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Content MYTHIC PLOT AND CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT IN EURIPIDES' HIPPOLYTUS AND EUGENE O'NEILL'S DESIRE UNDER THE ELMS: A JUNGIAN ANALYSIS by Myla Ruth Lichtman A Dissertation Presented to the FACULTY OF THE GRADUATE SCHOOL UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA In Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY (Communication--Drama) June 197 9 Copyright Myla Ruth Lichtman 1979 UMI Number: DP22923 All rights reserved INFORMATION TO ALL USERS The quality of this reproduction is dependent upon the quality of the copy submitted. In the unlikely event that the author did not send a complete manuscript and there are missing pages, these will be noted. Also, if material had to be removed, a note will indicate the deletion. UMI' Dissertation Publishing UMI DP22923 Published by ProQuest LLC (2014). Copyright in the Dissertation held by the Author. Microform Edition © ProQuest LLC. All rights reserved. This work is protected against unauthorized copying under Title 17, United States Code ProQuest LLC. 789 East Eisenhower Parkway P.O. Box 1346 Ann Arbor, Ml 4 8 1 0 6 -1 3 4 6 UNIVERSITY O F S O U T H E R N C A L IF O R N IA T H E G RAD UATE SC H O O L U N IV E R S IT Y PARK LOS AN G ELES, C A L IF O R N IA 9 0 0 0 7 T his dissertation, w ritte n by ......................... M.yla.-R.ut]x.Lii.ciitxnaxi........................ under the direction of /ze.r.... Dissertation C o m mittee, and approved by a ll its members, has been presented to and accepted by The Graduate School, in p a rtia l fu lfillm e n t o f requirements of the degree of D O C T O R O F P H I L O S O P H Y Dean D a te... DISSERTATION COMMITTEE / A / 1 . „ / - } '■Ph.JX D /t7 L.Hi I I I DEDICATION ! To my parents, Mr. and Mrs. S. W. Lichtman, and brother, Howard Lichtman, for their ceaseless support and encouragement; and to my very special uncle and aunt, Mr. and Mrs. Seymour Weiner, for their support and continued faith in me— I lovingly dedicate this writing. ii ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I wish to express my appreciation to Dr. Herbert M. 'stahl, whose graduate seminars in Dramatic Analysis, Criti cism, and Literature served to provide a strong background ■for this study. As Chairman of my Doctoral Committee, his .advice, guidance, and encouragement helped make this disser tation possible. ; I further wish to thank David Dortort, writer- producer, whose inspirational seminar on Myth, presented at San Diego State University in 1976, served to point the way for this study. His outstanding television series, "Bonanza" and "The High Chaparral," serve to illustrate the value of mythic awareness for the creative artist. TABLE OF CONTENTS DEDICATION.......................................................ii ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.................................................iii LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS...........................................vi Chapter I. RATIONALE AND JUSTIFICATION OF THE ' STUDY .... 1 Introduction................................ . 1 Justification of the Study ................ 6 Statement of the Problem ..................... 7 Methodology...................................... 8 Definitions of Terms .......................... .9 Limitations of the Study........................12 Preview of Remaining Chapters................... 15i Notes................................................17 II. DRAMATIC ANALYSIS: A JUNGIAN PERSPECTIVE. . . . 19 Carl Jung...........................................19 Dramatic Art and Myth.............................22 P l o t ................................................27 Completeness..................... 28 Subject Matter ............................ 31 The Imitative Aspect of P l o t................34 Character............................. 3 8 Diction............................................. 43 Conclusion........................................ 47 Notes................................................50 III. EURIPIDES’ HIPPOLYTUS................................. 55 The Greeks: The Age of Enlightenment. . . . 55 Euripides’ Life and Times: Dualistic Realities......................................59 Hyppolytus and Religious Rite.................6 6 P l o t .............................................71 ------------------------------------------------------ivj Character: The Splintering of the Godhead...........................................84 The Gods: Aphrodite and Artemis .... 86 The Human Prey: Hippolytus, Phaedra, and Theseus................. 94 Conclusion.........................................99 Notes.............................................. 102 IV. MYTH IN ONGOING FORM . 109 Man and Myth . ................................ 109 The Intensity of Life: Initiation . . . 110 Social Order Versus the Individual . . . 114 Myth in Tim e..................................... 118 A General Overview: Formation, Transformation, Eternal Mind's Eternal Recreation ..................... 118 Introduction: The Hippolytus Mytho- Drama in Time......................... 124 Jean Racine's Phaedra.................. 126 The Hippolytus Myth in Modern Times. . . 132 Conclusion ................................ 138 Notes.............................................. 140 V. EUGENE O'NEILL'S DESIRE UNDER THE ELMS ..... 143 The Playwright.................................14 3 The Plo t..........................................147 Character..........................................159 Conclusion . 165 Notes.............................................. 168 VI. SUMMARY AND CONCLUSIONS.............................. 170 Summary...........................................170 Conclusions....................................... 174 Suggested Studies................................ 178 Notes.............................................. 180 SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY..........................................181 v I 1 I LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Figure 1. The Splintering of the Godhead..........................87 : 2. The Myth-Formation Process .......................... 120 3. Man and Horse............................................ 136 4. The Uroboros.......................................... 155 f 5. Red Mask . 160 i 6. The Battle of Actium...................................163 I CHAPTER I i i i i RATIONALE AND JUSTIFICATION OF THE STUDY Introduction i Playwrights are primarily concerned with the ability! | 'of their dramas to strike responsive chords within theatre audiences. However, the basic elements of dramatic con- ■ : struction— plot, character, and diction— remain elusive and j i ' loften appear to be randomly selected. Few dramatic works I I igain widespread acceptance, and even fewer outlive the timesj iof their conceptions. 1 i I ! Psychologist-philosopher Carl Gustav Jung contended ■ jthat humankind is united by a common repository of inherited; ■instinctual knowledge. He called this collective intuitive aspect of man "the collective unconscious."'*' He further ;believed that mythological plots, characters, and symbols reflect aspects of that collective unconscious and serve to offer up rich storehouses of knowledge from which successive, generations can potentially glean psychological insight and nouri shment. } 1 j If one considers Jung's theory that mythological jmaterials have the potential to strike responsive chords i i.within the universal collective unconscious aspect of the- j I atre audiences, then a study of the role of myth in sue- I ! Icessful dramatic works throughout time may serve to produce | I new insights into the relevance of myth to playwriting and ; I ! ^dramatic analysis. [ I The search for mastery of the craft of playwriting , is further prodded by David Berio's belief that all art 1 2 forms contain indigenous vocabularies and syntaxes. George [Pierce Baker shared this view and endeavored to begin a serious movement in America dedicated to in-depth study of .dramatic analysis. Unfortunately, his Harvard Workshop pro gram for playwrights was shortlived: leading American play wright Eugene O'Neill, however, appears to have benefited from his exposure to it. For a fuller understanding of the playwright's craft, the basic tools comprising the syntax and vocabulary of the art form must be assessed. In Poetics, Aristotle observed that without plot there can be no drama: "Plot is 3 'the soul of tragedy." Plot may therefore serve as the be ginning point for serious dramatic analysis. Dramatic scholar Alvin Kernan noted that ancient 2 |Greek dramatists were directed to base their plots on clas- 4 sical myths. This observation serves to set the stage for ,L. J. Potts's translation of Aristotle's concept of dramatic plot as being synonymous with "mythos": "The Greek word is ' 5 ' MYTHOS. Most modern versions translate it 'plot'; ..." [ Mythos in Greek means "the story told." j I i Whether plot and mythos are synonymous may not even j I be as significant as ascertaining the particular qualities ■ that each expressive form may commonly share. As recently as January 1978, David Mamet, one of America's promising new playwrights— author of the acclaimed Broadway plays American i Buffalo and The Water Engine— acknowledged the fact that he 6 1 too is an avid reader of fairytales and myths. This fur- ther indicates the apparent affinity between the expressive forms of myth and drama. Utilizing myth as a starting point for dramatic analysis does not appear, then, as a strictly random choice.' i In addition to the belief that both Western myth and drama evolved from ancient Greek religious rites, numerous schol ars have commented upon the relationship of myth and drama. Doctoral dissertations, such as Philip Hunt Decker's "The Use of Classic Myth in Twentieth Century English and Ameri can Drama, 1900-1960: A Study of Selected Plays," and published works of dramatic scholars, such as Bettina Knapp ■and Leonard Chabrowe, have touched upon aspects of myth as means for dramatic analysis. i j Bettina Knapp's Jean Racine: Mythos and Renewal in i Modern Theatre utilized Jungian psychological precepts to : I analyze dramatic characters. Leonard Chabrowe's Ritual and j r Pathos; The Theatre of O'Neill also utilized Jungian pre cepts to find the psychological portent of the playwright's mythically based dramatic plots. Aspects of Carl Jung's psychological investigation of myth have already served to I reveal heretofore unperceived aspects of dramatic play con struction . I ' It may be argued that some of Jung's psychological premises are disputed among experts in that field. This ;should not be of concern to the dramatic scholar. Jung him- i 'self ironically remarked that he was not trying to prove anything to other disciplines, but that he was merely ; 7 ; , attempting to put their knowledge to use in his own field. I i 'If Jung's theories serve to heuristically shed light upon I (aspects of dramatic structure, then they are indeed bene ficial to the field of drama. As an aid to better under standing of the playwright's craft, a heretofore unattempted systematic reassessment was made of Aristotle's Poetics in jlight of Jung's interpretations of the myth-formation pro- 1 Icess and of mythic structure. f i To ascertain the relevance of Jung's theories for i dramatic analysis, in-depth studies were made of two dra- J ;matic works that share the same mythic foundation, yet have been separated by nearly two thousand years in terms of ; their times of conception. Euripides' mythic-based Hip polytus , which vividly depicted the dualistic nature of man, [ 'served as the first drama in this study. Hazel E. Barnes ;noted that Euripides was the first to portray "the full 1 g idrama of the mystery of the human person." Eugene O'Neill 'openly, acknowledged Euripides' work as the basis for his own 9 twentieth century reinterpretation of the ancient myth. [O'Neill's Desire Under the Elms therefore served as the sec ond dramatic work to be viewed in light of a Jungian-mythic perspective. By limiting the focus of this study to these two 'dramatic works, this researcher was able to examine only the Jungian-mythic precepts applicable to the Hippolytus myth. Only the specific manifestations of those precepts within the two plays were observed. Although this study was lim ited in scope, the value of using Jungian theory of myth as a heuristic basis for dramatic analysis has been demonstrated. Justification of the Study ! ! i The Jungian concept of character archetype has been ! applied to the analysis of specific dramatic works in the j I writings of Chabrowe and Knapp. Jung's interpretation of i ' I the myth-formation process and its remarkable reflection of j human thought formation has been applied to dramatic analy sis in this study. ■ Chabrowe's investigation of ritual origins of Eugene O'Neill's mythic-based dramas promised by the title : of his book, Ritual and Pathos: The Theatre of O'Neill, was disappointingly scant. The correlation between mythic rite and dramatic plot is of utmost significance. Religious rites have indeed been found to parallel specific mythic- based dramatic plots, leading to clearer understanding and possible directorial clarification for thos particular dramatic works. Myth and drama were shown to provide a mirror for aspects of the human psyche that are ordinarily invisible to the naked eye or that remain unarticulated at the con scious level, thus revealing the social significance of the playwright's work. Furthermore, because a crucial aspect of the playwright's success depends upon audience gratifi cation, awareness of the audience's possible need for 6 . instinctual mythic reaffirmation through theatre may be seen as an important adjunct of the playwright's undertaking. Myth does indeed express a crucial part of the human animal, and an exploration of Carl Jung's psychological findings pertaining to this phenomenon appears to be of utmost value to the aspiring playwright. Prior to the present study, a comparative analysis of Euripides' Hippolytus and Eugene O'Neill's Desire Under the Elms utilizing a Jungian-mythic perspective had not been undertaken. This parallel psychological-dramatic analysis should serve not only to reveal the value of Jung's findings for the dramatist, but it also reveals basic aspects of the creative process of playwriting. Also, the study resulted in new insight into the form and structure of the two plays examined. A better understanding of the factors leading to the high degrees of success of these dramas has been realized. Statement of the Problem The purpose of this study was to investigate the role of myth, as conceived by Carl Jung, in Euripides' Hippolytus and Eugene O'Neill's Desire Under the Elms. The researcher sought specifically to consider: (1) the rela tionship of ritual, myth, and drama; (2) the nature and 7 potential uses of Jung's theory of myth for dramatic analy- I > [sis; (3) the character and contributions of the mythic ele- i ment in Hippolytus and Desire Under the Elms; and (4) a com- ! 