analysis – The Glass Warbler

What Is a Story If Not a Malleable Thing? What Is Ovid If Not the Ultimate Molder?: An Analysis of Ovid’s Metamorphoses (Book 13)

March 13, 2020December 28, 2020 Rachel Hsu

Ovid’s Metamorphoses is laden with tangible transformations: transfigurations, physical creation, erosion. Yet, Ovid champions an intangible mode of metamorphosis, that is, the act of storytelling. It is no secret that Ovid was a masterful poet and storyteller—curious to tamper with metanarrative boundaries, proud to explore slippages between fiction and reality. Literary historian Gian Conte describes Ovid as “The poet who…occasionally smiles at the credibility of what he is recounting, at the poet’s innate lack of fidelity to the truth.”[1] Beyond depicting slippages, Ovid excavates their relevance to concepts such as justice, sympathy, and power. In doing so, he simultaneously demonstrates and comments on storytelling as the ultimate metamorphic endeavor. As Conte phrases it, “metamorphosis is minutely described in the course of taking place.”[2]

In this paper, I analyze the competition between Ajax and Ulysses for Achilles’ arms. This scene, which begins with Ajax’s speech and ends with Ajax’s suicide, is a prime example of Ovid’s concurrent participation in and commentary on the power of storytelling. In conglomerating two speeches with narration, Ovid assembles a larger narrative and assumes creative license over its components (characters, speeches, plot).

I begin my analysis by verifying claims made by Ovid’s Ajax and Ulysses. The cross-references between these speeches and non-Ovidian primary accounts of the Trojan War reveal any discrepancies between speech and the truth, relative to the general consensus of the larger literary canon. Through this exposure, I establish each character’s reliability, as conveyed by Ovid (I. First Things First: Veracity). Following this clarification, I rhetorically analyze the speeches and narrator commentary, investigating how Ovid’s personal values and narratorial motivation (analysis of purpose vis-à-vis the intentions of the narrator[3]) manifest in language and actorial motivation (analysis of purpose vis-à-vis the intentions of the character[4]) (II. Honesty is Not Always the Best Policy, III. Did Someone Say…Logical Fallacy?). In particular, I examine how Ovid’s unfavorable depiction of Ulysses’ victory undermines it. To further distinguish these characterizations as Ovid’s own (not universally agreed-upon interpretations), I compare Ovid’s Ulysses and Ajax to others’ (IV. What Makes Ovid’s Version Different and Why That Matters). Ultimately, these analyses support the claim that storytelling is the most perennial form of metamorphosis. And, Ovid, as the entire universe’s storyteller, is the master of that form—because no matter who wins in the story, Ovid is the one who tells it.

I. First Things First: Veracity

While Ovid’s Ajax makes a few questionable claims, his speech is generally true to most depictions of Ajax, resulting in a candid (if not blunt) characterization. Ajax’s first dubious claim is more of an exaggeration than a false statement, as he boasts, “‘Standing up to the smoke and flames, I drove / The Trojans away from the fleet.’”[5] D.E. Hill, in his commentary on Metamorphoses, notes, “At first, Ajax had indeed prevented Hector from setting fire to the ships, but he was eventually overcome by sheer weight of numbers and a ship was burnt.”[6] Lee Fratatuono responds similarly in his reading: “Ajax had stood against the entire Trojan army at one point in the attempted firing of the fleet, and eventually had to give way at the cost of one ship.”[7] The Iliad confirms, “great Telamonian Ajax rallied the Argives [and they] secured their ships [with the exception of] one ship burning.”[8] Though Ajax’s assertion slightly inflates his contribution, it is not a far stretch from what most would consider the truth.

Ajax makes his second questionable claim when he insults Ulysses’ lineage, though it is not an unfounded denouncement. Ajax calls Ulysses “‘the son of Sisyphus, and just like him / When it comes to trickery’”[9] despite the narrator’s confirmation that Ulysses is “Laertes’…son.”[10] Hill reasons that, while Ulysses was Laertes’ son according to Homer, there was the “scandalous view that he was the product of an illicit relationship between Sisyphos and Anticleia before she married Laertes,”[11] neither confirming nor denying the scandal himself. Fratantuono uses the term “famous slander,”[12] implying that while the claim may be false, it was at least very popular. Thus, Ajax’s insult could be interpreted as either his genuine belief or, perhaps, a malicious attempt at slander.

Ajax’s final questionable claim pertains to a moment of Ulysses’ escape. Ajax describes Ulysses as “‘trembling and pale [before he] ran away not slowed at all by his [feigned] wounds’”;[13] however, in the Iliad, this escape is initiated by Menelaos.[14] Given that Ajax was mid-battle when he witnessed this escape, it is possible that he did not notice exact details and thus mistakenly recalled, as opposed to intentionally lied. Frantanuono speculates, “There is no good reason to imagine that Homer would not have agreed with this [cowardly] characterization, even if Ajax is clearly making his case in a way that paints his own actions in as favorable as light as possible.”[15] As for the authenticity of Ulysses’ wounds, Frantanuono admits that Homer does not provide evidence that “this fakery actually happened. [However,] [t]he fact that [Ulysses] feigned madness to escape fighting at Troy makes Ajax’s case more credible.”[16] Thus, Ajax’s tenuous claims against Ulysses are at least substantiated and supported with context, and they are hyperbolic or scandalous at worst. This relatively honest portrayal of Ajax is one way through which Ovid conveys sympathy for the fallen hero and distaste for the conniving victor. Notably, the most despicable, outlandish accusations against Ulysses—his feigned madness, his abandonment of Nestor, his scheme against Palamedes, his devious ploy against Philoctetes—are considered legitimate by various accounts.

Ovid’s Ulysses is devious and deceptive, using lies to compensate for shortcomings. Ulysses begins his speech “bombastic[ally]” (as Fratantuono phrases it), given that Ajax “focused on his own deeds and what [Ulysses] had not done, while [Ulysses] made his opening argument a celebration not of his deeds…but of Achilles’.”[17] Most tendentiously, Ulysses claims that, because he “‘sent [Achilles] forth to brave deeds[,] all that [Achilles] did after is due to [Ulysses].’”[18] Using that logic, Palamedes should receive credit for all of Ulysses’ (and, by extension, Achilles’) deeds, since Palamedes, in “the same way…detected [Ulysses’] feigned madness”[19] and sent him forth to join the Trojan War. Of course, Ulysses avoids all mention of this, and even gloats, insisting, “‘It was I who wounded Telephus and then / Healed his wound…Thebes fell / To me…I broke through Lyrnesus’ walls’”[20] when those physical deeds were undeniably accomplished by Achilles.[21]

Ulysses uses the middle portion of his speech to debunk his reputation as a man of slippery words; however, much of his evidence is verifiably fabricated. First, to emphasize his prowess and bravery, Ulysses names men he has killed, such as “‘Dolon’”[22] and “‘Sarpedon.’”[23] However, according to Homer’s Iliad and Apollodorus’ Library, “Diomedes struck [Dolon]”[24], and Patroclus killed Sarpedon.[25] Then, in an attempt to demean Ajax, Ulysses declares, Ajax “‘was the ninth to step forward’”[26] against Hector, even though the Iliad confirms that the two Ajaxes were third and fourth, and Ulysses himself was ninth.[27]Ulysses also insists that he “‘lift[ed] up [Achilles’] body / And carr[ied] it upon these very shoulders,’”[28] but Apollodorus’ Library confirms that Ajax “picked up the body and carried it.”[29] In addition to stealing Ajax’s credit, Ulysses belittles Ajax’s battle prowess, remarking, “‘Hector withdrew [from the duel] without receiving a wound’”[30] even though, according to Homer, Ajax “beat back Hector…cut [Hector’s] neck…dark blood gushed forth”[31] and “broke the strength of Hector’s very knees.”[32] Given that Ulysses was a spectator, it is unlikely that he would mistakenly miss such details as Ajax cutting Hector’s neck. It is also unlikely that Ulysses would mistakenly recall his involvement in these other tasks too, given their highly physical nature. It can be assumed, then, that these are full-fledged, intentional lies.

Ulysses then defends himself for not joining the war by drawing a tenuous parallel between himself and Achilles: “‘A loving wife held me back, a loving mother / Detained Achilles.’”[33] Fratantuono calls this “a nearly complete misrepresentation of reality; Thetis knew her son would die, while nowhere else in extant sources does Penelope have anything to do with [Ulysses’] fakery”[34]. Indeed, in Apollodorus’ Library, Ulysses “did not want to go on the campaign, so he feigned insanity,”[35] and Penelope is not mentioned at all. By amassing such a collection of tenuous statements and lies, Ovid depicts Ulysses as disloyal, dishonest, and unworthy.

II. Honesty Is Not Always The Best Policy (A Rhetorical Analysis of Ajax’s Speech)

Rhetorical analysis (pertains to narrative form) builds on veracity verification (pertains to narrative content) by complicating Ovid’s characterizations. Whereas veracity hints at each character’s ethical quality, rhetoric depicts metrics such as intelligence, reasonability, and persuasiveness. This is a speech competition, after all. Thus, Ovid’s narratorial motivation—to assert the power of the storyteller—becomes even more clear through his portrayals of rhetoric.

Ovid demonstrates support for Ajax by depicting him as more straightforward, qualified, and logically coherent than Ulysses. Ajax is introduced as “Lord of the sevenfold shield, barely able / To control his anger [with a] scowling gaze,”[36] which illuminates two key qualities: battle prowess (he is identified by his battle shield) and transparency (he does not hide his emotions). With this, the narrator, on behalf of Ovid, characterizes Ajax for readers before his speech even commences.

From the beginning, Ajax’s speech is comprehensive and rhetorically sound; he makes a strong case for himself as a man of action while also criticizing Ulysses. Ajax uses parallelism and antithesis to contrast his loyalty with Ulysses’ selfishness: “‘Ulysses opposes me. But did he oppose Hector[?] No, I did…I drove / The Trojans away.’”[37] He boldly declares, “‘As for what I have done, I don’t need to tell you, / Because you saw it all yourself.’”[38] Fittingly, Ajax articulates his own qualifications, making nine “I” statements in this first section. He only diverges from self-promotion to call Ulysses untrustworthy (as he works “‘in the dark of the night’”[39]) and unworthy of the arms (“‘a rival like this diminishes [the prize’s] honor’”[40]). Thus, Ajax begins with a clear, focused claim: that his prowess and dedication make him worthy and Ulysses not.

