While the baby is going from four legs to two, his father is going from two legs to three. The rise of the son is accompanied by the decline of the father, and so in this way it is always true that the son is a parricide.

Wowed by his virtue, and no longer mourning for her disappearing husband, Jocasta takes Oedipos as her husband and king. He rules in great virtue, but a plague settles over the land. He swears he will find and kill whatever villain has brought the curse upon Thebes. He does not question his virtue. He is proudly indignant, a hero vowing to stamp out injustice wherever he finds it. It is closer than he thinks.

The blind Tiresias, the prophet/therapist, leads Oedipos through a path of questioning towards the horrifying realization that he himself is responsible for the plague. In this process, Tiresias is patient, compassionate, and relentless. He is asking Oedipos to examine himself, something which his haughty, extroverted style of leadership makes him loathe to do. Tiresias' discretion lies in the fact that he realizes that the truth he presents is too much for Oedipos to bear all at once, and he allows the pieces to come together as organically as possible.

When it does, Oedipos inflicts a violence upon himself, poking out his own eyes. This violence, however, has a symbolic and ritual value. Oedipos will not be an extrovert anymore, will never throw his haughty glance upon people in suspicion or contempt. His vision, like Tiresias', is forever forced inward. Inner realities become apparent to him as the world of unreflected action disappears.

We are the cause of the world's suffering, and so we must be part of the cure. Exactly to the extent that we do not know ourselves, we bring plagues upon those we love. Seeking for evil agents in the outside world only adds insult to injury. Becoming conscious of our dark and wounded nature is painful and unflattering, but there are guides available to make the truth bearable. In committing ourselves to a course of painful self-reflection, we lift the curse from the outer world, and we become capable of guiding and healing others.

Oedipos is ultimately buried in a garden cherished by the gods. His memory is committed to the sacred. Weirdly, there is no headstone or other marker to show just where he is. Once you enter the sacred garden, he could be anywhere. Maybe, just maybe, he's right under your feet.