'parison of the mythic variations in each of the plays. ; ‘ I i Methodology i " .................... t I To accomplish these undertakings, critical examina- ; tions were made of Jung's writings on myth, Four Archetypes, Man and His Symbols, Memories, Dreams, Reflections, Modern Man in Search of a Soul, Psyche and Symbol, The Spirit in Man, Art, and Literature, and The Undiscovered Self, and Jung's and Kerenyi's Essays on a Science of Mythology. Also works by members of the Jungian school of thought, such as Joseph Campbell's Myths to Live By and The Hero with a Thousand Faces, and Mircea Eliade's Myth and Reality and | Rites and Symbols of Initiation were utilized. i | : An examination was also made of existing literature i dealing with dramatic analysis. This literature included S. H. Butcher's Aristotle's Theory of Poetry and Fine Art, i Francis Fergusson's The Idea of a Theater, and Brian Vicker's Towards Greek Tragedy; Drama, Myth, Society, among others. Additionally, an investigation was made into assess ments of the two plays of Euripides and O'Neill by other scholars. Such scholarly works included Philip Vellacott's Ironic Drama: A Study of Euripides1 Method and Meaning, Hazel E. Barnes's Hippolytus in Drama and'Myth, Sophus Keith Winther's Eugene 01Nei11, and Leonard Chabrowe's Ritual and Pathos: The Theater of O'Neill, among other published works, dissertations, and theses. Parallels were sought between the two plays and the original mythic rites upon which they could conceivably have been based. It is hoped that this examination, coupled with Jungian interpretations pertaining to the possible meaning and implication of myth as manifested in the plots and characters of Euripides' and O'Neill's plays, may lead to new understanding of the plays themselves. Definitions of Terms In the course of this study, refinements and elabo rations of the following terms were made, as well as the explanation and utilization of other useful Jungian termi nology that may be of value to dramatic analysis. For the purpose of this study, operational definitions include the following. Myth.— Joseph Campbell surveyed the definition of from numerous viewpoints and found that Mythology has been interpreted by the modern intellect as a primitive, fumbling effort to explain the world 9 I of nature (Frazer); as a production of poetical ! fantasy from prehistoric times, misunderstood by suc ceeding ages (Muller); as a repository of allegorical ; j instruction, to shape the individual to his group j j (Durkheim); as a group dream symptomatic of archetypal j I urges within the depths of the human psyche (Jung); as | I the traditional vehicle of man's profoundest meta- • i physical insights (Coomaraswamy); and as God's revela- , 1 to to His children. Mythology is all of these. I ■ Because myth utilizes metaphor to articulate the i istory it tells, it is continually open to reinterpretation. ' This may account for the prevalence of the same myths throughout time. Like the petals of a lotus blossom, the 'storehouse of information contained by myth may be drawn I upon and acquire meaning depending upon the light of the times in which it is interpreted and viewed. The ongoing reinterpretation of myth through time resembles the unfold- i ing of a flower in that the interpretation varies according ;to the times in which the myth is viewed. I Psyche.--The psyche is synonymous with that invis- i — — —— — ible aspect of human nature known as mind. The psyche is composed of both conscious reasoning and unconscious in stinctual aspects. As humankind strives for psychic whole ness, it must reconcile both aspects that comprise the i psyche. Instinct.— Psychological urges that are perceived 10 jby the senses are known as instincts. These urges spring i from the unconscious regions of the human psyche. Instincts are perceived by the consciousness as follows: "Sensation I (sense-perception) tells you that something exists; thinking tells you what it is; feeling tells you whether it is agree-j able or not; and intuition tells you whence it comes and ; | j iWhere it is going." Hence these perceptions are the mani-; ifestations of instinct. i i Collective unconscious.— According to Carl Jung, a \ portion of the human psyche is linked to all humankind. This i portion contains a primal memory of all that is and ever was.1 It is the part of the psyche that retains and transmits the I common psychological inheritance of mankind. Jung has I called this aspect of man the collective unconscious. Should ; the playwright's understanding and manipulation of the col lective unconscious be enhanced, his connection with theatre, audiences would appear to be imminent. Archetypes.— Archetypes are both images and emo tions that are manifestations of instincts in symbolic form. The symbol of the Cross is an example of a Jungian archetype because it triggers a myth (or story) and thereby takes on emotional overtones for its beholders. Jung further stated [that "archetypes create myths, religions, and philosophies j I ^that influence and characterize whole nations and epochs of 1 12 history." j ; Mytho-dramatic (mytho-drama).— This is a term coined 1 I by the researcher to represent those dramatic works that are based upon mythological plots, characters, and symbols. t t i I Limitations of the Study ------------- I This study was restricted to the two plays by I |Euripides and Eugene O'Neill. They were chosen because , ■ I 'they share the same Hippolytus myth for their plot and the- I 'matic content. 1 It may be argued that Euripides was not as mytho logically oriented as his peers Aeschylus or Sophocles, and i that his drama was more "realistic." It is significant that .more mythological gods people Euripides' dramas than either , 'those of Aeschylus or Sophocles. It may indeed be precisely 'because of Hazel Barnes's awareness of Euripides' dualistic attunement to the physical as well as the psychological * climate of his times that she has cited his work as being the first drama to portray the full psychological mystery of ' 13 the human person. This mirroring of humankind's dualistic nature may be a prime attribute of Euripides' dramas, which has led to ! , their prevalence in modern times. Erich Segal has noted ! I ’ that in one way or another, Euripidean drama is still being : 14 written today. Thus Carl Jung's concept of the ongoing ] j ] i , psychic struggle for wholeness— that is, the marriage of i I unconscious and conscious aspects comprising human makeup— * 'appears particularly applicable to Euripidean drama. ; This dualistic attunement is also found in Eugene i O'Neill's Desire Under the Elms, which combines aspects of p naturalistic drama with ancient mythological characters and motifs. It may indeed be precisely because of this richness of scope that John Gassner has described O'Neill's play as possessing the strength of classic tragedy: "In any case, f nothing comparable to this work in power derived from a sense of tragic character and situation had been achieved by 1 ■the American theater in the hundred and fifty years of its ■u- * . -15 history. It is also significant to note that Eugene’ O'Neill was aware of the writings of Carl Jung. According to Mary Louise'Baldwin, O'Neill wrote a letter denying having been influenced by Freud, but admitting some knowledge of Carl • ^ g •Jung's works. O'Neill's Emperor Jones can be viewed as t a dramatic exploration of the mythic realm of the collective 13 unconscious. Hence there appear to be strong indications i that Jung's psychological theories share an affinity with O'Neill's dramas. This study was restricted to dramatic works based .upon Hellenistic myths. While it is true that not all great, i | dramas have utilized Hellenistic myth for their plot and 1 character material, numerous plays throughout the ages that ' .have become classics have returned to Hellenistic myth for .their inspiration. Plays such as William Shakespeare's Troilus and Cressida, and the ninety-eight plays listed by Philip Hunt Decker in his doctoral dissertation covering ■widely received dramas written in England and the United 'States during the period 1900-1960 that utilized classic i ‘Greek mythology, all serve as evidence. These data imply ) the possible significance of classical mythology for endur- iing dramatic works. Unlike the Oedipus myth, which has received wide spread study, such as Claude Levi-Strauss's structuralistic i approach to the myth, the Hippolytus myth has not previously ■been investigated extensively from the standpoint of dra- 17 matic analysis. Jean Racine's Phaedra, a major neo classic work that utilized the Hippolytus myth for its i foundation, has been investigated from a Jungian mythic 14 perspective by Bettina Knapp. The present researcher therefore endeavored only to put forth new perspectives on Racine's work resulting from the exploration of the Eurip idean and O'Neill treatments of the Hippolytus myth, which had not been as extensively explored. Kenneth Rexroth's Phaedra was also analyzed, but not to the extent of Eurip ides' or O'Neill's works, because Rexroth's play has yet to 19 establish itself as a major enduring dramatic work. Preview of Remaining Chapters A method of description and analysis is used as format for the following chapters. Chapter 2 contains a systematic survey of Aris totle's theories pertaining to dramatic art, along with an endeavor to find Jungian-mythological applications for ex tending and clarifying those Aristotelian precepts of dra matic analysis. An analysis of the plot and characters of Euripides’ Hippolytus from a Jungian-mythological perspective is given in chapter 3, and should lead to new insight and understand ing of that play. The recurrence of the Hippolytus myth from the time of Euripides to the time of O'Neill is surveyed in chapter 4. An attempt was made to comprehend the phenomenon of myth in 15 dramatic expression. Additionally, the basic human need for mythic reaffirmation in ongoing form was considered. Eugene O'Neill's Desire Under the Elms is examined from a Jungian-mythological perspective in chapter 5, thereby clarifying aspects of O'Neill's drama. The summary and conclusions in chapter 6 establish the fact that new insight and understanding of Euripides' Hippolytus and Eugene O'Neill's Desire Under the Elms have been realized and that Jungian-mythological precepts can serve as valuable tools for dramatic analysis. Notes ^Carl G. Jung, The Spirit in Man, Art, and Litera ture (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1971), p. 105. 2 i David K. Berio, The Process of Communication (New York: Holt, Rinehart & Winston, 1960), p. 59. 3S. H. Butcher, ed. and trans., Aristotle's Theory I of Poetry and Fine Art (New York: Dover Publications, 1951),! p. 346. i 4 Alvin B. Kernan, ed., Classics of the Modern ; Theater (New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, 1965), p. 4. | 5 1 L. J. Potts, Aristotle on the Art of Fiction (Lon don: Cambridge University Press, 1968), p. 69. ■ 1 Richard Gottlieb, "The 'Engine' That Drives Play- j wright David Mamet," New York Times, 15 January 1978, "Arts 'and Leisure" sec., p. 1. ^Carl G. Jung, Memories, Dreams, Reflections, ed. ; Aniela Jaffe, trans. Richard Winsten and Clara Winsten (New York: Vintage Books, 1965), p. 349. 8 Hazel E. Barnes, Hippolytus in Drama and Myth (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1960), p. 71. 9 ; Frederick I. Carpenter, Eugene O'Neill (New York: Twayne Publishers, 1964), pp. 32-33. Joseph Campbell, The Hero with a Thousand Faces (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1949), p. 382. ^^Carl G. Jung, Man and His Symbols (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday & Co., 1964), p. 61. “ ^Ibid. , p. 79. 13 Barnes, Hippolytus in Drama and Myth, p. 71. 14 Erich Segal, ed., Euripides: A Collection of Critical Essays (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, 1968), p. 10. 17 15 I John Gassner, Eugene O'Neill (Minneapolis: Uni- jversity of Minnesota Press, 1965), p. 15. r 16 I i Mary Louise Baldwin, "The Influence of Classic ! ‘ Greek Tragedy Upon the Drama of Eugene O'Neill: A Selective! ;Study" (M.A. thesis, University of Southern California, j f1944) , p. 7. ; i 1 7 1 Claude Levi-Strauss, "The Structural Study of } Myth," in Myth: A Symposium, ed. Thomas A. Sebeok (Bloom- I ington: Indiana University Press, 1972), pp. 81-106. 18 1 Bettina L. Knapp, Jean Racine: Mythos and Re newal in Modern Theater (University: University of Ala- bama Press, 1971). 19 Kenneth Rexroth, Phaedra, in Beyond the Mountains: Four Plays in Verse (New York: New Directions Books, 1951), ;pp. 12-55. 18 CHAPTER II DRAMATIC ANALYSIS: A JUNGIAN PERSPECTIVE I j Carl Jung j Born on the Swiss side of the Rhine near Basel on i i 26 July 1875 to a Protestant minister and his wife, Carl jGustav Jung's life spanned nearly nine decades until his death in 1961. The majority of his life's work was dedi- ! I |cated to investigating the invisible psyche comprising the |mind of man. His concept of an autonomous instinctual unconscious psyche pitted him against the world renowned ! !Freudian theory stating that the instinctual psyche was not r 'independent but rather rose directly from repressions of the i !conscious mind of man. In other words, Jung visualized a { 'dualistic autonomous psyche and Freud visualized a single i 'conscious psyche. As a stone sculptor and lover of Graeco-Roman art and mythology, Jung drew upon the arts and culture of clas sical times as means of support for his psychological the ories. Through his ability to read Greek, Jung explored the works of Heraclitus and Homer in their original forms and 19 came to interpret ancient Greek mythology as being "the earliest form of science.""