Ajax then supplements his ethos-based claim of valor with an ethos-based claim of lineage. He demonstrates rhetorical sense by using an even-if clause, pre-emptively arguing, “‘even if my valor were open to question, / I am nobler in birth.’”[41] With this assertion, Ajax combines self-advocacy and an attack on Ulysses, implying that 1) Ajax’s valor is not equivocal, 2) even if it were, he would still have more rights to the arms. He continues this barrage, asking rhetorical questions to expose Ulysses and emphasize his own hereditary rights: “‘will [the arms] be given to one who feigned madness / To dodge the war and had to be exposed by someone shrewder?…Will he take the best / Because he wanted to take up none? And will I / Go unhonored and deprived of my cousin’s arms / Because I was the first to meet this danger head on?’”[42] In asking such questions, Ajax both conveys dedication to the Greeks and encourages his audience to be wary of Ulysses.

Ajax’s speech is not without error, however: when he mentions his duel against Hector, his pride betters his sense. He asks, “‘where was Ulysses, then / With all of his speeches?…My chest was…your only hope of return. / You should grant me the arms for all of those ships.’”[43] Instead of elaborating on how his willingness to fight Hector proves his bravery and loyalty, he asks a rhetorical question with no expository or productive answer. He also ostracizes his audience with the direct address when he reminds them of their helplessness and indebtedness to him.

Still, Ajax finishes his speech strong, with witty and practical claims. He remarks, “‘The glint of gold on Achilles’ helmet would only / Give away [Ulysses’] hiding place…retreat, [his] cowardly specialty, / Would only be slowed if [he] bore such a weight.’”[44] Not only does Ajax hone in on Ulysses’ cowardice, but he also points out the incongruity of Ulysses and armor, given Ulysses’ relative aversion to physical combat. Ajax then asserts his own suitability for the shield, declaring, “‘[My shield] has been hit / A thousand times and needs to be replaced.’”[45] It is both a practical and moral argument, that he needs and deserves the shield more.

Through strong rhetorical construction, Ovid depicts Ajax as not particularly unlikable or brutish. He makes cohesive, justified arguments and is even witty, though he lacks the manipulative ability to completely poison the well for Ulysses or coax the audience into a mob mentality. This shortcoming (which is more indicative of his superior ethical quality) makes him vulnerable to devious Ulysses. Ovid foreshadows the ill-fated outcome via audience reaction: despite Ajax’s ardent speech and transparent actorial motivations, the crowd is only interested “until Ulysses…[rises and makes] the speech / They awaited.”[46] The narrator suggests, unfortunately, that the circumstances are stacked against Ajax from the beginning. By having the audience react to Ajax’s passionate, coherent speech with nonchalant, distracted approval, Ovid presents a situation of injustice, superseding the narrative to evoke reader dissatisfaction.

III. Did Someone Say…Logical Fallacy? (A Rhetorical Analysis of Ulysses’ Speech)

Ovid saturates Ulysses’ speech with verbosity, disturbingly personal appeals, and logical fallacies to portray his victory over Ajax as underhanded. Notably, Ulysses’ speech is twice as long as Ajax’s. From the beginning, it is clear that Ulysses’ speech is more rooted in pandering than genuine quality. “‘If my prayers and yours had been answered, Pelasgian lords,’” he begins, “‘Achilles…we would still have you. But…An unjust fate has denied him to me and to you.’”[47] Directly addressing the Pelasgian lords engages the audience, while directly addressing Achilles creates shared intimacy, camaraderie, and sorrow. As a metanarrative reminder to readers, Ovid supersedes the narrative, interjecting, “(Here he pretended to wipe a tear from his eye).”[48]

The rest of Ulysses’ speech is laden with logical fallacies, illustrating the frustrating discrepancy between his manipulative eloquence and true argumentative quality. Ulysses begins his rebuttal with a strawman argument,[49] drawing excessive attention to Ajax’s lineage to insinuate that Ajax conflates lineage with accomplishment. Recall, Ajax uses an even-if clause: “‘even if my valor were open to question, / I am nobler in birth [and Achilles] was my cousin.’”[50] Lineage is clearly secondary, contingent on a lack of valor (clearly not the case). Ulysses embellishes his strawman with a red herring fallacy[51] and more personal appeals, via an extensive tangent, to distract listeners from Ajax’s actual claim: “‘Now, I do not count a noble lineage / As one’s own accomplishment, but since Ajax tells us [about his lineage]…Peleus / Is Achilles’ father and Pyrrhus his son, / So ship the arms off to Phthia or Scyros…Teucer is as much Achilles’ cousin / As Ajax is, but does he lay claim[?]’.”[52] Taking his distraction even further, Ulysses creates a false dilemma:[53] given the (false) premise that Ajax’s claim to the arms is lineage, then either all of Achilles’ relatives are equally rightful heirs to his armor, or lineage does not matter. Ulysses then uses a slippery slope argument[54] when he boasts, “‘all that [Achilles] did…is due to me. It was I who wounded Telephus…Thebes fell / To me…I broke through Lyrnesus’ walls…it is through me that glorious Hector / Lies in his grave.’”[55] The proof is in Ulysses’ speech itself: if Thetis foresaw “‘The death of her son’” [56] in the Trojan War, then Achilles was certainly destined to die in the war; Ulysses was merely a catalyst.

With even more logical fallacies, Ulysses frames Ajax as an enemy of Achilles, the audience, and himself. He uses another red herring, warping Ajax’s criticism of him into “‘[Ajax] censuring the great Achilles’”[57] to fabricate tension between Ajax and Achilles. The audience should (but inexplicably does not) notice this distraction. He then ostracizes the audience on Ajax’s behalf: “‘We should not wonder that his ignorant mouth / Spews out insults against me, when he even tries / To heap shame on you.’”[58] The collective “We” is yet another pandering appeal. The confrontational “you” is Ulysses stirring audience discomfort at being supposedly shamed by Ajax.

For a moment, it appears as if Ulysses will acknowledge his dishonest past; instead, he distracts his audience once more through more fallacious and pandering antics. He admits, “‘I advised [Philoctetes]’”[59] but omits the destructive consequences of his advice, instead twisting this superficial admission of guilt into self-praise: “‘He took the advice—and he is still alive…the advice [was] given in good faith, / It also worked out well.’”[60] To further distract listeners, he uses a tu quoque fallacy,[61] defensively replying to Ajax’s observation about Diomedes with “‘You had partners too.’”[62] Ulysses concludes his speech with praises for specific audience members— “‘lesser Ajax, Eurypylus, Thoas, Idomeneus, and his countryman, Meriones, and Menelaus…All of them / Are brave and strong’”[63]—and appeals to “‘our common hopes,’”[64] even though his victory clearly only benefits himself. The audience does not notice this inconsistency, as Ovid again hints at his disapproval; they must be incredibly dense, he implies, to be so easily manipulated.

Ovid most clearly expresses his disapproval through the omniscient narrator, who undermines the legitimacy of Ulysses’ victory. He recalls, the captains are “swayed by Ulysses’ eloquence”[65] (as opposed to his valor), and “the smooth talker bore off the hero’s arms.”[66] Distinctly juxtaposing “smooth talker” and “hero” indicates that Ulysses is not a hero, an implication furthered by the narrator’s comment, “grief conquered / The unconquered hero [Ajax].”[67] Achilles and Ajax are deemed heroes, whereas Ulysses is just a smooth talker. The scene ends with the narrator’s condolences for Ajax, as “A purple flower [with] petals inscribed / With letters common to [Hyacinthus] and the hero”[68] emerges after Ajax’s suicide. This delicate image evokes pity by likening Hyacinthus’ untimely death to Ajax’s, as the narrator reiterates Ajax’s hero status.

IV. What Makes Ovid’s Version Different and Why That Matters

While veracity-based analysis enables us to examine the respective ethos of Ovid’s Ajax and Ulysses and rhetorical analysis enables us to directly examine their respective qualifications as speakers, analysis of Ovid’s subliminal narrative enables us to examine his personal adjustments. Ovid’s version differs from others in that his Ajax does not go on a frenzied rampage, his Ajax is particularly insightful, and his Ulysses is particularly malicious. As D.E. Hill comments, these distinctions suggest “Ovid [shows] a marked preference for Ajax’s case in spite of the judgment he has reported.”[69] In superseding the narrative to propagate his own viewpoints, Ovid demonstrates the influence of the storyteller.

Ovid’s Ajax commits suicide purely due to grief, but in other versions, Ajax goes on a traitorous murderous rampage before his suicide. In Apollodorus’ Library, Ajax “plotted against the army at night [then] Out of his mind…killed the sheep along with the herdsmen, thinking they were Achaians [Greeks]. When he came back to his senses later, he killed himself too.”[70] Fratantuono notes, “There is no mention in Ovid of the madness that drove the hero against the flocks…the letters [on the flower] mark…the gods’ lament.”[71] Since Ovid does not villainize Ajax as others do and even laments Ajax’s death, readers are similarly encouraged to sympathize.

As previously demonstrated, Ovid’s Ajax is generally honest, reasonable, and even witty; however, other authors turn Ajax into a caricature, exaggerating his brutishness to ridicule him. In Dialogues of the Dead, Lucian mocks Ajax through Agamemnon and Ajax in the Underworld. Agamemnon asks, rhetorically, “‘Ajax, if you went crazy and killed yourself when you were planning to kill all of us, how can you blame Odysseus? You didn’t even look at him just now.’” Ajax, too dense to detect any accusatory implications, responds, “‘That’s right, Agamemnon. After all, he was the one responsible for my madness. He was the only one to challenge me for the arms.’” Agamemnon retorts, “‘You didn’t think anyone would oppose you? That you’d beat everyone without even working for it?’” Unable to detect sarcasm, Ajax replies earnestly, “‘Yes. Yes I did.’”[72] The reference to Ajax’s murderous rampage indicates Lucian’s personal canonization of Ajax’s brutish inferiority. This unsympathetic portrayal is furthered by Ajax’s parodic stupidity.

As for Ulysses, authors with different narratorial motivations from Ovid cast Ulysses in a less criminalizing light. Irene Jong’s Narratological Commentary on the Odyssey examines Ulysses under other circumstances: different author (Homer), different context (post-Trojan War), different angle (king/politician). Whereas Ovid leads readers to grimace at Ulysses’ victory, Homer, through “[Athena’s] unfailing support[,] encourages the narratees to sympathize with [Ulysses] and to side with him against the Suitors.”[73] Perhaps, because the Odyssey’s plot involves literal politics, Homer interprets Ulysses’ political savviness as a positive. Multiple characters in the Odyssey “stress the fact that [Ulysses] is a good king.”[74] Ovid’s works, on the other hand, are “essentially anti-mimetic and anti-naturalistic”[75] and champion “The poet [as the] sole possessor of the ‘true point of view.’”[76] To Ovid, then, political savviness may not be so positive; he relays this to readers.

Conclusion

Thus, Ovid engages in creative metamorphosis in order to garner reader support for his own viewpoints. My analyses of veracity, rhetoric, and subliminal narrative in Metamorphoses suggest that Ovid, through stories, exhibits his power to metamorphosize. Events take place (or, in this case, mythological events are canonized to the point of seeming real), stories are invented, myths are preserved. Nobody can reverse time to undo any of this. However, the storyteller possesses the miraculous power to reinvent, omit, displace, “[i]n the skeptical distance from its own content, from the world of the venerable mythological tradition by which it is inspired.”[77] Really, as Ovid demonstrates, that is the closest anyone can get.

[1] Conte, Gian Biagio. 1999. Latin Literature: A History. Translated by Joseph B. Solodow. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 354.

[2] Conte, Gian Biagio. 1999. Latin Literature: A History. Translated by Joseph B. Solodow. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 352.

[3] Jong, Irene J.F. 2001. Narratological Commentary on the Odyssey. New York: Cambridge University Press, xvi.

[4] Jong, Irene J.F. 2001. Narratological Commentary on the Odyssey. New York: Cambridge University Press, xi.

[5] Ovid. 2010. “Metamorphoses.” In Book 13, translated by Stanley Lombardo. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 13.10-13.11.

[6] Hill, D.E., ed. 2000. OVID Metamorphoses XIII-XV and Indexes to Metamorphoses I-XV. Translated by D.E. Hill. D.E. Hill., 126.

[7] Fratantuono, Lee. 2011. Madness Transformed: A Reading of Ovid’s Metamorphoses . Lanham: Lexington Books, 394.

[8] Homer. 2015. The Iliad. Translated by Caroline Alexander. New York: Harper-Collins Publishers, 15.560-15.600.

[9] Ovid. 2010. “Metamorphoses.” In Book 13, translated by Stanley Lombardo. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 13.35-13.36.

[10] Ovid. 2010. “Metamorphoses.” In Book 13, translated by Stanley Lombardo. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 13.144.

[11] Hill, D.E., ed. 2000. OVID Metamorphoses XIII-XV and Indexes to Metamorphoses I-XV. Translated by D.E. Hill. D.E. Hill., 127.

[12] Fratantuono, Lee. 2011. Madness Transformed: A Reading of Ovid’s Metamorphoses . Lanham: Lexington Books, 394.

[13] Ovid. 2010. “Metamorphoses.” In Book 13, translated by Stanley Lombardo. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 13.84-13.93.

[14] Homer. 2015. The Iliad. Translated by Caroline Alexander. New York: Harper-Collins Publishers, 11.487-11.488.

[15] Fratantuono, Lee. 2011. Madness Transformed: A Reading of Ovid’s Metamorphoses . Lanham: Lexington Books, 371.

[16] Fratantuono, Lee. 2011. Madness Transformed: A Reading of Ovid’s Metamorphoses . Lanham: Lexington Books, 371.

[17] Fratantuono, Lee. 2011. Madness Transformed: A Reading of Ovid’s Metamorphoses . Lanham: Lexington Books, 373-374.

[18] Ovid. 2010. “Metamorphoses.” In Book 13, translated by Stanley Lombardo. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 13.203-13.204.

[19] Fratantuono, Lee. 2011. Madness Transformed: A Reading of Ovid’s Metamorphoses . Lanham: Lexington Books, 373.

[20] Ovid. 2010. “Metamorphoses.” In Book 13, translated by Stanley Lombardo. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 13.205-13.209.

[21] Apollodorus, Hyginus. 2007. Apollodorus’ Library and Hyginus’ Fabulae. Translated by Stephen M. Trzaskoma R. Scott Smith. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, Epit.3.20.

[22] Ovid. 2010. “Metamorphoses.” In Book 13, translated by Stanley Lombardo. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 13.296.

[23] Ovid. 2010. “Metamorphoses.” In Book 13, translated by Stanley Lombardo. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 13.309.

[24] Homer. 2015. The Iliad. Translated by Caroline Alexander. New York: Harper-Collins Publishers, 10.455.

[25] Apollodorus, Hyginus. 2007. Apollodorus’ Library and Hyginus’ Fabulae. Translated by Stephen M. Trzaskoma R. Scott Smith. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, Aes.99.

[26] Ovid. 2010. “Metamorphoses.” In Book 13, translated by Stanley Lombardo. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 13.334.

[27] Homer. 2015. The Iliad. Translated by Caroline Alexander. New York: Harper-Collins Publishers, 7.161-7.168.

[28] Ovid. 2010. “Metamorphoses.” In Book 13, translated by Stanley Lombardo. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 13.342-13.343.

[29] Apollodorus, Hyginus. 2007. Apollodorus’ Library and Hyginus’ Fabulae. Translated by Stephen M. Trzaskoma R. Scott Smith. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, Epit.5.4.

[30] Ovid. 2010. “Metamorphoses.” In Book 13, translated by Stanley Lombardo. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 13.338.

[31] Homer. 2015. The Iliad. Translated by Caroline Alexander. New York: Harper-Collins Publishers, 7.261-7.262.

[32] Homer. 2015. The Iliad. Translated by Caroline Alexander. New York: Harper-Collins Publishers, 7.271.

[33] Ovid. 2010. “Metamorphoses.” In Book 13, translated by Stanley Lombardo. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 13.364-13.365.

[34] Fratantuono, Lee. 2011. Madness Transformed: A Reading of Ovid’s Metamorphoses . Lanham: Lexington Books, 377.

[35] Apollodorus, Hyginus. 2007. Apollodorus’ Library and Hyginus’ Fabulae. Translated by Stephen M. Trzaskoma R. Scott Smith. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, Epit.3.7.

[36] Ovid. 2010. “Metamorphoses.” In Book 13, translated by Stanley Lombardo. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 13.3-13.4.

[37] Ovid. 2010. “Metamorphoses.” In Book 13, translated by Stanley Lombardo. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 13.9-13.11.

[38] Ovid. 2010. “Metamorphoses.” In Book 13, translated by Stanley Lombardo. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 13.14-13.15.

[39] Ovid. 2010. “Metamorphoses.” In Book 13, translated by Stanley Lombardo. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 13.16.

[40] Ovid. 2010. “Metamorphoses.” In Book 13, translated by Stanley Lombardo. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 13.18.

[41] Ovid. 2010. “Metamorphoses.” In Book 13, translated by Stanley Lombardo. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 13.23-13.24.

[42] Ovid. 2010. “Metamorphoses.” In Book 13, translated by Stanley Lombardo. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 13.41-13.49.

[43] Ovid. 2010. “Metamorphoses.” In Book 13, translated by Stanley Lombardo. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 13.106-13.109.

[44] Ovid. 2010. “Metamorphoses.” In Book 13, translated by Stanley Lombardo. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 13.122-13.135.

[45] Ovid. 2010. “Metamorphoses.” In Book 13, translated by Stanley Lombardo. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 13.137-13.138.

[46] Ovid. 2010. “Metamorphoses.” In Book 13, translated by Stanley Lombardo. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 13.143-13.147.

[47] Ovid. 2010. “Metamorphoses.” In Book 13, translated by Stanley Lombardo. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 13.148-13.152.

[48] Ovid. 2010. “Metamorphoses.” In Book 13, translated by Stanley Lombardo. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 13.154.

[49] intentionally misrepresenting the opponent’s proposition because it is easier to defeat than the opponent’s real argument

[50] Ovid. 2010. “Metamorphoses.” In Book 13, translated by Stanley Lombardo. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 13.24-13.35.

[51] introducing an irrelevant topic mid-argument to divert the attention of listeners from the original issue

[52] Ovid. 2010. “Metamorphoses.” In Book 13, translated by Stanley Lombardo. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 13.166-13.189.

[53] falsely claiming an “either/or” situation when, in fact, there is at least one other logically valid option

[54] asserting that a relatively small first step leads to a chain of related events culminating in some significant effect

[55] Ovid. 2010. “Metamorphoses.” In Book 13, translated by Stanley Lombardo. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 13.204-13.213.

[56] Ovid. 2010. “Metamorphoses.” In Book 13, translated by Stanley Lombardo. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 13.194.

[57] Ovid. 2010. “Metamorphoses.” In Book 13, translated by Stanley Lombardo. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 13.360-13.361.

[58] Ovid. 2010. “Metamorphoses.” In Book 13, translated by Stanley Lombardo. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 13.370-13.372.

[59] Ovid. 2010. “Metamorphoses.” In Book 13, translated by Stanley Lombardo. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 13.382.

[60] Ovid. 2010. “Metamorphoses.” In Book 13, translated by Stanley Lombardo. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 13.385-13.387.

[61] discrediting an opponent’s argument by drawing attention to his hypocrisy (irrelevant to the actual argument)

[62] Ovid. 2010. “Metamorphoses.” In Book 13, translated by Stanley Lombardo. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 13.426.

[63] Ovid. 2010. “Metamorphoses.” In Book 13, translated by Stanley Lombardo. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 13.432-13.435.

[64] Ovid. 2010. “Metamorphoses.” In Book 13, translated by Stanley Lombardo. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 13.453.

[65] Ovid. 2010. “Metamorphoses.” In Book 13, translated by Stanley Lombardo. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 13.461.

[66] Ovid. 2010. “Metamorphoses.” In Book 13, translated by Stanley Lombardo. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 13.463.

[67] Ovid. 2010. “Metamorphoses.” In Book 13, translated by Stanley Lombardo. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 13.466-13.467.

[68] Ovid. 2010. “Metamorphoses.” In Book 13, translated by Stanley Lombardo. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 13.477.

[69] Hill, D.E., ed. 2000. OVID Metamorphoses XIII-XV and Indexes to Metamorphoses I-XV. Translated by D.E. Hill. D.E. Hill., 149.

[70] Apollodorus, Hyginus. 2007. Apollodorus’ Library and Hyginus’ Fabulae. Translated by Stephen M. Trzaskoma R. Scott Smith. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, Epit.5.6-5.7.