*' Eventually he arrived at the i jbelief that mythology reflects structural elements compris- ] !ing the psyche in much the same way that the microscope j ! serves to make the invisibile visible: i ! What we are to our inward vision . . . can only be ! I i expressed by way of myth. Myth is more individual and I expresses life more precisely than does science. | Science works with concepts of averages which are far j too general to do justice to the subjective variety of j I o ; an individual life. ! i i Beginning in 1909, with a background in medicine and' i ! i 1 psychiatry (a student of the Freudian school), Jung believedi jthat he could not treat latent psychoses unless he could understand their mythological symbolism. It was at that time that he earnestly began the pioneering study of [mythology. , Mythology had often been approached from separated I , fields of study (archaeology, theology, sociology, eth nology, among others). As a result of this myopic approach I the universality of myth was often not recognized. Jung, however, drew upon his scholarly knowledge of diverse :scientific and pseudo-scientific (metaphysics, for example) i fields to aid him in his investigation. Jung utilized dream interpretation techniques devel oped by Freud and applied them to myth through a process of 20 "amplification." This is a technique by which similar jinythological motifs are compared and combined until it becomes clear that these different motifs are in fact dif- I tferent facets of the same basic theme. The symbols that are i i 'shared by these cross-culturally collected mythological ^motifs are thereby highlighted and are ready for translation jinto psychological language. This process of interpretation I i jwas utilized in Jung's book Man and His Symbols. This work i ! I iexamined specific cross-cultural symbols and endeavored to ! I j itranslate them into modern psychological equivalents. The j ;profound relevance of ancient symbols for present times was 1 \ I 3 I strikingly revealed. • i ( t Jung's belief that humankind only thinks or says or ♦ . I jdoes what it itself is_ may be applied not only to myth but I ;to art in general. All characters in a dramatic work, for I 1 iexample, may be viewed as representatives of aspects com- [ prising the playwright's psyche. As a result of the varie- ' i gated nature of human makeup, Jung concluded that art can i ipotentially serve to mirror nature more accurately than the most highly developed scientific metering devices: "Poetry and music often illuminate the world for us far more than 4 any scientific explanation." 21 Dramatic Art and Myth i Born upon a circular threshing floor in the midst of t |an agricultural religious festival in ancient Greece, the i ^Aristotelian conceptual structure for Western drama was i r Ceremoniously conceived. Examination of aspects of this jsymbolic inception process can potentially lead to a fuller I understanding of the dramatic art form. For, through its i 'seminal circular staging ground, drama may be linked to the j :similarly shaped cross-cultural symbol known as the mandala. | | i i Jung interpreted the mandala as symbolizing the ] ! 'potential wholeness resulting from a marriage of conscious i • 1 i 5 and unconscious aspects comprising the human psyche. i 1 Drama’s relationship to man's quest for psychic wholeness ' i ( may therefore be implied by its mandala-like seminal staging: ! ground. i ; A Jungian perspective of this crucial link between ' drama and psyche sheds light upon the creative playwriting .process as well. Viewing psyche as the "unseen current" ! that sweeps the creative artist along, Jung claimed that it ; is indeed "the womb of all the arts."^ Hence the process of psychic flow toward the realization of its own wholeness may have spawned dramatic art. An investigation of this dynamic struggle for 22 ipsychic balance may lead to fuller understanding of both the creative process and of the structural elements of drama. i [ |Jungfs conjecture that myth can serve as a primary tool in I i jthe investigation of the psyche implies then that an investi-- i 'gation of | of drama. I I Aristotelian scholar S. H. Butcher's observations i ] 'pertaining to Greek mythic-based dramas may prove pertinent j * i in surveying the similarities of myth and drama. Butcher's i i ; ^comments are particularly noteworthy when drama is viewed as1 i I ! |a group-oriented mode of communication that can express only1 I |those commonly held emotions and thoughts its audience is jcapable of experiencing. Butcher remarked that in Greek 1 ' mytho-dramas "those elementary emotions which cluster round ! j ‘ home and country" enable the characters "to claim a kinship ! ; 8 i not only with their own age and country but with mankind." i ! Jung would attribute this universal aspect of mytho- i * logically based drama to the fact that mythological motifs |are representative of structural elements of the collective 9 unconscious aspect of humankind. Freud, m his Interpreta tion of Dreams, shared Jung's view of the collective uncon scious when he noted the universal validity of the Oedipus myth."^ Myth may thus furnish elements for drama that can 23 myth can also serve as a means to examine aspects ipotentially facilitate that essential, yet often elusive, (linkage between the playwright's work and theatre audiences. The exorcising of those submerged thoughts and i iemotions permits drama to serve the curative end that Aris- jtotle originally envisioned for it when he stated that it { should serve as an "outlet for instincts that demand satis- j I | 1 1 i jfaction" through expression. He called the process by ■ ! i iWhich instinctual urges are clarified through a purging to i i 12 ! the level of consciousness katharsis. Through this aspect' i i |of theatre instinctual subconscious thought and emotion are , I I {elevated to the level of consciousness resulting in enlight-; lenment for the audience of those previously elusive aspects i j lof themselves. An example of this illuminating property of ; i ; drama is found in the works of William Shakespeare, who 1 {articulated feelings that are widely felt but that are i rarely raised to the level of conscious articulation, i In act 2, scene 1 of Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare's’ 'Juliet speaks in poetic diction not reflective of everyday i 'speech patterns. Even though most fourteen-year-olds do not utilize such elevated language, Juliet expresses feelings I Ithat are perfectly within the realm of experience for a girl ;of that age: 24 I What's in a name? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet. So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called, retain that dear perfection which he owns without that title. |Thus Shakespeare achieved a primary attribute in his play i Ithat is common to both myth and drama. Through his expert I ■utilization of language, he was able to articulate basic i ■human emotions that are universally felt but rarely raised 'to the level of conscious cognition through verbalization. I ■ The dramatic process of katharsis can be paralleled | i with the process of myth formation in which collective sub- ! I merged thoughts and feelings are also brought to the level j ,of consciousness. An understanding of the process of myth ' ^formation in which the unconscious gropes for the light of jConsciousness may therefore be of value to the dramatist who1 must also articulate those same unconscious urges at the I iconscious level. Through the process of myth formation those collec tive emotions that spring from the unconscious are first perceived by the conscious aspect of the psyche as symbols 1 / / that are "an expression of an intuitive idea that cannot be / ' ' 13 formulated in any other or better way." With time these (Symbolic figures take on human attributes and are trans formed into mythic characters. ; Jung's belief that myths encompassing these arche I 25 typal characters serve to promote psychological well-being reveals yet another parallel between myth and Aristotle's view of drama as serving a curative function. Through the process of giving outer form to inner instinctual urges, "the one-sidedness of the individual's conscious attitude is 14 corrected by reactions from the unconscious." Myth and drama can both then be seen to induce psychological balance. Both expressive forms help man to "find his way back to a world in which he is no longer a stranger" because he has reconciled the conscious reasoning aspect of himself with 15 the unconscious emotional aspect of his world. Aristotle's "golden mean" representing the balance that drama must maintain between the poles of reason and emotion is an integral aspect of both myth and drama.^ Myth's relationship to the dramatic concept of "the golden mean" can be cited by the intermediate position of myth as liaison between unconscious and conscious cognition. Furthermore, the primary aspect of myth formation— which is symbol— may be mirrored by symbolic aspects of Western drama's mandala-like birthplace. Through this link to the pri mary aspect of the myth-formation process of symbol forma tion, the symbolic aspect of drama's seminal circular staging ground can be seen in a new light. It may even be viewed as 26 'being representative of an initial stage of the process of symbolic projection of the psychic struggle for reconcilia- jtion between instinctive emotion and conscious reason, or I I jrealization of the "golden mean." • With the emergence of dramatic characters upon that Isymbolic staging ground, drama realized the second aspect of ;the myth-formation process: personification. Dramatic characters entered into the symbolic struggle for psychic wholeness within the unifying pattern of the dramatic plot, j i ! j Recalling that "mythos" in Greek means "the story 1 I I ;told," the storytelling aspect of myth can be seen to mirror! | , 'another essential aspect of drama: plot. The dramatic I j Istoryline, or plot, has even been described as being a "con-; I jflict, an opposition between two forces," thus making the [ •dramatic story form a possible extension of the psychic i ! I 17 ,struggle reflected in myth. ; p l o t i 1 Plot, which is assigned the primary position among . i ;the elements comprising dramatic form, according to Aris totle is "the artistic equivalent of 'action' in real life" and "is not a purely external act, hut an inward process 18 iwhich works outward." The possible parallel existing between myth— which is an outward projection of the internal 27 psychic process that spawns all external action— is therein further revealed. Significantly, L. J. Potts has conjec- i jtured that the correct translation of the Greek word "mythos 19 is actually "plot." This serves further to imply the sig- I inificance of the interrelationship of drama and myth. ! Dramatic plot has been described by Aristotle as i !being "an imitation of an action that is serious, complete i i 20 ^nd of certain magnitude." Further clarifxcation of three I iaspects of this definition appears to be imperative to ( ^ascertaining the relationship of dramatic plot to mythic i storytelling form. Those three aspects of Aristotle's defi nition appearing to be in need of clarification are: J i ! 1. What is structurally implied by completeness? 2. What subject matter is considered serious and of sufficient magnitude? ; 3. What is implied by the imitative aspect of plot? ! Completeness The . first area requiring clarification referring to completeness may be illuminated by Butcher's analogy of the playwright's work to that of an architect. In his transla tion of Aristotle's critical writings, Butcher noted that a [dramatic story must be constructed into a uniform whole com prised of a "complete and typical action, whose lines con 21 verge on a determined end." j Discoursing further upon aspects of this inherent i jwholeness in the structuring of a dramatic story, Aristotle [observed: i ■ A beginning is that which does not itself follow any thing by causal necessity, but after which something naturally is or comes to be. A middle is that which follows something as some other thing follows it. An ' end . . . is that which itself naturally follows some I other thing either by necessity, or as a rule, but has I p O , nothing following it. I ;Hence dramatic plot is structured so that its three parts i [flow into one another, thereby forming a systematically •arranged whole. ' This same dramatic plot structure has been observed I i 'in the story form of myth. C. Kerenyi, renowned scholar of i (mythology who worked with Carl Jung, noted the particularly 23 ."dramatic structure of the mythologem," thus strengthening |the bonds between myth and drama from the standpoint of ! .their inherent construction. The wholeness inherent to I dramatic plot pattern was also observed to be indigenous to myth by Rollo May, who noted the "total pattern" inherent in mythic story form.^ The structural wholeness shared by myth and drama [reveals crucial aspects, inherent in these- forms. The whole ness resulting from combination of the opposing psychic 29 entities is mirrored in the formation of these two expres sive forms. An examination of sources involved in the for mation process of myth and drama appears crucial to a fuller ! iunderstanding of the structural wholeness found in both jexpressive forms. Jung cited the two sources of creativity as being '"the unconscious, which spontaneously produces such fan- ' 25 Jtasies; the other source is life." He noted that dream ; i ; (reflecting the unconscious world) and human history (chron-| i I licling the activities of man in his external environment) \ i \ 'both lack the unifying wholeness contained in myth and [ I idrama. Dream, which reflects the unconscious instinctual | I ; I I iworld of the psyche, lacks the unifying dimensions of time | I I and space. Life, according to Jung, is a story that "begins' i i .somewhere, at some particular point we happen to remember" 'and, because we do not know how it is going to turn out, i "the story has no beginning, and the end can only be vaguely1 1 2 ^ ■hinted at." Viewed as a never-ending progression of i levents, human history may be seen as an extension of this formless personal life pattern. Myth and drama may be seen then as perhaps the only means by which those fragmented aspects of man's conscious and unconscious worlds may be synthesized into a comprehensible whole. 30 Completeness then may be seen not only in terms of a story structure containing a beginning, a middle, and an i jend, but as means by which the psychic struggle for whole ness is realized. Through the dramatic plot structure, i 'apparently shared by both drama and myth, psychic dichotomy !may be resolved. Man can thereby experience a wholeness | Irarely, if ever, realized in his personal life. | i ! ! ! ( I Subject Matter ; | I i Subject matter that is serious and of the sufficient! i magnitude advocated by Aristotle for use in dramatic plot ! 