[71] Fratantuono, Lee. 2011. Madness Transformed: A Reading of Ovid’s Metamorphoses . Lanham: Lexington Books, 377-378.

[72] Stephen M. Trzaskoma, R. Scott Smith, Stephen Brunet, ed. 2004. Anthology of Classical Myth: Primary Sources in Translation. Translated by R. Scott Smith, Stephen Brunet Stephen M. Trzaskoma. Indianapolis/Cambridge: Hackett Publishing Company, Inc., Luc.DD.23.

[73] Jong, Irene J.F. 2001. Narratological Commentary on the Odyssey. New York: Cambridge University Press, 11.

[74] Jong, Irene J.F. 2001. Narratological Commentary on the Odyssey. New York: Cambridge University Press, 57.

[75] Conte, Gian Biagio. 1999. Latin Literature: A History. Translated by Joseph B. Solodow. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 342.

[76] Conte, Gian Biagio. 1999. Latin Literature: A History. Translated by Joseph B. Solodow. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 355.

[77] Conte, Gian Biagio. 1999. Latin Literature: A History. Translated by Joseph B. Solodow. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 354.

Analysis of “Technologies of Monstrosity: Bram Stoker’s Dracula”

February 12, 2020December 28, 2020 Rachel Hsu

The following essay is a critical analysis of “Technologies of Monstrosity: Bram Stoker’s Dracula” by Jack Halberstam, published in Victorian Studies 36:3 (Spring 1992), pages 333-52 (inserted below as PDF document).

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Introduction

What makes horror frightening is the way in which it capitalizes on existing human fears, giving palpable and enticing form to what otherwise would lay unrealized or consciously avoided within the mind. There exists a certain deep, existential fear is that we—that is, us and our surrounding society—are monstrous; indeed, there is something unsettling and daunting about our own capacity for exacting harm. Paradoxically, there also exists the fear that we are not monstrous; this renders us vulnerable to a monstrous other’s capacity for exacting harm. It is this latter notion of otherness in monstrosity that Jack Halberstam explores in his critical essay, “Technologies of Monstrosity: Bram Stoker’s Dracula.”

Halberstam prefaces the essay with his original speculation that Stoker’s Dracula was a manifestation of modern anti-Semitic sentiment. Dracula’s physical appearance, parasitism, aversion to Christian symbols, blood-sucking, and pecuniary greed parallel anti-Semitic stereotypes from the 19^th century. However, after ruminating on the relationship between Jew and vampire more thoroughly, Halberstam concludes that his linear fixation on the two revealed more about his own projections than Stoker’s actual depiction of monstrosity. Halberstam subsequently revises his speculation, broadening his analysis to the nature of monstrosity in general, which he links to the notion of otherness. Halberstam then explores this notion of otherness through the distinct facets of deviant sexuality, pathology, class, and race—all of which are epitomized by the vampire.

For the purposes of this essay, I will focus on sexuality, which, in both Halberstam’s paper and my own, encompasses sexual orientation, identity, and the general quality of being sexual. While Halberstam’s main claims pertaining to sexuality are compelling and sophisticated, he makes tenuous sub-claims in developing those main points, raising questions and occasionally erring on self-contradiction. I agree with Halberstam’s three main claims—namely, that foreign sexuality threatens many aspects of the status quo, that the novel’s multi-faceted structure parallels the multi-faceted construction of Gothic monstrosity, and that Dracula is feminine—and thus seek to fortify those main points. To this end, I will confute their tenuous sub-claims respectively—namely, that Mina surrenders to Dracula’s sexuality, that fragmented reading and writing are necessarily sexual, and that Dracula’s feminization stems from his lack of phallus—in order to streamline Halberstam’s otherwise strong arguments.

I. Yes, Dracula’s Sexual Corruption of Women Synecdochally Corrupts Other Pillars of 19^th Century English Society (No, Mina Is Not One of Those Women)

The first tenuous sub-claim that I would like to confront is Halberstam’s suggestion that both Lucy and Mina, as opposed to just Lucy, are seduced by Dracula and willingly engage in vampiric activities thereafter. Halberstam makes this overgeneralization early in his essay: “Dracula…threatens the stability and the naturalness of this equation between middle-class womanhood and national pride by seducing both women [Lucy and Mina]” (Halberstam, 335). While I strongly agree with Halberstam’s main claim that a deviant sexual being, Dracula, seducing a bourgeois woman both literally and symbolically threatens the status quo of English nationality, class boundaries, and womanhood, Mina is not seduced in the same way that Lucy is and thus should not be described as such. There are two necessary stages which must be traversed in order for seduction to take place: first, the seducer entices or engages with the target, then, the target gives into that temptation. While both women undergo the first stage, having been bitten by Dracula, they differ in that Lucy engages in the second, while Mina never does.

In making this sub-claim, Halberstam overlooks the symbolic significance of Mina and Lucy’s dissimilarities in the primary text, namely that they represent disjoint moral pathways. Lucy, due to her promiscuity, follows a pathway slightly tainted and is therefore more susceptible to seduction, sexually and vampirically. Stoker hints at this tainted moral character with Van Helsing’s clever but uncouth remark, “‘this so sweet maid is a polyandrist’” (187) then officiates Lucy’s corruption with the revelation, “‘[The bites] were made by Miss Lucy!’” (206). On the other hand, Mina is overwhelmingly described as a “‘sweet, sweet, good, good woman [with] goodness and purity and faith’” (328). In accordance with this goodness, Mina even requests that “‘before the greater evil is entirely wrought…you will kill me’” (351-352). Stoker thus makes it clear that Mina has not and never will complete that second phase of seduction. Therefore, she is not seduced in the same fashion as Lucy like Halberstam claims. This haphazard grouping peripheralizes the quality which Mina’s character most exemplifies: good intent, specifically unwavering good intent.

Halberstam attempts to recall this sub-claim later on as well, going so far as to equate Mina with Lucy and the three brides of Dracula. Halberstam declares, “[Dracula] transforms pure and virginal women into seductresses, produces sexuality through their willing bodies. The transformations of Lucy and Mina stress an urgent sexual appetite; the three women who ambush Harker in Castle Dracula display similar voracity” (Halbsterstam, 344). As I’ve previously shown, Mina is no “seductress,” nor is she “willing” in any way; she literally would rather die than complete her transformation and prey on other humans (Halberstam, 344). Thus, the collective noun “transformations,” meant in this case to encompass both Lucy and Mina, is improper, since Mina neither completes her transition to nor perpetuates vampirism, while Lucy clearly does both. To her transition, Lucy develops a “bloodstained, voluptuous mouth,” and her “whole carnal and unspiritual appearance [seems] like a devilish mockery of [her] sweet purity” (228). To her perpetuation, Van Helsing remarks that Lucy would have “‘add[ed] new victims and multi[plied] the evils of the world’” if they had not killed her (229). As for the three women, Stoker describes their encounter with Harker as such: “she actually licked her lips like an animal…scarlet lips[,] red tongue…the lips went below the range of my mouth and chin…I could hear the churning sound of her tongue as it licked her teeth and lips…I could feel the soft, shivering touch of the lips” (45). Given Stoker’s lengthy, borderline-graphic emphasis on the vampire bride’s mouth, Halberstam’s characterization of the vampire’s corruption as both gluttonous and sexually voracious is indeed accurate. There exists no remotely similar description of Mina Harker in this novel. All this to say, there is no “similar voracity” to be spoken of (Halberstam, 344).

I suspect Halberstam extends his argument to include more than just Lucy because this greater relevance could make his argument appear more substantial and applicable to the novel as a whole. However, this generalization in his sub-claim actually weakens his argument because, in sacrificing precision for scale, Halberstam stretches evidence beyond its reasonable limits, clouds his main argument, and weakens his ethos. Had Halberstam only argued for Lucy’s case, his argument would be more logically cohesive, since Lucy is actually (as opposed to ostensibly) corrupted. Likening Mina to the three brides involves an even greater stretch in logic.

II. A Lot of Things Are Sexual…But Not That

The next sub-claim of Halberstam’s that I would like to address is his misdirected insistence on the sexualization of fragmented reading and writing, which he proposes in order to supplement his main claim that the multi-faceted structure of the novel parallels the multi-faceted nature of monstrosity. This sub-claim about sexualization, though interesting, is not adequately supported by the novel itself. I agree with Halberstam’s main claim, but in centering that claim about the sub-claim on sexualization, Halberstam hinders himself from developing other, probably stronger sub-claim. In doing so, he disappoints a strong argument with faulty execution. “There is a marked sexual energy,” Halberstam asserts, “to the reading and writing of all the contributions to the narrative [as] the men and Mina [are united] in a safe and mutual bond of disclosure and confidence” (Halberstam, 335). I disagree with the point that shared confidence is necessarily sexual. If it were, then that would render the bond between the upstanding English men necessarily sexual after Mina tells them to, effectively, keep their secrets from her: “‘Promise me that you will not tell me anything of the plans’” (346). Given that Jonathan is Mina’s husband and that homosexuality is a foreign and therefore monstrous quality (using Halberstam’s definition of foreign sexuality as anything “in opposition to ‘normal’ sexual functions”), it is very unlikely that the English men—who epitomize normalcy and goodness—would share a “sexual” homoerotic “bond of disclosure and confidence” (Halberstam, 335).

Additionally, the “marked sexual energy” that Halberstam describes seems to point toward a kind of sexual tension or desperation, but the sub-claim that that urgency is sexual ignores the practical aspects of the situation illustrated in the primary text (Halberstam, 335). As Van Helsing notes, “‘Our task is…more difficult than ever, and this…trouble makes every hour of the direst importance’” (343). He makes no sly, suggestive remarks, suggesting that even Van Helsing, who had previously pounced on the opportunity to joke about Lucy’s polyandry (in front of her widower, no less), does not see any potential for innuendo or remotely sexual humor here. There is merit to Halberstam’s main claim that a novel comprised of segments resembles monstrosity in that both are aggregates of distinct components, but the sub-claim about sexualization specifically is not warranted by the primary source, given the un-sexual nature of the characters’ communications. In focusing on sexualization, Halberstam ignores the gravity of the literal situations taking place.