1 • t may arise from the welter of the aforementioned psychic con-| i ' .flict. This conflict between conscious and unconscious i i .aspects of the human psyche may be synonymous with the dra- i !matic conflict of which Aristotle wrote when he stated that : ( 27 [conflict is "the soul of tragedy." Dramatic conflict can : be seen as mirroring the polarity that Jung realized was , 2 8 [inherent in all living things. Conflict appears then to be the primary subject matter of dramatic plot. Joseph Campbell's observation that myth "will be on one level— local, personal, and historic, but at bottom rooted in the instincts," verifies the presence of external 29 1 and internal aspects of mytho-dramatic structure. Mytho- dramatic subject matter can be seen as stemming from these 31. I two sources: ( 1 ) the external and ( 2 ) the internal worlds j I .perceived by the human psyche. i Beginning with the external aspect, Butcher observed i that the Greek mythic-based dramas chose subject matter in J ! . i 'which eternal laws governing human life— survival— could be i 30 visibly discerned. Brian Vickers narrowed the field of | possible external subject matter when he noted that in Greek; mythic-based dramas: The group of themes relating to the family is the most ; important of all for Greek tragedy. In these myths the basic social group is shown disrupted by a variety of crimes which, if permitted, would weaken, corrupt or destroy the oikos [order] altogether— sexual crimes, > murder, mistreatment of parents, the breaking down of succession (by childlessness or death). These are the themes which provide the plot material, or the stuff of human existence, for the majority of the extant tragedies.31 Thus external mytho-dramatic subject matter appears to be socially, rather than individually, oriented. Dangers arising from social conflict would appear to be indigenous to the external aspect of mytho-dramatic form. This group orientation of the external aspect of mytho-dramatic subject matter appears to carry over into mytho-dramatic internal subject matter as well: "It is no longer the weal or woe of the individual that counts, but 32 the life of the collective." Jung noted the artist's attunement with the universally shared aspects of mankind: • 32 He [the artist] has plunged into the healing and re- | deeming depths of the collective psyche, where man is i not lost in the isolation of consciousness and its I errors and sufferings, but where all men are caught in ; a common rhythm which allows the individual to communi- I cate his feelings and strivings to mankind as a whole.^3 ' . i | Specifically, the primary, commonly held emotions of| i • 1 the internal psyche are fear, anger, elation, hoarding, and j ;sex hunger. These particular emotions "depicted by the ancient poets, the disastrous results of 'tragic flaws' ( arising from all such innate forces" can be found in Greek > 34 ( mythic-based dramas. By bringing these internal .aspects of man to the level of consciousness in exaggerated or ex cessive forms, mytho-dramatic subject matter may serve to highlight psychic pitfalls ("tragic flaws") that can lead to man's doom. j Recalling the curative aspect of mytho-drama, then, .this internal-external attunement with universal attributes ; of man "can be interpreted as a sort of mental therapy for the sufferings and anxieties of mankind in general— hunger, 35 war, disease, old age, death." Also, because of the affinity for subject matter that is externally and internally universal, mytho-drama's connection with its audience is firmly secured. According 'to Jung, katharsis can result: 33 1 The moment when this mythological situation reappears is always characterized by a peculiar emotional inten sity; it is as though chords in us were struck that had never resounded before, or as though forces whose existence we never suspected were unloosed. ° In summation, the subject matter for mytho-drama j i can be seen to contain internal and external aspects- The j magnitude envisioned by Aristotle may be contained in the 1 fact that mytho-dramatic subject matter is group rather 1 I than individually oriented. The seriousness of such subject i matter may stem from the fact that it deals with the pri- : !raary, commonly held emotions of the internal psyche— fear, I anger, elation, hoarding, and sex hunger— which in excessive amounts can lead to mankind's tragic downfall. Finally, because of its bi-level perspective focusing upon universal ‘attributes of man, mytho-dramatic subject matter enables the playwright to elicit audience empathy that is essential to theatre. With this in mind, it is not surprising to learn that "a Greek tragic dramatist of the 5th Century wrote in a tradition which . . . directed that the -plot must be drawn 37 from heroic legend and the myths of the distant past." The Imitative Aspect of Plot When Aristotle stated that "art imitates nature," he! 38 ■implied that art must to some extent be true to nature. Joseph Campbell lamented that "the common tendency today to ;read the word 'myth' as meaning ’untruth’" because it lacks I isemblance to man's external world is a symptom of our scien- 39 tific empirically bent world. This, amounts to a growing i ' I .denial of the spiritual aspect of man. Through exposure to I I I Jungian thought, it becomes increasingly apparent that man ; j lindeed draws his sustenance from two realms: (1) physical Jand (2) psychic. f This latter and too often neglected psychic reality of man--alluded to by Kafka as being "the world inside his ! I head"— merits examination from the standpoint of dramatic i 40 plot. When Jung stated that "we are moved by forces from ' 'within as well as by stimuli from without," he may have j acknowledged the importance of inner psychic reality to dramatic plot— which has been described as "an imitation of 41 ’ an action" that must be plausibly motivated. In other words, Jung stated that the impetus for external actions comprising dramatic plot stems from internal as well as from external stimuli. , Internal reality of the psyche appears to be reflected by the fantasy aspect of myth. Jung verified this contention when he'remarked that "'fantasies' are the natural. i 42 expressions of the life of the unconscious." Additionally, 35 he shed light upon the apparent realness of the psychic j I [dimension of man when he wrote: "In medicine, fantasies arej i I I real things with which the psycho-therapist has to reckon • ! 43 very seriously indeed." Fantasy that appears to be dia- j : j ^metric to external reality may therein be seen as represent-] | 'ing an inner— and perhaps equally valid— reality. ■ Bearing this in mind, it is significantly interest ing to note Butcher's observation that mythic-based Greek i drama fused truth (external reality) and fiction (fantasy) , ’ 44 1 together. Aristotle's concept of "imitation" may therein ; be seen not only in terms of the external natural habitat of man but also in light of man's internal dwelling place. Aristotle did not use the word "copy," which implies i an exact reproduction of nature. Through the use of the word "imitation," he implied that an extra dimension could be added by the artist to man's natural habitat. The alche-' mists of the Middle Ages concurred that "what nature leaves 45 imperfect, the art perfects." And playwright Arthur Mil- f [ler, observing the Greek mytho-dramas, noted that they were 46 "a dramatic consideration of the way men ought to live." These thoughts lead to the surmise that by "imitation" Aris totle may have implied that the dramatist can potentially i add an idealized aspect to nature: "Where from any cause 47 nature fails, art steps m." 36 Because of mytho-drama's ability to mirror the realm! jof fantasy and its ability to idealize or to deal in ex- j i I tremes not necessarily found in man's physical world, James I 'Laver viewed Greek mytho-drama as "a foretaste of Eternity": - J | We have almost forgotten . . . the religious exaltation | i of the Greeks. To them, to all these, the theatre was j not the amusement of an hour, but the gateway to a fuller life, not a way of passing the time, but a fore- I taste of Eternity.4 8 j As a result of this idealizing fantastical aspect of mytho- 1 drama, Greek audiences were lifted "into a higher sphere of existence where the distractions of the present were for- I gotten in the thrilling stories of an age which, though dis- : 49 tant, appealed to them by many associations." Through its imitation of the world of the submerged psyche, mytho-drama may reestablish the spiritual aspect of I theatre1s religious origin. For that which is not generally associated with man's external habitat and which appears to loom beyond his physical grasp takes on a spiritual aura. I That fantastical world of the unconscious psyche reflected |in mytho-dramatic plot via the playwright's imitative skill thereby adds a dimension to man's world not generally 'encountered on the external level of consciousness. The aim ;of mytho-dramatic plot can thus be seen from a Jungian per- J spective as being "the rebirth of man on a plane transcend- 50 ■ing the material." 37 j Character i i Ethos was the term used by Aristotle to identify the j second essential ingredient comprising dramatic form. Butcher defined that term as "all that reveals a man's per- i i 51 ! sonal and inner self." In other words, from the stand- i i i i I point of dramatic analysis, ethos is equivalent to "charac- , i ter." I I By virtue of its regard for the "inner self" of man, lAristotle's definition appears to share the same view of ihuman character as Carl Jung's psychologically oriented ! vision of humankind: When we speak of man in general, we do not have his anatomy— the shape of his skull or the colour of his skin— in mind, but mean rather his psychic world, his state of consciousness and his mode of life.^2 1 If the god-like characters peopling Greek mytho- dramas can indeed be seen as "the radiance and reflection of( our own souls," then these character types may be viewed as embodiments of that "psychic world" aspect of human charac- 1 ' 53 ,ter recognized by Jung. Jung interpreted god-images as being projections of 54 the human psyche. These gods represent both positive and ' negative aspects of everything that man should, and yet cannot, be or do. Gods may be seen as embodiments of auton omous parts of the psyche that function independently of 38 |Consciousness. However, through the personification aspect i of the myth-formation process--symbol conversion to charac terization— these autonomous psychic parts are made con sciously cognitive. ( | f Ancient mytho-dramatic god-like characters can be | ' i seen as means for inducing psychological well-being in the- ■ i atre audiences. James Laver contended: [ i To believe in some kind of spiritual reality beyond : ourselves is necessary to our very existence; and the \ life of Western Europe depends upon its ability to dig ; below the surface of its mechanized civilization, and ! : to find the old wells of the Water of Life. It is often said that the theatre is born of a cult, is the j child of religion. It would be truer to say that \ religion and drama were born together, are, in their i origins, as indivisible as prayer and the words of prayer, as worship and its appropriate gesture. For ( it is in drama that the Gods become incarnate.^5 i Laver intimated that the projection of god images through the dramatist's skill of characterization may be essential ;to man's ongoing psychological well-being. Jung similarly realized that even today man is influenced by powers that .are beyond his control: "his gods and demons have not dis- ' 5 6 appeared at all; they have merely got new names." Thus, through its potential for characterizing aspects of the human psyche, drama may be able to realize the curative role originally envisioned for it by Aristotle. The curative aspect of dramatic characterization 39 Should not, however, be interpreted to mean a god-like Cor perfect) embodiment of superior moral decency. For the i psyche— as has been shown— is by nature comprised of a mar- j t f riage of opposites. The love goddess Aphrodite who plots : murder in Euripides' Hippolytus is no exception to other j I Greek mytho-dramatic god-like creatures who are similarly ■ ; i comprised of extremes. These characters contain chthonic ! (or evil) sides as well as idealized attributes. Whey then were these Greek gods and demigods thought: i suitable for dramatic portrayal? The answer may be discov ered in Aristotle's statement that characters worthy of heroic portrayal are "better than those of ordinary reality . . . by powers of willing and feeling, doing and thinking, 57 which raise them above the common herd of men." It is the characters' superior ability to feel deeply and to act that makes them worthy of portrayal by the dramatist. According to Jung, "only a mythical being has a 58 range greater than man's." Mytho-dramatic characters can therein be seen to be "above the common herd of men" spoken of by Aristotle in his dramatic criticism. Mytho-dramatic characters claim this superiority i because of their attuneraent with the symbolic significance ! of objects that humankind has become desensitized to in 40 daily life. In daily life, objects are often stripped of their psychic associations, whereas in myth ideas and mate rial objects can assume such powerful significance that both t dramatic character, and in turn the theatre audience, can bej , I .deeply affected by exposure to them. This heightened aware-; i ness of the physical world permits mytho-drama to offer its j 3 audience an intensity of experience rarely known in man's everyday world where sensitivity progressively atrophies with age: a baby's responses to colors and objects com pared to those of an elderly person generally serve to il lustrate this point. Mythological characters also represent a link with ! Ithat part of man that Jung envisioned as being universal: I ;the collective unconscious. The instinctual primoridal I Jimages that spawn archetypal characters in myth personify | what Jung has called "the instinctive data of the dark, primitive psyche, the real but invisible roots of con- 59 ,sciousness." He believed that this substratum of the ipsyche (the "collective unconscious") transcended all dif ferences in culture and consciousness. i Edith Hamilton also observed the Greek writers' abilities to transcend time and cultural differences through their connection with theatre audiences throughout time. Ishe believed that Greek artists consciously strove to gain I ‘ this universality through their approach to characteriza- i ition: "To the Greeks, human beings were not chiefly differ ent, but chiefly alike, and in their art they sought for I g Q traits that are common to humanity." 