In another attempt to further this main claim through the faulty lens of sexualization, Halberstam makes the sub-claim that writing and reading are a non-sexual alternative to Dracula’s deviant sexuality. If, as Halberstam proposes, “Writing and reading [are an] alternative to the sexuality of the vampire” then they are, by definition of alternative, antithetical to sexuality and therefore non-sexual. (Halberstam, 336). This contradicts his earlier point that writing and reading have a sexuality about them. Yet, at the same time, in describing writing and reading as an “alternative” to sexuality, Halberstam also suggests that writing and reading are functionally appropriate, as opposed to qualitatively similar, substitutes for sexuality. This raises (then does not answer) the question, Does Halberstam view reading and writing as sexual or not?

Given that the characters are not always in the same physical location, the letters which they send to one another are practically essential. The journal entries serve two primary purposes for the characters within the novel: accountability and preservation of information. To the first point, Mina writes, “[if Jonathan should ever think] that I kept anything from him, I still keep my journal as usual. Then if he has feared of my trust I shall show it to him” (273). To the second, Dr. Seward writes, “Jonathan Harker has asked me to note this as he says he is hardly equal to the task, and he wants an exact record kept” (350). Neither of these written accounts seems sexual or in lieu of sexuality in any way.

III. Femininity: A Technology of Monstrosity (Just Not At Masculinity’s Expense)

The third and final sub-claim that I would like to address pertaining to Halberstam’s main claim about deviant sexuality as a technology of monstrosity is Halberstam’s confounded definition of what specifically feminizes and, by extension, criminalizes Dracula’s sexuality. Halberstam lists “[Dracula’s] feminized because non-phallic sexuality” (Halberstam, 343) as a characteristic of his monstrous otherness. While the primary text supports the notion that Dracula’s sexuality is othered through feminization, and Dracula’s sexuality is indeed non-phallic, I disagree with Halberstam’s sub-claim that that feminization is necessarily a result of non-phallic sexuality. In the primary text, Dracula “force[es] [Mina’s] face down on his bosom” as an act of silencing and of power; it is not a reproductive act (300). Thus, the emphasis, in terms of Dracula’s feminization, is on his having a leaking bosom, not his lacking an active phallus. This is to say, his feminization stems from his possession of feminine qualities rather than his lack of masculine ones. Given Halberstam’s own description of Gothic as “always go[ing] both ways” (Halberstam, 339) and his assertion that vampire sexuality is “not [one sexuality]” but, rather, “all of these and more,” (Halberstam, 344), his sub-claim that Dracula’s femininity is necessarily at the expense of his masculinity seems rhetorically inconsistent.

To further refute the tenuous sub-claim, Dracula does, in fact, possess phallic-esque masculinity, though the manifestation of that masculinity is deviant and foreign (this caveat is in accordance with the main claim). In order to prove that Dracula possesses the phallic and dominating qualities essential to a male characterization and refute the sub-claim that Dracula is feminine specifically because he lacks masculinity, I will compare Halberstam’s description of the men’s attacks on Lucy to Stoker’s depiction of Dracula’s attack on Mina. Halberstam reveals his sexual logic in his description of Lucy’s death: “the group takes a certain sexual delight in staking her body, decapitating her, and stuffing her mouth with garlic” (345). His interpretation of this scene as sexual seems to stem from the fact that men penetrate a woman’s body twofold—physically staking her, then filling her by force—and assert their power over her. Given the image of penetration, one could very reasonably describe this scene as phallic. If physically penetrating and asserting dominance over a woman is phallic and therefore masculine, then Dracula’s penetration and assertion of dominance over women is also phallic and masculine. When Dracula attacks Mina, his assertion of power is clear as “his right hand grip[s] her by the back of the neck,” and “from her throat trickle[s] a thin stream of blood,” evidence of her penetration (301). Dracula does not reproduce by means of phallus, but he dominates and violates in the same masculine, penetrative ways as a literally phallic character. Thus, he is feminized and deviant but not without phallic masculinity either.

Conclusion

Ultimately, while Halberstam makes compelling and valid claims about deviant sexuality as a technology of monstrosity, his sub-claims about Mina’s surrender to Dracula’s sexuality, the sexuality of reading and writing, and Dracula’s non-phallic masculinity take away from otherwise strong main arguments. These rhetorical weaknesses stem generally from Halberstam’s neglect of symbols and context from the primary text. Still, Halberstam’s insights into Gothic monstrosity, specifically thinking in terms of aggregates and co-existing qualities (even and especially if certain qualities seem to contradict one another), are rich with nuance and nonetheless engaging.

No Such Thing as Nothing: On Minim & Metanarratives in The Shadow King

January 27, 2020December 28, 2020 Rachel Hsu

It is oft-repeated that victors write the stories which eventually become history. Each time a storyteller recalls an event and repackages it into a story, they drag that event through transformative pitstops: faulty recollection, personal bias, omission of detail, dishonesty. The storyteller decides what information to preserve, often favoring remarkability over authenticity. Such is the nature of conventional storytelling. In constructing and preserving narratives that devalue the ordinary, the conventional storyteller erases truths and, with them, the livelihood and history of the unsung.

In her novel The Shadow King, Maaza Mengiste explores this intrinsic component of conventional storytelling, specifically through the character Minim, a peasant whose name directly translates to Nothing. Soft-spoken, poor, and effectively invisible, Minim embodies nothingness until Hirut points out his resemblance to Emperor Hailee Selassie, who has left Ethiopia mid-war for England. At the urging of his fellow soldiers, Minim takes on the role of Shadow King. Suddenly, the nobody, who had once defined his identity by his lack thereof, has become the most important person in the country, though this glory is short-lived. Once the Ethiopians win and the real Hailee Selassie returns, Minim is relegated to his previous peasantly status—no stories to preserve him, no ways to make known the truth. He is the unsung, the forgotten. Assigning Minim a peripheral role in the novel is Mengiste’s way of exploring and even indulging in storytelling convention. By engaging in storytelling conventions through her surface-level narrative, Mengiste is able to lull the reader into a sense of familiarity, maximizing the impact on the reader when she challenges those conventions through her metanarrative, ultimately to criticize conventional storytelling as an act of erasure, in spite of, and because of, its ostensible function as an act of creation.

In order to conceptually preface her challenge to conventional storytelling, Mengiste explicitly establishes the relevant conventions via comments made by Kidane, who reveres and embodies traditional standards. When Kidane formulates his plan to use Minim as the Emperor’s body double, he recalls, “My father and grandfather used to tell me stories of shadow kings” (232). With this, Kidane suggests that he and his predecessors—entire generations of powerful men—remember these shadow kings and actively preserve their legacies through stories. To be spoken of by a powerful man is, in and of itself, a grant of honor and immortalization, since recognition is intrinsic to legacy. To be spoken of, in a glamorized light, by a powerful man to a wide and willing audience elevates that recognition to untouchable fame. Kidane reiterates this when Minim still expresses hesitation: “You’ll help us win the war…There’ll be stories about you that generations will repeat” (232). The preservation and repetition of one’s glory, Kidane implies, renders that glory undying. Permanence is fundamentally remarkable. However, the actualization of these prospects is contingent on the Ethiopians “win[ning]” (232). Mengiste thus ties storytelling to notions inseparable from social status and personal honor such as legacy, tradition, and fame. In doing so, she not only communicates a tenet of conventional storytelling—that victory merits stories—but she also links storytelling to the immortalization of glory.

In this scene, Mengiste also explores the convention of honoring the victorious through Kidane’s behavior. Kidane “puts his arm around Minim” and switches from a “startlingly loud” voice to a “soothing” one (232). This friendly body language and regulation of tone are respectful acts on Kidane’s part. Given the context for this sudden respectfulness, that Kidane is likening Minim to a shadow king protagonist, the message rings clear: a man worth telling stories about is a man worthy of respect. Curiously enough, the story has not even been told at this point. Minim is not The Shadow King yet. The prospect alone is enough for Kidane to treat him more politely than he does Aklilu, a more capable soldier whom Kidane has known for longer. Through Kidane and Minim’s interaction, Mengiste corrobates her depiction of the conventional story as something which warrants glory, specifically for its main character—the conventional hero, so to speak.

In addition to establishing the conventions through her characters, Mengiste implicitly explores conventions in storytelling by participating firsthand, donning the cloak of the conventional in order to later expose its flaws. To this end, Mengiste portrays Minim as the antithesis of a character worth remembering (i.e. the aforementioned conventional hero). A new recruit, Minim is introduced as “a slightly built man” (153) whereas other recruits are introduced as “fearsome…muscular with broad feet and wide shoulders” (58), “confident” and “barrel-chested” (59). Mengiste’s comparatively brief physical description of Minim, combined with the the qualified phrase “slightly built,” denotes his exceeding plainness and lack of prowess. A “built man” is actually strong; a “slightly built man” is barely strong. All this to say, Minim is not the type of man about whom people tell glorious war stories. Immediately following Minim’s introduction, Aklilu “simply [says], [Minim] was never made for war” (153). Aklilu “simply” making this remark implies a casual, low-stakes reply (153). Notably, this is the only time anyone comments on Minim’s military capabilities (it is not a positive comment), and again, Mengiste uses a qualifier. The reaction itself is lackluster, emphasizing Minim’s vapid presence, but it is also underwhelming in a literary sense; the word “simply” indicates mere-ness (153). Mengiste later doubles down on describing Minim underwhelmingly: “this quiet man who rarely talks…He was simply just Minim, the soft-spoken man with the strange name that means Nothing” (230). The double emphasis of two qualifiers, “simply” and “just,” reduces Minim’s existence to something less valid than whole. Mengiste’s portrayal of Minim as someone “quiet” and “soft-spoken” who “rarely talks” implies that there is so little to say about him that one must repeat the same quality in three ways (230). His only “strange” identifying trait is his signature “Nothing[ness]” (230). Mengiste thus depicts Minim as unlike the conventional hero.

Minim makes several more appearances throughout the novel, each one equally underwhelming, deepening Mengiste’s exploration of narrative convention so that her later challenge to it is more impactful. When Aklilu and Hirut dance, Mengiste mentions that “Minim’s masinqo…beat[s] out a gentle melody” (182). Even though Minim is the one playing the instrument, the subject of the sentence is “masinqo,” which lends the instrument more emphasis and even agency, as subjects grammatically correspond to verbs (i.e. actions) (182). Mengiste repeats this strategy later, noting “the steady thrum from Minim’s krar” rather than Minim himself (228). Not only is Minim given less emphasis than inanimate objects, but his function in both of these scenes is literally as background noise. Soon after, “Kidane turns toward Minim and stares at the distant hills” suggesting that, even when people look directly at Minim, they do not notice him (229). In this way, Minim is more akin to setting than character; he is that invisible and negligible. Additionally, Minim’s physical location is almost always described relative to that of other, more prominent characters: “Behind [Kidane, Hirut, and Aklilu]” (227), “Above all their heads” (228), “Past Kidane’s shoulder” (229). By syntactically and physically stationing Minim like this, Mengiste denies him a presence that exists independently of others. He is always the second thought, the add-on to someone else’s role. It is also worth noting that Minim is only featured in less than 10 (out of 424) pages.

Having fed the reader notions of convention via the narrative itself, Mengiste then challenges those notions, first by exposing their flawed nature via the novel’s ending. The final passage is from Minim’s point of view, which subtly forces the reader to consider his perspective, perhaps even empathize with this innocuous man: “Minim kneels…with a heavy heart…surrounded by a crowd of worshipers giving thanks for the return of their king” (401). While Minim’s sadness is enough to evoke sympathy, Mengiste’s use of dramatic irony kindles that pity into discomfort for the reader, who, having read the novel thus far, knows about Minim’s pivotal role in the war and the promises of glory made to him by Kidane. Instead of receiving acknowledgment or praise, Minim gets “jostled and pushed” by “a crowd…giving thanks for…their king”—the very people he, as The Shadow King, led to victory (401). This unfairness is no coincidence; it is a metanarrative technique, an invitation to the reader to dislike the narrative Mengiste presents. Through this discrepancy, Mengiste highlights the disparity between Minim’s reality as The Shadow King and his reality now, evoking the reader’s discomfort with the conventional narrative.

Mengiste stirs this discomfort into stronger indignance by exploring Minim’s despair, furthering the reader’s questioning of the conventional narrative’s ethos. Minim is not only plagued by disappointment and unfairness: he must also cope with feelings of loss, an identity crisis, and immense isolation. “Who will remember me?” he asks aloud, receiving “no answer” in return (401). He repeats “Your Majesty” to himself and cries before finally declaring, “I am alone” (401). The fact that Minim repeatedly calls himself “Your Majesty” suggests that he still clings to the identity he must now relinquish (401). This loss becomes even more harrowing when one recalls Kidane’s certainty that Minim would be glorified and remembered. Instead, the only character who remembers The Shadow King is himself. Understandably, after living another person’s life, Minim struggles to feel a sense of self. This identity crisis makes his return to normalcy even more difficult, as he undergoes the rough transition from Emperor and to absolute nobody. It is both a lifestyle shift and a source of cognitive dissonance. Beyond this, Minim experiences extreme isolation on multiple levels. As Minim, he does not merit anyone’s attention or respect; he must talk to himself because nobody else will listen. The uniqueness of his experience means that nobody else shares his burden. The confidentiality of his role means that no external figures can validate his experiences, ground him in reality, and help him grieve his losses. Storytelling convention dictates that this is, in fact, a fitting and realistic ending: the unremarkable character does not receive glory. Yet, having seen all of these misfortunes unleashed on Minim in rapid succession, the reader feels a spark of injustice. By guiding the reader to dissatisfaction with convention, Mengiste subliminally attacks that convention.

Mengiste also challenges conventional storytelling by using structure to undermine content; in ending the novel with Minim’s perspective, she gives him distinction that the narrative itself does not. The final Book ends with the line, “Every day, [Minim] will grow back into himself until he can be who he is: a man was once everything to everyone, then was reborn again to be nothing” (402). Ostensibly, this story concludes by equating Minim to “nothing.” To the other characters, this may be true. However, to the reader, Minim’s value as a character is actually heightened by his unfortunate return to nothingness, as they develop real feelings—sympathy, indignance, pity—for him. Thus, although Mengiste presents a narrative that embodies convention content-wise, she subverts conventions through her structure.

Mengiste makes her final challenge to conventional storytelling via her title, The Shadow King, which, existing outside the narrative, supersedes all conventions within. Naming the novel after Minim undermines all seemingly implacable narrative conventions because Minim’s story encloses the narrative itself. Kidane’s guarantee that Minim will be remembered for generations may be false in the characters’ universe, but it is true in the reader’s and the author’s universe because The Shadow King will be read and repeated by generations. One could even argue that the reader’s truth matters more because it is real, while the story is fictional. In this way, Mengiste pays homage to the unsung heroes of history—the Minims, so to speak—who are typically erased from the narrative.

Ultimately, Mengiste challenges conventional storytelling by constructing a conventional narrative then superseding it. She uses structure and titling to grant unrecognized heroes attention they otherwise would not get, while also criticizing the existing conventions, which unfairly dictate who deserves that attention. While this novel tells stories, of many people, in many ways, it especially serves as a symbol of the unsung. Events can become so distorted through the process of recollection that they change beyond recognition. When only the distorted, glamorized version of an event is preserved, the original story is, effectively, gone. All the story can do is wait until, inevitably, it is forgotten. Mengiste tells stories not to selectively preserve victory or relive expired glory but to remember those who are too often consigned to the abyss of forgetfulness. Nobody is truly Nothing.

Fulfillment Through Deprivation: On Loss in The Metamorphosis and Her

November 27, 2019December 28, 2020 Rachel Hsu

A loss is a thing to be mourned, it seems, especially in the context of love. We consider loss—be it through death, divorce, or estrangement—the worst possible outcome. Yet, there is a kind of collateral enablement that comes with this deprivation, a kind of power that comes with letting go. Both Franz Kafka’s novel The Metamorphosis and Spike Jonze’s film Her star protagonists who experience losses so significant to them that it seems they have been deprived of their lifeblood. However, it is only through the loss of these apparent needs that they can achieve their innermost—subconscious, even—objectives. For Gregor Samsa, this means losing his human form, which is inseparably tethered to his status as a worker, in order to find freedom from an overbearing capitalistic society. For Theodore Twombly, this means losing the love of his life—not once, but twice—in order to conquer his underlying fear of being alone. Where these two protagonists differ, however, is in their willingness to sacrifice these apparent needs. Though Gregor realizes that his humanness is what chains him to servitude and prevents his liberation, he is unwilling to relinquish it; the novel ends with Gregor’s death, as the rest of the world moves on. Theodore, on the other hand, is able to come to terms with his loss and, through this, overcome his most underlying challenge. Unlike The Metamorphosis, Her ends with its protagonist alive and newly embossed with purpose. Through their respective struggles with losing their apparent needs, these protagonists reveal the disheartening truth: that, sometimes, what we think we need is not what we actually need. And, sometimes, we need to lose what we think we need in order to get what we actually need.

Gregor Samsa is introduced as the epitome of working individual. His conscious identity revolves solely around what he believes to be his essentials: going to work and providing for his family. It is a famously incongruous opening scene. Gregor wakes up transformed into a “monstrous insect” but is otherwise unperturbed and returns to sleep (3). He expresses strong displeasure only when his physical discomfort reminds him of his job, grumbling “‘Good Lord…what an exhausting profession I’ve chosen” (4). This initial complaint prompts even more extensive complaints about “‘the agony of traveling’” as Gregor entertains the thought of skipping a bit of work to eat breakfast: “‘I’d like to see my boss’s face if I tried that some time; he’d can me on the spot’” (4). The brief satisfaction that Gregor gains from undermining his boss’s authority, even in his imagination, hints at Gregor’s underlying desire to live according to his own schedule and needs. However, he beats these thoughts away “for the time being,” intentionally displacing them with the acceptance of his reality as a cog in the wheel—specifically, a cog in the wheel who cannot afford to lose his job (4). The prospect of unemployment immediately drives him to his sole other point of concern, his parents’ debt. “‘If I didn’t have to hold back for my parents’ sake,’” he explains, “‘I’d have given notice long ago.’” (4). He switches from these concerns to turn his attention back towards work, as his “‘train leaves at five’” (4).

With this first scene, Kafka offers the readers a look into Gregor’s head, which, despite Gregor’s extraordinary physical transformation, is occupied only with mundane maunderings about work and family finances. It is clear that Gregor dislikes his work but resigns himself to it because he believes he has no other choice. He simply needs to work. At this point in the novel, Gregor has not acknowledged his physical transformation or suffered any interpersonal consequences due to his metamorphosis. Therefore, we can assume that he still identifies as human. His thoughts, then, reflect his human identity: the fact that he ponders exclusively about work, family, and money indicates that he sees himself for the productive value he brings to the workplace and the financial value he brings back home. The authenticity of these thoughts is verified by the fact that Gregor has them even in the intimate space of his bedroom, in the privacy of his own head. He has internalized so deeply his symbiotic relationship with corporate servitude and his justification for it that his mind, it seems, cannot wander to anything else beyond those two subjects. Thus, Kafka establishes Gregor’s apparent need, working to support his family, in order to preface the complications that arise with Kafka’s later revelations of Gregor’s underlying need.

Theodore’s introduction is similarly melancholy; the visual and conversational cues construct his identity for the viewer as an exceedingly lonely man, desperately in need of company. After opening a voice message in which someone calls him “‘sad’” and “‘mopey’,” Theodore walks home, alone, wearing an orange jacket and red shirt, while everyone around him is dressed in neutrals (3:40-5:00). This juxtaposition creates an intense sense of alienation, as Theodore seems visually excluded by his surroundings; the only thing lonelier than being alone is being alone while everyone else is together. Theodore then enters his apartment in the darkness, remaining in the dark as “‘Melancholy Song’” plays in the background (5:00-5:35). The chronological presentation of these mundane daily tasks conveys routineness, implying that Theodore lives like this—lonely, melancholy, alienated—every day. With Theodore’s first flashback, the viewer gets a glimpse of his past, which is starkly different from his current situation: he moves into an apartment with a woman (his ex-wife, Catherine), they help each other carry furniture, they are physically and emotionally intimate, and there is sunlight pouring into the rooms in every scene (6:07-6:20). This fond reflection, especially when viewed together with the scene immediately following, reveals Theodore’s longing for the past, when he was not alone, as he goes from tender joyfulness with Catherine to discomfort in the darkness, alone (6:20-7:00). His loneliness and discomfort leads him to engage in phone sex with a stranger, indicating his desire for physical intimacy as well (7:20-10:05). The very next day, he purchases an Operating System companion with a “female” voice, displaying his desire for emotional intimacy (11:50-11:56). Evidently, Theodore is lonely and yearns for connection. Thus, like Kafka, Jonze uses an introduction to establish his protagonist’s apparent need.