1 I Through their use of masks, Greek dramatists "tendedj to heighten 'characters' into 'symbols' rather than to con- i 6 X strue any modern realistic identification notion." Be cause of this clarifying presentational tool and the fact that Greek mytho-dramatic characters were "ordered and for ■the most part immediately understandable," the audience I could grasp the relationship existing between character and ■ 6 2 instinctual symbol. Through this clarifying process, the- I atre audiences were given insight into the evolutionary as- , pect of human thought formation. Mytho-dramatic characters have been described by Kerenyi in terms of this perennial universal relationship to the functioning human psyche: "They age not, they die not, 6 3 they are eternal." Through these character types who often resemble gods, man may better be able to clarify the nature of his own existence. Kierkegaard reflected upon this self-enlightening aspect of artistic expression: "To live poetically cannot mean remaining in the dark about joneself or sweating it out in repulsive sultriness; it must ! 64 mean becoming clear and lucid about oneself." Through \ .dramatic expression, humankind may be enabled to understand more fully the forces that determine its thoughts and i actions. I Diction ' I Dianoia is the third essential element of drama | i 65 identified by Aristotle. It is through this element that | dramatic character finds outward expression. Most impor- i tantly perhaps is the fact that dianoia— which has been ; i translated as "thought"— is most generally embodied in ! speech.^ j Speech, then, appears to be synonymous with this I third crucial element of dramatic form. It is a means by I which character may consciously articulate inner emotions. Like drama, which expresses character through ! speech, mythological figures must also "be translated into , I 6 7 ' conceptual language." The forthcoming examination of the ’ nature of the verbal elements of myth and drama is therefore imperative to further ascertaining the interrelationship of these expressive forms. Recalling that suitable characters for mytho-dramatic portrayal are those whose perceptions are above the level of' 43 jthe common herd of men, it appears likely that awareness of the effect of words would be encompassed by that heightened character sensitivity. Serious consideration of the effects i of language— which can cut as deeply as sabers into men's 'souls and serve to annihilate their visions of themselves and their world--would most likely be linked to that height ened character consciousness identified by Aristotle in his assessment of mytho-drama. Aristotle described the language of mytho-drama as being "embellished with each kind of artistic ornament, the 6 8 several kinds being found in separate parts of the play." i ,He thus cited poetic aspects of mytho-dramatic speech. Jung similarly observed the presence of poetic speech in myth. He noted the need for the various views afforded by poetic diction; 1 The phenomenology of the psyche is so colourful, so variegated in form and meaning, that we cannot pos sibly reflect all its riches in one mirror. Nor in our description of it can we ever embrace the whole, but must be content to shed light only on single parts of the total phenomenon.^ One aspect of this variegated poetic diction cited by Jung is rhythm. He observed that "archetypes speak the 70 ilanguage of high metoric, even of bombast." Jung thereby cited the metrical (rhythmic) quality of mythological dic tion that is generally differentiated from the common vernacular. „ . Beginning with an examination of this rhythmic ele- | ment of mytho-dramatic diction, the religious origins of j [ | 'drama may be recalled. The poetry in scripture— The Book ofi I ■Psalms and The Book of Job in particular— has been noted forj 71 ' its rhythmic ordering of words. In a spell-weaving manner,' :the rhythmic cadences of speech may serve to reach instinc- ■ ' I :tual roots of human consciousness. Thus mytho-dramatic die-! r i ,tion may nourish the spiritual aspect of man and enable the I essential communion between the playwright's work and the atre audiences. | | Hitler's rhythmical "Sieg Heil!" calls that were I ;ritualistically mirrored by his German followers serve as a dramatic example of the power of rhythm in sweeping the col lective emotions of a mass audience. Rhythm can therein be ■ ! seen as working an effect that may similarly enable the !playwright to capture mass audience attention and to arouse i instinctual emotions of the audience-at-large. ! Additionally, this rhythmic element of mytho- i 7 2 .dramatic diction "reacts upon its maker." It may perhaps |be viewed as an aspect of that invisible current that sub- I I iconsciously sweeps the artist through the creative process. i : Rhythm may thus nourish an aspect of the instinctual psyche. Samuel Selden, dramatic scholar, defined the human 45 'sense of rhythm as "an instinctive disposition to group re- i i current sense impressions vividly and with precision, by I | time, or itensity, or both, in such a way as to derive ! I pleasure and efficiency through the grouping.Hence j I rhythmic diction can serve to entertain theatre audiences. j Another element of mytho-dramatic diction, which may enable the playwright to connect with the collective uncon scious of the audience, is the symbolic reference offered by \ I metaphor. Jung noted that archetypes express themselves i 74 |first and foremost in metaphors. ! Through metaphor one object is symbolically used to represent another. Symbol, which Jung has referred to as being the primitive expression of the unconscious, may therein be seen to be integral to mytho-dramatic diction. Jung contended that . . . a word or an image is symbolical when it implies something more than its obvious and immediate meaning. It has a wider 'unconscious' aspect that is never precisely defined or fully explained. ° The symbolic aspect of diction may thereby serve to raise .aspects of the unconscious psyche to the level of con-i ’ sciousness. The fact that metaphor can convey more than just superficial immediate meaning may also be of immense value ito the playwright. Because drama is limited by its presen- 46 jtational mode of delivery to approximately 2 to 2-1/2 hours' duration, the playwright must communicate his story in a I [highly condensed, economical fashion: the word "drama" itself may be a derivative of "dram," which means "a small j ! i j ^ i .amount of anything." Thus the ability of the playwright i to evoke images in the audience's mind may be aided by the ! 77 ' "psychic economy" offered by the metaphorical symbol. I Because of this symbolic aspect, mytho-dramatic I diction can contain more meaning than nonmythological : ispeech. Through its use of symbol, mytho-dramatic diction 1 I 'serves to clarify the relationship of symbolic images to i the instinctual emotions from which they spring. The asso- ; jciational patterns revealed between image (embodied by sym bol) and emotion (embodied by archetypal characterization) resulting in conscious conceptualization (or thought) thereby serve to contribute to and to illuminate the process of human thought formation. Conclusion The myth-formation conversion process from symbol to characterization to ideation may indeed be paralleled to the three progressively observed aspects of drama recog nized by Aristotle. To begin with, an application of Jung's interpretation of the mandala symbol to the mandala-like 47 'birthplace of Western drama in ancient Greece may be seen as 'significant of drama's affinity for symbol. The fact that dramatic plot can be viewed as symbolic design was alluded [ i 7 8 jto by Aristotle: "The plot is the groundwork, the design." j [ I ' Thus an affinity between symbol and plot, which are primary | | ingredients of myth and drama respectively, may be j i established. I Second, the personification of symbol via mytho logical character may be seen as paralleling the second as- : pect of drama, which is also character (ethos). Third, the conceptual idea that stems from mytholog-, ical characterization and which is the third stage of the myth-formation process can also be seen to parallel the third element of drama. Through the playwright's transla tion of instinct and archetype to conscious conceptualiza tion, the three basic aspects of human thought formation are clarified for the audience. Through this elevation of instinct to the level of consciousness, mytho-drama con tributes to the evolution of human thought. Because of this.dynamic enlightening aspect of mytho-drama, the playwright is availed of. a valuable tool for reaching the audience. Through the universal aspects of the mythic form, the playwright may better be able to answer 48 Jthe audience's ongoing need for self-enlightenment. The I ^universal quest for understanding the totality of man's existence may therein be offered via art exposure: "Poetry i 1 i i i and music often illuminate the world for us far more than i i 79 any scientific explanation." ^ ’ Myth can thereby serve as means to clarify basic l ;elements not only of human thought formation but to amplify ( similar aspects of the dramatic process that Aristotle i noted— the creation of order from disorder. Through the ^broadened understanding of drama afforded by this compara tive analysis of the two expressive forms, the playwright may better be able to see the psychic implications of his craft. Today, because the playwright is pressured by the effects of soaring theatrical production costs as well as by' the potential ability to influence millions of people via television and film media, the responsibility for fuller I .understanding of the dramatic craft is imperative. Because of the apparent affinity existing between basic aspects inherent to both myth and drama, a study of 'aspects of mythologically based dramas (such as Euripides' Hippolytus and Eugene O'Neill's Desire Under the Elms) may 'indeed serve as the beginning for eventual attainment of that essential understanding of the dramatist's craft. s !_ 49 j Notes i 1 ! Carl G. Jung, Memories, Dreams, Reflections, ed. Aniela Jaffe, trans. Richard Winsten and Clara Winsten .(New York: Vintage Books, 1965), p. 304. i 2 Ibid., p. 3. 3 Carl G. Jung, Man and His Symbols (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday & Co., 1964). 4 Carl G. Jung and C. Kerenyi, Essays of a Science of Mythology, trans. R. F. C. Hull (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1969), p. 5. 5 Jung, Memories, Dreams, Reflections, p. 324. 6 . . Carl G. Jung, The Spirit in Man, Art, and Litera ture (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1971), p. 86. 7 Jung, Memories, Dreams, Reflections, p. 3. 8 S. H. Butcher, ed. and trans., Aristotle's Theory of Poetry and Fine Art (New York: Dover Publications, 1951), pp. 360-361. 70. 9 Jung and Kerenyi, Essays on a Science of Mythology, 10Ibid., pp. 71-72. ■^Butcher, Aristotle's Theory, p. 366. 12 Ibid., p. 255. 13 Jung, The Spirit in Man, Art, and Literature, p. 70. 14 Ibid., p . 83. 15 Carl G. Jung, Four Archetypes, trans. R. F. C. Hull (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1973), p. 44. ■ j ^ Butcher, Aristotle's Theory, p. 304. 50 17 j Kenneth Thorpe Rowe, Write that Play (n.p.: Minerva Press, 1939), p. 27. I i 18 Butcher, Aristotle's Theory, p. 334. ! 19 L. J. Potts, Aristotle on the Art of Fiction (Lon- jdon: Cambridge University Press, 1968), p. 69. I I 20 I , Butcher, Aristotle1s Theory, p. 23. j 21 . I Ibid., p. 366. | 22 Ibid., pp. 279-280. ; 23 Jung and Kerenyi, Essays on a Science of Myth ology, p. 33. 24 Rollo May, Love and Will (New York: Dell Pub lishing Co., 1969), p. 172. 25 ' Carl G. Jung, Psyche and Symbol, ed. Violet S. deLaszlo (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday Anchor Books, 1958),' p. 321. 2 6 Jung, Memories, Dreams, Reflections, p. 4. 27 Butcher, Aristotle's Theory, p. 34 9. 2 8 Jung, Memories, Dreams, Reflections, p. 346. 29 i John Lahr, Up Against the Fourth Wall (New York: Grove Press, 1970), p. 174. 30 Butcher, Aristotle's Theory, p. 35 9. 31 Brian Vickers, Towards Greek Tragedy: Drama, Myth, Society (London: Longman, 1973), p. 23 0. 32 Jung, The Spirit in Man, Art, and Literature, p. 105. 33 Ibid. 3 4 Mary Louise Baldwin, "The Influence of Classic Greek Tragedy Upon the Drama of Eugene O'Neill: A Selective Study" (M.A. thesis, University of Southern California, 1944), p. 44. 51 35 Jung, Man and His Symbols, p. 79. 3 6 Jung, The Spirit in Man, Art, and Literature, p. 81. 37 filvin B. Kernan, ed., Classxcs of the Modern Theater (New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, 1965), p. 4. 3 8 Butcher, Aristotle's Theory, p. 116. 39 Joseph Campbell, The Flight of the Wild Gander: Explorations in the Mythological Dimension (New York: .Viking Press, 1969) , p. 6. 40 William G. Neiderland, "Psychoanalytic Approache : to Artistic Creativity," The Psychoanalytical Quarterly 4 5 : (April 1976) : 194. 41 Jung, Man and Hxs Symbols, p. 82. 42 Jung, Psyche and Symbol, p. 137. 43 Jung and Kerenyi, Essays on a Science of Mythol ogy , p. 91. ! 44 i Butcher, Aristotle's Theory, p. 40 5. i 45 Jung, Memories, Dreams, Reflectxons, p. 255. 46 Arthur Miller, "On Socxal Plays," in A View From , the Bridge (New York: Viking Press, 1955), p. 14. i 47 Butcher, Arxstotle's Theory, p. 118. 48 George Sherxngham and James Laver, Desxgn xn the Theatre (New York: Albert & Charles Boni, 1927), p. 29. 49 Butcher, Aristotle's Theory, p. 405. ^Jung, Psyche and Symbol, p. 324. 51 Butcher, Aristotle's Theory, pp. 339-340. 52 Carl G. Jung, Modern Man in Search of a Soul, trans. W. S. Dell and Cary F. Baynes (New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, 1933), p. 125. 53 Jung, The Spirit in Man, Art, and Literature, j : p. 287. j I 54 I . Jung, Four Archetypes, p. 136. j f 55 ! Sherxngham and Laver, Design xn the Theatre, p. 29. | ; I i 56 j Jung, Man and His Symbols, p. 82. j ! 