Given their respective introductions, it may seem that Gregor and Theodore have very clear needs which they must satisfy: Gregor to work and support his family, Theodore to form connections with other people. However, the respective creators of these works present these needs in such obvious ways because they intend to complicate the true nature of these priorities. Upon further inspection, we shall find, first, that Gregor and Theodore have needs other than what is explicitly conveyed, and, second, that they must lose these apparent needs in order to satisfy their underlying ones.

Despite Gregor’s repeated insistence that employment and family are his necessary priorities, Kafka reveals, through more subtle images and hints, that these are not his underlying needs. Analyzing the opening scene once more, accounting for these subtleties, delivers a very different impression of Gregor’s supposed needs for work and family. The first sentence of the novel mentions Gregor waking up from “troubled dreams” as a monstrous insect (3). While these “troubled dreams” could refer to Gregor’s literal dreams, a Freudian reading would suggest that they serve a symbolic purpose, perhaps conveying that Gregor’s subconscious is disturbed by his conscious actions and lifestyle. His awakening as an insect, then, represents his awakening from these troubles. In a literal sense, Gregor is separated from his problems by his physical form. Work and family finances are, after all, both exclusively human responsibilities. It is thus hinted at that Gregor’s human form burdens him. In addition, while Kafka describes extensively Gregor’s new insect form (down to the “rigid arches” of his “segmented” belly) as well as Gregor’s surroundings (down to the “glossy” texture of a magazine from which Gregor clipped a picture and the “fur hat[,] fur boa[, and] fur muff” worn by the lady in the picture), Kafka’s only description of Gregor’s human self is “(Samsa was a traveling salesman)” (3). The fact that this comment is sectioned off with parentheses, made almost as an aside, depicts the subject of Gregor’s job as something relatively insignificant. To frame his job in this way may seem incongruous, given that Gregor’s job is essentially the crux of his existence.

However, this is exactly what Kafka suggests: by decreasing the significance of Gregor’s job (relative to trivial details, no less), Kafka subtly conveys that Gregor’s job is not truly fundamental to his existence. This claim is further supported by a scene previously mentioned, in which Gregor talks to himself in his room: “‘If I didn’t have to hold back for my parents’ sake…I’d have given notice long ago.’” (4). Considering that Gregor is alone, it is odd that he would voice this aloud, as if he is insisting to someone else the legitimacy of his need to work. The fact that he feels the need to self-justify implies that Gregor, subconsciously, has reservations about his work-centric lifestyle. Framing his servitude as a need allows him to ignore the heavy question of whether or not this servitude is his actual need. It is only his sudden metamorphosis that can disrupt his blissful ignorance by impairing his ability to serve. With this in mind, we begin to see complexities of Gregor’s underlying needs and identity, beyond what Kafka explicitly conveys.

Similarly, despite Theodore’s apparent commitment to his happiness with Samantha, he is not entirely fulfilled by their relationship because he is only satisfying an apparent need. While Samantha does improve his life in noticeable ways, she is not the solution to what is ultimately a problem with himself: his fear of living as an individual, rather than someone’s other half. If she were the solution to Theodore’s inability to let go of Catherine, then Theodore would not continuously have flashbacks of Catherine after dating Samantha, especially while Samantha excitedly speaks to him (1:10:30-1:10:32). If Samantha were the cure for Theodore’s loneliness, then Theodore would not still be consumed with “‘fear’” and “‘feel[ing] so alone’” as Samantha observes (1:29:34-1:29:48). If Samantha were the solution to Theodore’s struggle with being open in relationships, Theodore would not have responded to the sex surrogate’s description of their relationship as “‘lov[ing] each other without any judgment” with “Wait no that’s not true, it’s more complicated” (1:19:57-1:20:11).

Theodore, like Gregor, is subconsciously aware that pursuing his apparent need does not actually leave him satisfied. And, like Gregor, he does not realize this on his own, since Samantha’s constant presence provides Theodore perpetual instant gratification. While Gregor’s subconscious dissatisfaction manifests itself in his dreams and self-justification, Theodore’s manifests itself in occasional attempts to sabotage his relationship with Samantha. Most notably, after Samantha’s disastrous attempt to have sex with Theodore via surrogate, she sincerely apologizes and repeatedly asks Theodore if he is okay (1:21:20-1:22:10). However, instead of dignifying Samantha’s genuine questions with genuine answers, Theodore takes an offensive stance, judgmentally asking “‘Why do you do that [when you talk]?’” when such questioning is neither warranted nor relevant (1:21:49-1:22:14). And, despite Theodore’s insistence to everyone else that he feels “‘really close to [Samantha]’” (1:02:10-1:02:30), that Samantha is “‘really good for [him]’” (1:07:15-1:07:47), and that he experiences “‘real emotions’” with her (1:08:20-1:08:50), he responds to Samantha’s “‘Fuck you! I’m not pretending!’” with “‘Sometimes, it feels like we are.’” (1:22:57-1:23:04). With this, it becomes clear that being with Samantha does not fix Theodore’s underlying issue, his fear of living by and for himself, and even prevents him from directly confronting it by giving him a crutch on which to fall back.

Thus, in satisfying their apparent needs with temporary solutions, Gregor and Theodore avoid meeting their underlying needs. While Gregor provides for his family as he apparently needs to, he is truly dissatisfied with his life and yearns for freedom. However, so long as he is human, he is capable of working, which is to say, so long as he is human, he is trapped by the system of capitalistic bureaucracy and cannot achieve freedom. Therefore, in order for Gregor to be free from the chains of human responsibility, he must lose his humanness. On a similar note, while Theodore finds a companion in Samantha as he apparently needs to, he too is dissatisfied with his life and struggles to find purpose in his existence as an individual. So long as he is in a romantic relationship with someone, he cannot achieve this end. Therefore, in order for Theodore to conquer his fear of living alone, he must lose both Catherine and Samantha.

It is only after Gregor adjusts to his new insect form and begins to lose his humanness that he experiences the liberation he subconsciously craves. Notwithstanding his isolation, Gregor feels joyful and even relaxed, consumed with “happy absentmindedness”: “He particularly liked hanging from the ceiling high above the room; it was completely different from lying on the floor” (26). In a literal sense, Gregor’s insect form elevates him, as his tarsal claws are what enable him to climb upwards, onto the ceiling. Obviously, humans are physically incapable of replicating this feat, so Gregor’s new form does lend him some physical enhancement. The significance of this enhancement, however, lies in its complete uniqueness. For once, Gregor is unique in the functions which he performs, no longer just an indistinguishable, replaceable employee. His human identity is inseparable from work and servitude. This feeling of being “different” from a prior state is, in and of itself, liberating to him; he “breathe[s] more freely” (26). The symbolic implications of this elevation also reveal the liberation Gregor finds in being un-human. He no longer dwells on the floor, as he both literally and figuratively did when he was a human and allowed himself to be trampled on by his boss and family. He “particularly likes” this change (26). It is worth noting that Kafka does not describe Gregor as particularly liking anything prior to this, except for milk, which, no longer even “taste[s] good to him at all” (18). By highlighting Gregor’s newfound particular preference, Kafka implies that Gregor now, more so than before, is able to enjoy experiences as they come, rather than constantly disregard his current unhappiness with the consolation that his situation will eventually change.

Where Kafka really proves the point that Gregor must lose his humanness in order to obtain freedom, however, is when Grete and Gregor’s mother discuss clearing out Gregor’s room: “[Gregor] would be able to crawl about unhindered in every direction, but at the price of simultaneously swiftly and completely forgetting his human past” (27). Gregor decides he is “unwilling to forego” his last connections to his human self; he is not willing to sacrifice his apparent need in order to satisfy his underlying need (27). The story ends with Gregor dead, as his family—the original motivating force behind Gregor’s work-centric identity—moves on.

Unlike Gregor, Theodore is able to come to terms with his loss; he finally realizes that he can exist with meaning, even without a relationship. The film builds up to this realization by explicitly presenting Theodore’s need for companionship but also displaying the negative effects of this dependence. When Samantha questions Theodore about why he has not finalized his divorce, he tells her “‘I’m not ready. I like being married’” (27:24-27:27). This statement reveals that Theodore is not attached to Catherine specifically but rather the idea of being together with someone. He does not fear losing Catherine in the divorce; he fears being alone because he lacks confidence and purpose as an individual. The only reason why he works up the courage to meet with Catherine to “sign the papers, be divorced, [and] just move forward” is that he believes himself to be securely in a relationship with Samantha by this point (1:03:14-1:03:25). And, even then, he is not completely comfortable with letting Catherine go. When she signs the papers, he remarks, almost alarmed, “‘You don’t have to do it right now,’” revealing his hesitation (1:05:38-1:05:42). Theodore’s hesitation about the divorce is really his hesitation about losing people in general.

It is this underlying fear of being alone which he truly needs to confront and reconcile. However, as mentioned, Theodore cannot confront this true need without losing Samantha first. The ending reflects this realization, as losing Samantha forces him to confront his aloneness. Whereas he was not fully able to accept his divorce with Catherine when they met in person, Theodore spends the final scene of the film writing a letter to Catherine, this time fully acknowledging that their relationship has ended. He sincerely apologizes for his mistakes, acknowledges his flaws, and tells her that he will continue to love and support her even though they are no longer together (1:54:59-1:56:36). It is a bittersweet ending, but the sun rises in the background, as Theodore sits on a rooftop and shares a smile with his friend (1:56:42-1:57:22). He is no longer in the dark, lonely and grasping for company. It takes losing love for him to realize that he can survive letting go.

Ultimately, both Gregor and Theodore must be rid of their apparent needs in order to satisfy their underlying ones, as it is only through these losses that they can see and experience what they are without those singular, significant pieces. These sacrifices are painful, but as the ending of Her suggests, we cannot live fulfilling lives if we refuse to let go. And, as the ending of The Metamorphosis suggests, to live unfulfilled is to not live at all. The loss in action is almost always a sad thing. But perhaps lacking does not always warrant mourning.

Love and Deception in The Knight from Olmedo

November 2, 2019December 28, 2020 Rachel Hsu

Version Used: Edwards, Gwynne, translator. “The Knight from Olmedo.” Three Major Plays, by Lope de Vega, Oxford University Press, 2008, pp. 83–167.

The adage love can overcome all problems has, over time, been rivaled by the less idealistic but perhaps more accurate love is not enough to fix all problems. In his tragicomedy The Knight from Olmedo, Lope de Vega presents a yet another claim: sometimes, love is the problem—and people are to blame. It is no secret that love inspires strong emotions, for better or for worse. The Knight from Olmedo explores the “for worse” side of this truth, that both love and the prospect of it can drive humans to emotional extremities. However, while love possesses powerful influence, it is not inherently destructive. Rather, the danger of love stems from its distortion, the problematic human glorification of it. Such is the case for Rodrigo—the poor fool who, hopelessly in love with Ines, turns mad, kills Alonso, then meets his own demise. In juxtaposing quixotic depictions of love with Rodrigo’s less fortunate example, Lope de Vega suggests that the romanticized prospect of love desensitizes people to the reality of it, as people become so consumed with want that they convince themselves that they need and can get. Thus, while love itself is not a villain, the authority with which characters choose to imbue it makes love the singular most destructive force in this play.

The Knight of Olmedo begins with the establishment of love as a positive, influential force in order to contextualize Rodrigo’s insistence on achieving love for himself. The very first line, spoken by Alonso, venerates Love: “Let no one speak the name of Love / Who does not eagerly respond to it” (Act I, pp. 83, lines 1-2). The capitalization of the “L” in “Love” not only elevates love’s status from common noun to proper noun but also names it, as if to personify love as a prominent presence. The fact that love’s authority warrants—demands, even—that love be dignified with an eager response also suggests its elite nature. “And yet,” Alonso continues, “who is there on this earth / Of ours whom it has left untouched?” (Act I, pp. 83, lines 3-4). With this, Alonso makes the secondary point that Love is not just powerful but also ubiquitous; to love and be loved is both desirable and expected. If someone has not experienced love, then, this lacking makes them different from everyone else on earth in a negative way. In theory, the proliferation of something as profound and beautiful as love should be a positive phenomenon.

However, it is exactly this painting of love in such a positive light that gives love the potential to be dangerous. People, allured by the prospect of this wonderful notion, become desperate for it, become expedient to attain it. In addition, the claim that everyone has experienced love is not only objectively untrue, but it surrounds situations of loveless-ness—including situations of unrequited love, as Alonso remarks, love “only felt by one…falls far short of…perfection”—with stigma, unfairly outcasting those who have not experienced mutual love (Act I, pp. 83, lines 24-25). By opening the play with enumerations about love’s power and prevalence, de Vega establishes a set of ideas about love that Alonso believes. Idealistic, far-fetched, and untrue as these ideas may be, the fact that the protagonist subscribes to them awards them a certain ethos within the context of the play; it can be assumed that Alonso’s beliefs are not starkly in contrast to those of his society. From this, we can draw the conclusion that Alonso’s beliefs about love are at least somewhat commonly held, justifying his reliability as a point of reference. This information enables us to understand the source of Rodrigo’s extreme desperation to experience mutual love and avoid loveless-ness.

De Vega builds on this contextualization, again through Alonso, by foreshadowing the potential dangers of giving love too much authority over oneself, which Rodrigo unfortunately does. Expanding on his earlier comments about love’s immense influence, Alonso suggests that feelings of desire, inseparable from love, overcome his ability to control his actions: “Desire is / The master of my will” (Act I, pp. 84, lines 44-45). Having any character openly surrender themselves to love at the onset of the play suffices to convey that love is appealing enough, powerful enough, and perhaps intoxicating enough to influence judgment and agency. Having the protagonist openly surrender himself to love justifies this surrender—implying that even people of relatively strong character are not immune to love’s charm—and even glorifies it to an extent by lending surrender the ethos of the hero. Again, assuming that Alonso’s views reflect those of his society, the common impression of love thus dictates that it is both excusable and potentially admirable to give oneself to the powerful influence of love. These prevalent beliefs are most likely the beliefs to which Rodrigo is exposed and subscribed. As Rodrigo’s own misfortune later suggests, however, these ideals are misleading and potentially dangerous; love’s potency (and people’s subsequent surrender to it) can be its catastrophic side-effect.

With this establishment of how characters understand love in mind, we can now examine how that misguided understanding unfolds in Rodrigo’s example, ultimately proving that love is the most lethal force in this play. Rodrigo is determined to be loved, though his chances at success are complicated by the fact that his love interest despises him. Ines disdainfully mentions that Rodrigo has “been [her] suitor” “For two / Years now” and “His looks and flattering words turn [her] / To ice” (Act I, pp. 89, lines 181-184). Ines’s harsh rejection, understandably, is a problem for Rodrigo, due to the fact that he loves her. Moreover, this long-standing problem of unrequited love is not one that Rodrigo himself can solve, as he cannot control how Ines perceives him. Even his best efforts are regarded with disgust.

Instead of giving up on Ines and making peace with the reality that she will never return his feelings, Rodrigo becomes increasingly obsessed with acquiring Ines’s love. “The more / Her cruel disdain attempts to kill / My love,” he laments to Fernando, “the more it burns” (Act I, pp. 102, lines 523-525). The parallelism of “The more…the more” indicates a direct relationship between Ines’s disdain and Rodrigo’s love. The disjoint nature of Ines’s and Rodrigo’s respective desires is further emphasized by the juxtaposition of Ines’s “disdain” and Rodrigo’s “love.” Eventually, it becomes undeniable, even to Rodrigo, that his “cause is lost” (Act II, pp. 123, lines 395). Still, Rodrigo does not give up on Ines; he continues to fixate on her but also directs his attention towards resenting Alonso. Given that Ines had been rejecting Rodrigo before even meeting Alonso, Alonso is not responsible for the asymmetrical nature of Rodrigo’s love in any way. Yet, Rodrigo decides that he ought to kill Alonso.

Most likely, Rodrigo cannot cope with the notion that mutual love does not occur to everyone and thus feels the need to blame something tangible. Alonso, as Ines’s current love interest, is an easy scapegoat. Rodrigo’s earliest remark about his jealousy is that he “observed [Alonso] carefully…prompted by this jealous heart” (Act II, pp. 123, lines 377-378). In the next act, he, increasingly passionate, entertains the intrusive thought of Alonso’s death: “I’m so jealous…I long to see him dead” (Act III, pp. 146, lines 175-176). Soon after, he is pushed to a breaking point, “driven mad with jealousy” (Act III, pp. 146, lines 183). While Rodrigo repeatedly claims that he wants to murder Alonso out of jealousy, this jealousy stems directly from his obsession with achieving mutual love: he would not view Alonso as an obstacle to mutual love if he did not believe there was, in fact, mutual love waiting for him on the other side. Two whole years of rejection from Ines—even without Alonso’s influence—should have made it clear to Rodrigo that mutual love (at least from Ines) is not written in the stars for him. Yet, he still clings to the prospect of love because he has internalized the aforementioned notions surrounding it: that love is a powerful force of good, that everyone should be in mutual love, that to give oneself entirely to love is excusable and admirable. Thus, the murder is the result of Rodrigo’s self-deception regarding the possibility of mutual love. The crescendo of Rodrigo’s jealousy from Act II to Act III, in addition to that jealousy’s existence, furthers the claim of love’s destructive potential. Not only is the effect of love on Rodrigo strong, but it is parasitic, viral in the way it increasingly (as opposed to stagnantly) corrupts his morality, mental stability, and judgment.

In perpetuating a culture of and harboring extreme desires for mutual love, the characters in this play create another dangerous by-product: the fear of loveless-ness. Everyone wants love; everyone wants to believe that they can have it. Rodrigo is no exception. When people desperately desire love, they are willing to do almost anything for it. Conversely, when people desperately fear loveless-ness, they are willing to do anything to avoid it. One could reasonably speculate, then, that this second motivating force of fear rivals, or maybe even surpasses, the first motivating force of desire. The way Rodrigo phrases it himself is that he “cannot stand” or “endure” the reality that Ines loves Alonso and therefore does not return Rodrigo’s love (Act III, pp. 140, lines 26-28). The fact that he, on an existential level, cannot bear this reality indicates that he does not just want to believe that there is hope for himself; he needs to. Consequently, when the possibility of living without mutual love becomes increasingly likely, as is the case, Rodrigo resorts to self-deception as a solution. This deception allows him to avoid a painful confrontation with reality but also renders him delusional. Delusion and resentment, albeit misaimed resentment, make a deadly combination.

It is worth noting that Rodrigo is an otherwise non-deceptive character. Rodrigo does not lie to anyone else. In fact, he is exceedingly transparent. He reveals his inner thoughts to Fernando, even though they convey that he is vulnerable and awkward: “This sword of mine, quite useless…I [feel] embarrassed” (Act III, pp. 139, line 3-4). He reveals to Alonso that he intends to kill him dishonorably, even though this revelation exposes Rodrigo as a coward: “I come to kill / You, not to challenge you!” (Act III, pp. 159, lines 544-545). All this goes to show that desperation for love can put an otherwise honest man into a perpetual state of deception, specifically self-deception. Rodrigo fools himself and lets himself be fooled into believing that killing Alonso will fix his primary problem, his unrequited love for Ines. Rodrigo himself even admits that his idea is mad and uncharacteristic of himself, but “Love has made [him] so!” (Act II, pp. 125, line 439). With this, Rodrigo concedes that he has surrendered his judgment to love but also suggests that love is the one in control, not himself. It is, perhaps, tempting to blame or ridicule Rodrigo for succumbing to these desires. However, we must recall that surrendering oneself to love is both a socially acceptable and even admirable belief. Though extreme in his interpretation, Rodrigo is actually thinking in accordance with common perceptions of love. It is these perceptions which imbue love with the authority to reign over judgment. It is these perceptions which render love dangerous.

The play supposedly ends on a positive note, at least leaving the reader with a sense of schadenfreude, when the King quickly declares, “Cut off their evil heads” to punish Rodrigo and his accomplices for killing Alonso (Act III, pp. 167, line 754). But, is this not a tragedy as well? A man so desperate for mutual love that he willingly deludes himself just so that he can cope with being alive.

In exploring the alternatives to successful mutual love through Rodrigo, Lope de Vega presents us with reality—that love is not always glorious and mutual—and reveals the dangers of our refusal to confront that truth. The bane is not always the obstacle standing in the way of love. The bane is the insistence that the love is there, even when it is not. Humans treat loveless-ness as if it is something to fear, when the most fearful thing about loveless-ness is the measures to which humans will desperately go in order to avoid it. It is these human actions, rooted in delusions about love, that deal severe and lasting damage: self-delusion, loss of sense, moral degradation, wasted time, literal death. Love is not inherently destructive. People make it so.