57 ' Butcher, Aristotle's Theory, p. 231. i 5 8 i Jung, Memories, Dreams, Reflections, p. 4. I 1 59 Jung, Psyche and Symbol, p. 123. j | ^Baldwin, "The Influence of Classic Greek Tragedy iUpon the Drama of Eugene O'Neill," p. 41. | ^Eugene Greeley Prater, "A Critical Analysis of the: ’Principal Objective and Subjective Tenets in the Works of I John Osborne: A Descriptive Existential Approach" (Ph.D. dissertation, University of Southern California, 1976), |p. 159. 62 , Jung and Kerenyx, Essays on a Scxence of Mythology, ;p. 72. ^Ibid. , p. 21. 64 R. C. Knxght, ed., Racxne: Modern Judgements i(London: Macmillan & Co., 1969), p. 49. 1 65 1 Butcher, Aristotle's Theory, p. 334. * 6 6 Ibid., p. 342. 1 ^Jung, The Spirit in Man, Art, and Literature, p. 81. ( 68 Butcher, Aristotle's Theory, p. 23. 69 Jung, The Spxrxt xn Man, Art, and Lxterature, p. 85. I ^ 70 i Jung, Memories, Dreams, Reflections, p. 17 8. ' 7 1 I James L. Dow, Collins Gem Dictionary of the Bible ;(London: Collins, 1964), p. 473. i i 72 Jung, Psyche and Symbol,.p. 321. 73 Samuel Selden, The Stage in Action (Carbondale: (Southern Illinois University Press, 1941), p. 48. 74 Jung and Kerenyi, Essays on a Science of Mythol ogy , p. 76. 75 Jung, Man and His Symbols, p. 20. 7 6 David B. Guralnik and Joseph H. Friend, eds., [ Webster's New World Dictionary of the American Language (Cleveland, Ohio: The World Publishing Co., 1966), p. 440. i 77 Jung and Kerenyi, Essays on a Science of Mythol- l ogy, p. 79. 1 7 8 I Butcher, Aristotle's Theory, p. 346. 79 Jung and Kerenyi, Essays on a Science of Mythol ogy, I f 54 i CHAPTER III ♦ ! I j EURIPIDES' HIPPOLYTUS The Greeks: The Age of Enlightenment Brian Vickers observed that the Greek people of the fourth and fifth centuries B.C. can be viewed as the most t ^highly developed civilization that has nurtured a living mythology.'*’ Not only did the Greek culture of that era— I which Melchinger dubbed the age of enlightenment— realize a high level of achievement in the areas of visual arts, lit erature, architecture, technology, science, law, politics, and medicine, but it realized "the highest intellectual accomplishments of philosophical investigation" known to 2 Western man. The Greek states were also the first European com- munities to raise dramatic performances to the level of an 3 art. And the primary dramatic forms of comedy and tragedy were created by Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, and Aris tophanes, who have maintained their eminence throughout the ages. ( The important thing to observe is that the Greeks [reached this advanced cultural level without losing contact with their myths. They had an advanced urban society, a leisured class and an aristocracy; they had developed trade through out an enormous area, colonized freely, impressed | their civilization on others. They had a currency j system, dealt in slaves as well as money, and articu lated their social and religious values in myth, cult, i and law.^ j 'Hence the advancement of human logic and reasoning was [ realized concurrently with conscious articulation of myth. ; I As a people, then, the Greeks nurtured instinctual as well as rational aspects of human makeup. It may be because of this thoroughness in their quest for total assessment of man and his world that their age has come to I be viewed as the cultural Eden by which we measure our own chaos: : To our modern dissonance the Greeks play the role of old! tonality, the abiding image of great humanity. They are our lost power; lost wholeness; the pure presence and certainty of reality our culture has lost.^ Stanley Hyman cited the origin of myth and religion as being a common response to the chaotic reality confront- 6 7 ing man. The Greeks claimed Chaos for their original god. From this single deity, the ordered hierarchy of gods— or the conceptualization of the various factions comprising the human psyche-— emanated. Myth and religion may therefore be seen as reactions to the chaos confronting human existence. 5 6 | This need to understand the chaotic uncertainties i Jthreatening his existence, may have caused man to utilize i j [ritual and mythological symbolism as means to organize his | J I hopes and fears* Through ritual, ancient Greeks may have ! i I i I lattempted to metamorphosize those aspects of the chaos com- j ; i prising their world into ordered, persistent, and durable j ■ I works. j 1 I Jane Harrison's Themis, written in 1912, defined myth as the outgrowth of religious rite. She believed that 1 myth originated as the spoken aspect of ritual: "the spoken; t g correlative of the acted rite." And Claude Levi-Strauss ] went so far as to state that "myth is language: to be known, t 9 myth has to be told; it is part of human speech." In other words, myth can be seen as the articulation of verbal sym bolism (language) associated with organized repetitive behavioral (ritualistic) response to reality. Rituals in early Greek culture may be viewed as I attempts to conceptualize elusive aspects of a world per- oeived as disordered, uncertain, and everchanging. Ritual 1 permitted reflection upon man's existence. Through their ritual enactments, the Greeks manipulated instinctual urges and miraculously reexperienced them as though aided by modem i videotape reproduction techniques. I Ritual was the ancient Greek's answer to the I I ^ephemeral reality (or chaos) that is life: Ritual has been, at most times and for most people, the most important thing in the world. From it have come music, dancing, painting, and sculpture. All these, we have every reason to believe, were sacred long before they were secular, and the same applies to storytelling.10 ! * The link between the storytelling form known as I drama and the mythic aspect of religious ritual becomes i ^increasingly apparent. For Western drama— a spoken, pres entational storytelling form of expression— also grew from I f ancient Greek religious practices. Both myth and drama can be seen as stemming from the religious ritualistic response to reality. The common birth of Greek myth and drama from religious rites may be further evidenced by the fact that Richard Lattimore has defined dramatic tragedies as being "the stories of order in the world disordered, and of dis- I order restored to order.Thus the Greek God Chaos can be envisioned as spawning ritual, myth, and drama. I The relation of mytho-drama to ritual appears to be significant. Lord Raglan observed that many myths appear to be similar because they most likely originated from kindred 12 religious rites. Similarly, Richard Lattimore observed basic recurrent story patterns in Greek tragedy. It is 58 therefore conceivable that basic Greek religious rites may ’ form the foundation for Greek mytho-dramas. i j A study of specific Greek mytho-dramas (such as Euripides' Hippolytus) should therefore encompass an exami- i ! nation of ancient Greek religious rites that may have j i .originally spawned them. i Euripides' Life and Times: ; Dualistic Realities » It has been observed that art is created through the creative artist's exposure to both the historical and psy chological components comprising his world. A thorough examination of Euripides' mytho-drama Hippolytus should 'therefore entail an awareness of the specific historical and: I ;psychological factors comprising the playwright's world. Erich Segal observed that historical realities com prising Euripides' world were reflected in the playwright's dramas: Euripides brought to the stage what Aristophanes derides as . . . "familiar affairs," or still more literally, "household things." The living room replaces the throne room. 1^ Sophocles' observation that Euripides "presented men as they actually were— people not paragons," may further verify the contention that Euripides brought "realism" to 14 the stage. I 59. I Euripides was born at Salamis in 484 B.C., during the painful era of "enlightenment" and war. He spent most of his life in Athens. There he watched in shock as his j I people suffered the hardships of social unrest and war. ( Despite the Greek rationalist-philosopher Sophocles' dictum j ■that if a man knows what is good, he will choose it, Euripi-! i i des realized that reason alone could not render the Greeks ; ! i i the ideal world for which they longed. I i i , The best and central years of Euripides' life and : work coincided with the great period of national stress and , t f ^struggle in Greece. He experienced the agonizing period of - i ■the Peloponnesian War between Athens and Sparta (431-404 B.C.). One night in March 431 B.C., the Theban army invaded 'the small city of Platea, an old ally of Athens. The two reigning powers were immediately called upon— Sparta by the Thebans, Athens by the Plateans. The Spartans responded in May of that year by marching against Attica, seeking to i 15 : replace Athens as the supreme power of Greece. On the Athenian side, Pericles decided that the people of Athens should shut themselves within the city's walls and that the war should be fought only at sea. Accordingly, he ordered the peasants of Attica to abandon 60 jtheir villages and to take refuge within the city. Athens was transformed into a Gypsy-camp-like I environment as the result of Pericles' decree. The peasant I refugees were forced to improvise their lodgings in back- I ! yards, in public places, in the streets, and even on the | i ramparts of the city. ' | A devastating plague next befell the Athenian city. j i 1 Beginning during 430 B.C.* it continued to decimate the city! I I dwellers over a two-year period. The scourge took the lives' I ! iof five thousand Athenian soldiers, and a still greater number of immigrants and slaves, not to mention women, chil- I dren, and the elderly. The plague thus further added to the miseries of the overcrowded metropolis. This horrendous environment was the backdrop for .Euripides' life. The historian Solomos wrote: "In this I I : I infernal atmosphere, with the foe at the city's gate and the ^plague at his threashold, . . . While breathing the poison ous air and listening to the moans of the dying," Euripides ' X 6 created his dramatic works. Athens was also plagued by grave political dissen- tion that frustrated attempts to unify Athenian war efforts. The defeat at Sicily in 413 B.C. further added to these con ditions and dealt Athens a blow from which it was never to 6 1 jfully recover.^ The state passed through a series of head I political parties during this era as well. The government of the Four Hundred gave way to that of the Five Thousand in! 410 B.C. .Finally, Cleophon took over as head of the ! 18 1 Athenian state from 4 09 B.C. until the end of the war. [ I The struggle between those who advocated oligarchical domi- J nation continued throughout the period, adding to the prob- ■ lems of the already distressed state. Euripides left Athens and migrated to Macedonia in 40 8 B.C. He died there one year later. He did not live to see the inevitable doom of his crumbling Athenian homeland. Following four months of siege and famine, Athens fell to its Spartan conquerors in March 404 B.C. The city's ruin would mark a shift in dramatic history-. The Athenian Lenaean and Dionysian religious fes tivals that produced plays and supported the leading play wrights of Greece ceased to exist after the fall of Athens t 'in 404 B.C. Through these festivals, Euripides had won recognition as a playwright. Although he was awarded first prize on only three occasions, his plays continued to be produced. His play Hippolytus indeed received the coveted first prize in 428 B.C. In light of the arduous and threatening times 62 [surrounding Euripides' life, the subject of men being (destroyed by times that are out of joint is, not surpris- i i i 19 ;ingly, a theme that is central to his dramas. Realization 1 I of man's helplessness when faced with conditions beyond his control may have led Euripides to turn to theatre. | 1 i In an age torn apart by war, famine, plague, and 'political unrest, Greek dramatists viewed their art as pos- j j i ;sible means to cure the ills besetting their society. i ; i Alongside the theatres of Epidaurus and Dionysus, temples < I 20 were erected to Asclepius, the god of medicine. Sophocles, ;ranked with Euripides and Aeschylus as one of the three greatest writers of tragedy, was also the first priest of Asclepius and is said to have founded the temples in homage to him alongside the religious staging grounds for the dramatic arts. This apparent connection between the arts of medi cine and drama may have been allied with the Greek conven tion of impelling playwrights to utilize myth as the basis for dramatic plot. The "unity of feeling" found in myth may be seen as a possible curative agent for the widespread social dissention and political chaos of Euripides' troubled 21 . . times. In addition to the realistic elements mirroring overt aspects of classical Greece, Euripides' plays were conventionally rooted in myth. 6 3 Ernst Cassirer's The Myth of the State, written in i 1946, cited the socially unifying function of myth. He [believed that myth intensifies awareness of the collective i I unconscious that unites humanity. Proof of this contention | that myth can unite humanity at large may be seen by the fact that the thirty-two extant Greek tragedies of Aeschylus, 'Sophocles, and Euripides "are studied, even now, more ex tensively than any other dramatic corpus except the plays of 1 22 Shakespeare." Thus the social verities contained in classical mytho-dramas have continued to supply nourishment for successive generations of theatre audiences. The symbolism of myth can also serve to document the I historical actions of man. The monstrous bull that destroys Hippolytus at the end of Euripides' play may be seen as an example’of Bettina Knapp's recent contention that "when a myth treats of monsters . . . it usually indicates that the [land from which this legend arises is suffering a type of 23 political tyranny." The historical times surrounding Euripides' life can be seen as directly affecting the form and content of his mytho-dramas. The mass suffering and general unrest during his era, which prided itself on its rationality and logic, may have forced Euripides to conclude that there is 6 4 indeed another dimension besides rationalism that governs 'human existence. The reality of invisible powers that control men's llives was acknowledged by Euripides. It is significant that "gods appear more frequently in the plays of Euripides ; i 24 than they do in those of Aeschylus or Sophocles." Eurip- ; ides thereby acknowledged that physical reality does not ; wholly determine men's actions: that there is an equally valid psychological aspect of humankind. ! Through his utilization of ritualistically based | myths— defined by Reidar Christiansen as "stories in which ;the intervention of non-human forces and powers is the main I |point"— Euripides may have hoped to clarify (or, in modern I iterminology, "psychoanalyze") the unseen spiritual aspect of: ' 25 man. At this point similarities of Carl Jung's precepts : and Euripides' philosophical insights are worth noting. 'Hazel E. Barnes, classical scholar, identified this rela tionship : It would be tempting to interpret Euripides as having by poetic intuition anticipated something comparable to Jung's collective unconscious. This would be to say that each of us is motivated to greater or less extent by irrational forces common to us all and stemming from somewhere beyond the conscious mind. Jung would certainly agree with Euripides that too great submission to those unconscious forces brings 6 5 madness and destruction as happened to Phaedra but to deny them and cut oneself off at the roots, so to speak, results in sterility, emotional starvation, the i neurotic lack of any real contact with humanity which j we see portrayed in Hippolytus.2® J j ! In keeping with the Greek affinity for a median po- I i I i i sition between extremes— "Nothing in Excess" was the motto j inscribed above the temple of Delphi— Euripides can be seen : as conceptualizing disasters that can conceivably befall man w h e n the middle ground between rational-historical reality 27 and instinctual-mythological reality is not maintained. Because of this insight into the duality of man's existence,' Euripides' dramas have come to be lauded for their unparal- 2 g leled psychological insight. I Hippolytus and Religious Rite Three dramatizations of the Hippolytus myth trans pired during the classical age of Greece— two by Euripides and one version, entitled Phaedra, by Sophocles. Euripides' 1award-winning second version, however, is the only surviving dramatic work. The possible ritualistic origins of this drama are worth noting. Richard Lattimore's observation that "drama tists use religion" will be further verified if ritualistic ;elements can be shown as possible contributors to Euripides' i 29 work. 66 | To begin, the myths surrounding the Greek religious | i ishrines to Hippolytus— one in Laconia, and the Tomb of Hip- j ’ i 'polytus in Troizen— may have contributed to Euripides’ use j ,of Hippolytus as the sacrificial victim within his drama. | i 1 The ritual pattern of human sacrifice associated with the | i myths surrounding these holy places (prominent aspects of ! i : Greek life and religious culture) may not only be at the root of Euripides’ plot, but may also serve to reveal pos sible interrelationships between ritual, myth, and drama. The relevance of the Hippolytus shrine at Laconia to the principal characters-— Phaedra, Theseus, and Hippoly tus— of Euripides' Hippolytus becomes apparent upon inspec tion of the myths associated with its locale. For Queen Pasiphae (the mother of Phaedra) was a goddess worshipped in Laconia for her intercourse with a white bull. The bull had1 been presented to Pasiphae's husband, Minos, king of Crete, by the sea god Poseidon (Theseus' father) to be sacrificed. According to Edith Hamilton, Minos did not comply with Poseidon's desire to slay the bull. To punish the in solent king, Poseidon made Queen Pasiphae fall madly in love with the monstrous creature.^ The outcome of this adulter ous passion was the birth of the Minotaur, a half-human, i half-bull creature. For her moral crime, Pasiphae was 31 imprisoned, and starved herself to death. 6 7 j ~ Again, however, the sea god's sacrifice was not l \ icarried out by King Minos. Unable to bring himself to kill I 'the monstrous offspring of Poseidon's sacrificial bull, i i Minos had an elaborate labyrinth constructed to contain the I I monster. In place of the sacrifice of the inhuman creature, ! 'Athenian citizens were captured and left to wander des perately in the confusing labyrinth, where they became sac-' rificial victims of the Minotaur. I Finally, aided by Ariadne (Phaedra's sister), who Isuggested an intellectual solution to escape from the peri- I 'lous labyrinth (a ball of thread trailed behind to mark the ^escape route), the Athenian Theseus (father of Hippolytus) entered the maze as a potential sacrificial victim of the Minotaur. He came upon the sleeping creature and savagely battered it to death with his bare fists. The element of sacrifice therefore appears to be a prominent aspect of the myths surrounding the religious I shrine of Hippolytus in Laconia. The relationship of mytho- drama to religious rite may further be revealed through an examination of religious rites that appear to be related to these myths. According to Lord Raglan, Pasiphae's intercourse with the bull is reminiscent of the Vedic (Hindu) horse- 68 sacrificial rite: A stallion was killed, the queen was made to lie beside i i it, and her next child was supposed to be its offspring.j j The King took part in this ritual, which most probably j J represents the substitution of a stallion for the King j i as victim.^ i i The fact that this is a Hindustani and not a Greek 1 rite should not nullify its significance. First, Jung's concept of the collective unconscious wellspring of myth bas iled to the discovery of cross-cultural mythologies. Second,, it has been noted that many Greek myths were not native but : I were imported from Egypt, Syria, Mesopotamia, and other i 1 33 .Eastern nations. Therefore this Hindu rite may be seen 'from both the Jungian and diffusionist perspectives as being :the forerunner of the Queen Archon-Dionysian rite practiced |in Euripides' Athens: "The Queen Archon was married annu ally in a building called the Ox-Stall, to the bull-god ' 34 ^Dionysus. " • The substitution of an animal (horse or bull) for :the king in his fertility rite with his queen exemplified in i ;these religious rites may be viewed as possible foundations for the Hippolytus myth. When Jane Ellen Harrison's strik ing archeological discovery of 1882 is taken into considera tion, the link between religious rite and myth becomes even more apparent. Harrison discovered a clay seal at Knossos 69 Which revealed "that the Minotaur was the King of Crete in I i 35 a bull mask"! Thus the link between the aforementioned religious rites and the myth of the Minotaur (which is akin to the Hippolytus myth); may have been established. The sub stitution of the savage beast in place of the king is therein revealed. The connection of the myth to sacrificial rite may be evidenced most strikingly by yet another primitive Greek ritual in which a horse was torn apart and eaten by its worshipers. This was done because the worshipers believed 'themselves to be united in this way with their god. These worshippers were themselves called "horses." Hazel Barnes pointed out that it was from this rite that the Hippolytus mytho-drama of Euripides came into being: "The horse was humanized into a divine hero and the rite transformed into i 3 6 a tale of private calamity." Significantly, the name : Hippolytus was rooted in the Greek word for horse (hippos). Hippolytus may therefore be seen as the descendant of the sacrificial rite as he is similarly sacrificed and destroyed within the dramatic action of Euripides' play. The detection of additional carry-over elements from the aforementioned religious rites may prove valuable in exam ining plot and character development of Hippolytus. 7 0 Plot Basically, the plot of Euripides' Hippolytus shows .the disintegration of King Theseus' family unit. After i ileaving his home to fulfill mandatory religious rites at the (temple of Delphi, following his destruction of another man'si ; | home— the murdering of another man's son— the irreverent j Theseus returns and witnesses the destruction of his own j t ifamily. ! In the king's absence, Queen Phaedra has incestually' * lusted for her stepson, Hippolytus. Having suppressed and denied her overwhelming passions, the queen is on the verge 'of being consumed by them. When she opens her heart to Hippolytus, however, he scoffs at her feminine emotionalism and declares his hatred for the opposite sex. This lack of emotional empathy on the part of Hip- 'polytus--who is sworn to uphold the rationalistic doctrines 1 of the goddess Artemis— enrages the suffering queen. Real izing that her children's rights of succession to the throne may be jeopardized because of her emotional extrem ism, she hangs herself. She attaches a note to her wrist accusing Hippolytus of ravaging her. Blinded by rage, King Theseus sentences his son to death. Only when it is too late does the impetuous king 71 Ilearn the truth. His impulsive savagery and lack of under- j I ^standing has wrought destruction upon his home. J A Greek play, unlike a Shakespearean play, is the j exposition of one idea. Additionally, Robert Corrigan re- I marked that "traditionally, the plot of a Greek tragedy was j the working out of an individual conflict that had communal ; 37 1 significance." The single concept of the introduction of ; acts of savagery to mankind, through ritualistic contact .with the savage power (or mana) contained within a virile bull or horse, may be at the root of Hippolytus. . The communal decimation resulting from the Pelopon nesian war must have been an agonizing reality for Euripides to grapple with. The rite of the Archon Queen at the Ox- 'Stall in Athens entreating the birth of noble warriors may have been viewed by Euripides as an act signifying man's desire for savagery and self-destruction. Therefore the theme of original sin and the line of inheritance associ ated with it may be seen as pivotal to the playwright's plot. Theseus, whose father, Poseidon, had first intro duced the symbolic bull and horse to mankind, was himself 3 8 ,"a killer." And in Euripides' play, Theseus is accused by his son, Hippolytus: "Your tongue is like some spooked i 72 |runaway horse," thus further cementing the relationship of | i i i 39 . : ■Theseus to the savagery of the beast. Finally, Euripides' * j jTheseus himself points to the ritual-steeped past as a I 'possible cause for the tragedy that befalls his family: j I I t j '"And what is to blame, if not some far-off long-forgot | i I ancestral crime that, guided by the powers above, has over- ; 40 1 taken me in later time?" The introduction of savagery and brute force to mankind is also linked to Theseus' family through his wife, ! Phaedra. King Minos, Phaedra's father, had been the first i jto possess a bull. He had defied Poseidon's directive to jdestroy the monster. The savage bull's mana contaminated mankind. Phaedra's mother, Pasiphae, succumbed to its evil power. She directed Daedalos to make her a hollow wooden cow, climbed into it, and was mounted by the bull. Allud ing to this original sinful act, Euripides' Phaedra re- i .fleets upon her own adulterous desires: Oh, how I hate and curse the wife who was first un faithful to her husband with another man! The vile trick was begun by women, and by women of distinc- tion.41 Through his bare-fisted bludgeoning of the Minotaur 'offspring of Pasiphae's adulterous crime, Theseus, too, was contaminated. Both Theseus and his wife may be seen then as linked to the original indoctrination of man to the impul sive savagery symbolized by Poseidon's bull. 7o The punishment of Theseus and his family has already i ! !begun when the play opens- Aphrodite speaks of Theseus' j exile from Athens and his continuing acts of barbarism: j "Later, when Theseus fled the country, where he had murderedj f a great man's son— defiling himself so badly Athens dared j i not keep him--he elected to spend his exile year in this 42 .country. " Butcher remarked that "to the plot we look in order to learn what the play means; here lies its essence, its 43 true significance." Claude Levi-Strauss noted that in myth the "substance does not lie in its style, its original ■ 44 music, or its syntax, but in the story which it tells." i Thus an examination of the plot of Euripides' mytho-drama appears essential to further assessment of the play's pos sible relation to ancient rite. i Basically, the plot of Euripides' play may be seen as the clash of opposing factors comprising the human psyche: reason versus instinct. This perspective of human- 'kind torn between two poles has been observed by Gilbert Murray in his description of Euripides' plot as being the epitomy of "the two eternal forces playing havoc with human 45 life." The entire plot of Hippolytus may be viewed as the conflict between masculine and feminine aspects comprising 74 jthe human psyche. Even though it is peopled by several I : characters, this drama may eventually be revealed as the | . I projection of a singular internal psychic conflict onto an j external world where communal conflict results. I Philip Vellacott viewed Euripides' plot structure as' i K I i the embodiment of two opposing halves— one female and the j other male: j I From the end of the prologue to Phaedra's exit the stage is occupied by a woman's world: Phaedra, the Nurse, and the chorus together wrestle with a tragic dilemma. Hippolytus intrudes on this women's world but does not communicate with it; he simply discharges his hatred and departs. The second half of the play i has no woman in it except the chorus, who are no longer involved in the action as they were in the first half. Theseus, Hippolytus, and the Messenger constitute a man's world where other presumptions prevail.^ In a broad overview, the plot may be seen as the revenge of the female goddesses (the explanation for the plural use here will come later) of fertility against the patriarchal household of Theseus. The play opens with the female goddess Aphrodite's pronouncement of revenge against ■Theseus' male offspring, Hippolytus. The conflicting female I versus male plot structure becomes even more pronounced upon examination of the mythological symbolism associated with these two character factions. Mythologically, Aphrodite has been associated with the fertility symbols of the moon and, perhaps even more 1 7 5 jsignificantly, with the amniotic sea (aphros in Greek means I !"the foam risen") from which she-as well as mankind— was i ifirst given life. Euripides' Nurse character alludes to this: J She ranges with the stars of eve and morn, ' She wanders in the heaving of the sea, j And all life lives from her.^ | ! Her revenge upon Theseus through his household can ; ,be seen as an extension of the female-male conflict. k Theseus is portrayed mythologically as the destroyer of 1 -life ("murderer") and as "the opponent of matriarchal soci- : 48 eties." He is brought to his knees at the end of Eurxpi- ' des1 drama by the life-giving, instinctual, female goddess he has profaned. At the play's end, the ruined Theseus is forced to 'reflect upon the chaos and ruin that befall man when psychic' wholeness is lacking. Theseus laments that he has only acknowledged the reasoning male aspect of his psyche: "The : human intellect saddens me. It marches onwards always on wards , but where? Where will the end come to this reckless ■ : 49 growth of confidence?" Finally, the dangerous split be tween the female mother-figure Aphrodite— mythologically !spawned by a seashell— and Theseus' exclusively male world . is realized too late by the tragic victim: "The truth is-- 76 I have nothing left.. My palace is a lifeless shell, my 1 50 children motherless." i ; Man's blind commitment to any single aspect compris ing his psyche results in his eventual inability to freely i control— balance or moderate— his actions and, in turn, his fate. This thesis serves as the kernel around which Euripi des structured his dramatic plot. The chaos resulting from two principal variations of this surmise— perhaps reflecting the playwright's own view of "the human race divided into camps, made for love but dedicated to hate" during his own war-torn, socially perturbed times— serves to comprise the 51 plot of Hippolytus. After the prologue in which Aphrodite vows to J revenge herself, Phaedra appears outside her husband's jpalace at the edge of the sea, located in Troizen on the Inortheast corner of the Peloponnese, thirty miles south of ! 52 Athens. Apparently following in the footsteps of her ill- 1 f fated mother, Pasiphae, who was consumed by adulterous desire for the white bull and who starved herself to death in atonement fdr her crime, Phaedra has been similarly smitten by adulterous desire for her stepson, Hippolytus, and is likewise endeavoring to starve herself to death. The Chorus recants that she has abstained from taking 77 nourishment for three days: "For three long days she hath ! 53 ;lain forlorn, Her lips untainted of flesh or corn, ..." Phaedra is in the throes of a psychic struggle ;between silence (instinctual craving) and speech (conscious i ! acknowledgment of that part of herself that does not comply I with rational socially accepted moral precepts). She en- j treats her Nurse: "I am lost! My veils, Nurse, wind once ; more about me, hide my head! At those wild words I think I 54 said I am ashamed. Oh hide me!" Phaedra thus enters the play from the palace (sym- i bolizing the unconscious), where she has hidden her head i (consciousness). She has thereby allowed her instincts to dominate her psyche. Aphrodite, the instinctual love- goddess projection of the human psyche, has seized control over Phaedra's unbalanced psyche. Phaedra reveals the fu tility of her situation: "Next I thought I would calm my frenzied heart, tame it by cold reason. . . . I tried, I 55 trxed hard, but could not defeat Aphrodite." In an attempt to attain psychic balance, Phaedra next swings to the other extreme— the rational aspect of her psyche. She unveils the nature of her torment to her Nurse— who may indeed be viewed as the projection of Phaedra's rational self— and permits the practical-minded 78 [confidant to act in her stead. The Nurse proceeds to | . ; approach Hippolytus on rational grounds, making him promise j i to keep Phaedra's secret, telling him of her queen's help- ! i , j less, love-smitten state. 1 I 5 J Hippolytus, son of the war-hungry, lesbian Amazon ! i I Queen Hippolyta, himself a deer-slayer and abstainer from i sexual contact with the opposite sex, proceeds to call ; Phaedra's feelings a sign of female "depravity": I hate women, I'll never quell that loathing. Some say I'm insatiably hostile— but women are insatiably , lewd. Either convert them to chaste decency or allow ! me to stomp on their sex till I'm dead.5^ ! Overhearing this monstrous attack upon her sincere (feelings and upon her sex, Phaedra, whose reason has won out over her all-consuming love, fears for her honor and for her^ children's rights of succession to Theseus' throne. She i Itakes measures to counter any possible attempts by Hippoly- ' ! ;tus to defame her. She writes a note accusing her stepson ' I ,of ravaging her, attaches the incriminating letter to her arm, and hangs herself. The warrior, King Theseus, returns to his ill-fated household from his obligatory face-saving pilgrimage to the I temple at Delphi. Upon finding his wife dead, he quickly reveals his lack of acceptance of the gods, representing the instinctual aspects of his own psyche, by symbolically jcasting off the reverential crown of flowers honoring them: j J I A crown of flowers! Why am I wearing it? To show my mind ■ Istill glows with the god Apollo's advice? Because I come I 57 home to this deadly good luck?" Because he casts them off, the gods possess him. Believing that his reason has led him to conclude the 'truth, Theseus fails to judge Hippolytus properly. In actuality, the king's emotional forces overpower him as he ! ; hastily appeals to Poseidon to grant him one of three prom- t ;ised wishes by destroying Hippolytus. Theseus thereby re- i 1 linquishes his own right to act, as he is overpowered by the effects of his own extremism. Not realizing that his father has succumbed to the 'emotional unbalance resulting from such extremism, Hippol- ! ytus, acting within his honor-bound code of ethics, does not betray his promise to the Nurse. Rather than reveal the true nature of Phaedra's actions, Hippolytus appeals to his father's familiarity with his son's consistently chaste, 'rational conduct, arguing that to act otherwise would be ,beyond the scope of his mettle. Hippolytus leaves his father, entreating Artemis, his patron goddess, to act in his stead: "Daughter of Leto, :you who were closest to me, my friend, my hunting partner, 80: now I will go in exile from radiant Athens." He chooses ■inactive silence above rational speech, thereby succumbing I to the instinctual powers that he— like his father— has ;denied. When he appeals to the palace (symbolizing the [ i f unconscious realm) to speak in his stead, its possession of , i i him is clear: "Ye stones, will ye not speak? Ye castle 59 walls! / Bear witness if I be so vile, so false!" Finally, i when he is brought torn and bleeding to his father, Hippoly-! tus1 ultimate possession by the starved, unconscious, dark side of himself is driven home: "Father, darken my face in i i i H ^ 0 my cloak! I Theseus' treacherous rationalistic extremism and irreverence for the gods is finally undone by Artemis, who reveals the truth to the miserable king. Through his basic [ disregard for the gods and his inclination for spontaneous acts of savagery, Theseus has brought about the downfall of ■ his home. The wild horses that drag Hippolytus to his death ■may be seen as an example of the overpowering of the human psyche by unacknowledged gods: "Freud uses a similar image of a horse out of control to describe the overwhelming power 61 of the Id." Thus mythic symbolism within the dramatic .context of Euripides' play serves to highlight aspects of the ongoing psychic struggle. 81 j If emotional balance--mental health— is to be real ized, all gods must be paid their due respect. All aspects (male and female) of the human psyche must be acknowledged, j The balance between these elements is essential to the fruit-j ful exercise of human will. If this balance is upset, then t man becomes possessed and the will of the gods (or chaos) : prevails. When man's psyche becomes a free-for-all battle- ; ground for domination by the gods, he loses control over his actions and becomes the tragic victim of fate. The Nurse recognized the tragedy that can result I from man's inflexibility and lack of attunement to the full scope of his own makeup: "Consistent conduct in life 6 2 brings, so they say, not pleasure but overthrow." If such tragic suffering indeed purges and purifies i its victim, then the plot of Hippolytus may be seen as the i 'cleansing of a king. Both Queen Phaedra and the king's i 'savagely begotten son, Hippolytus (who draws his name from !the ritualistic horse symbol), can be interpreted as being sacrificial victims associated with this ritualistic cleansing process. "Nothing in Excess" was inscribed above the temple ■at Delphi, from which the irreverent King Theseus returns at the play's outset. By recalling this fact, then, the two {sacrificial deaths of Phaedra and Hippolytus can be inter- [ preted as ultimately returning the king's psyche to the "Golden Mean" from which he has strayed. j t In the first stage, the Great Mother Queen figure { | 1 i i who had longed to bed with the horse (hippos)— now humanizedi ‘ 1 into the divine hero Hippolytus— plays her role. Euripides adds another significant aspect to the ritual, however, by ! having the Mother figure sacrificed as well. In Phaedra's death, the playwright metaphorically envisioned the ultimate; ^destruction of the Athenian Mother State at the hands of \ Ithe warring Spartans. The playwright warned the Greek people that with the bounty of extreme savage brute force ■would come the inevitable death of their progeny (as sym bolized by the destruction of the Great Mother Queen figure). I In the second stage, the character Hippolytus is 'savagely destroyed. Thus, from a ritualistic standpoint, the horse (Hippolytus) has been torn apart. The instinctual extremes of murderous barbarism i (Hippolytus the hunter) and motherly compassion for all ’ living things (Phaedra) have thereby been reconciled within i 'the king's psyche via his Phaedra and Hippolytus projections. ! Even though the characters representing these two opposing factions have been destroyed at the physical level, they-can 83 be seen as contributing to the internalized makeup of the i king at the play's end. , The wedding of these two particular extremes within the mind of Theseus is particularly significant when the ritualistic origins of Euripides' drama are reexamined. For Pausanias recorded that in Laconia "there was a hero shrine to Hippolytus. It stood near a sanctuary of the Great 6 3 Mother." From this reference it may be inferred that humankind must acknowledge both the reasoning and the emo tional aspects comprising the psyche if it is to remain in I control of its actions. Otherwise, without this reconcilia tion, chaos (mental imbalance) will prevail in man's world. i The action of Euripides' play can be viewed, then, as the ordering of Theseus' psychological mettle. Following the tragic episode covered by Euripides' drama, according to myth, Theseus went on to become the national hero of Athens 64 and the founder of democracy. Theseus' eventual greatness may thus be seen as the outcome of the psychic wholeness .acquired through his exposure to the tragic purging process 'in Euripides' plot. i : Character; The Splintering of the Godhead Tragedy befalls man when he permits his psyche to be splintered into autonomous parts that usurp his free will. 84 iWhen one aspect of the psyche obsesses man, he loses sight I I | of the totality of his existence. It must not be forgotten j I that even the gods are splinters from that totality embodied in the single godhead: Chaos. The mind of man— which in j fact conceived Chaos— imposes order upon the chaotic whole I i comprising the world by splintering reality into factions. i Man has fragmented reality into symbols, gods, and' concepts. But these isolated factions can mislead man if he accepts them as independent of the original Chaos (whole) 'from which they evolved. In actuality, because each element. i ■is part of the original whole, each may be seen as contain ing the essence of the psyche from which it evolved. Inherent attributes of the human psyche serve to ' i highlight intrinsic attributes of Euripides' characters. These characters may be seen as splintered projections of Theseus' psyche: in other words, they are his brain children. Barnes noted that "two deities dominate the action 65 from beginning to end" in Hippolytus. These two forces ■can be seen as representing the two basic aspects comprising the human brain. According to the split-brain theory of physiological psychologists, the human brain is divided into i two halves. One half is thought to control speech. The I ' ‘ other half is labeled nonverbal. Thus the basic conflict m I Euripides' plot between silence and speech may indeed re flect basic attributes of the functioning human brain. , Upon first glance, the characters of Hippolytus i appear to align themselves into two camps representing these ' ] I two extremes (see fig. 1). Aphrodite and Phaedra may be placed within the instinctual realm of silence. Artemis and Hippolytus may be allied within the realm of verbal reason. I However, this oversimplification discounts the theory that iall character projections are part of the mind of Theseus. Jung noted that "nature is not only harmonious; she 6 6 is also dreadfully contradictory and chaotic." This view ' I can be applied to an analysis of Euripides' characters, for,: according to Jung, a basic aspect of a psychic phenomenon is its containment of extremes. Each character in Euripides' ! :play may therefore be viewed as being comprised of extremes.! I It is not possible to classify them within a single dimen sion: they are dramatically multidimensional. The Gods: Aphrodite and Artemis Joseph Campbell observed that gods and demons, heav- 6 7 ens, purgatories, and hells are within us. The gods may therefore be interpreted as projections of the id (instinc- 86 ^ 0 (th e s p ^ U j £ 4y / / 5 / FEMALE / / EMOTION / LIFE-GIVER PHAEDRA ' V X ^ o * \ MALE \ REASON \ HUNTER (1 ife - destroyer) \ HIPPOLYTUS APHRODITE \ EARTH \ MOON \ DARKNESS ARTEMIS HEAVEN / SUN / LIGHT / Fig. 1. The Splintering of the Godhead {Myla Lichtman, 1978) 87 jtual) and superego (reasoning) conflicting aspects compris ing human makeup. Conceived of as mirroring the image of 'man, the Greek gods are like man: they are multidimensional. j \ This may account for the fact that Greek gods can bej i called bad and good at the same time: Aphrodite indeed ' ! complains that Hippolytus calls her "the most wicked of > ' 6 8 idivinities." The Greek word "god" can also mean "devil," > i and the word theos can refer to evil as well as good 69 power. Greek gods are both evil and divine. i Carl Jung used the term "chthonic" to mean "the 1 VO other face of God; the dark side of the God image." Upon ; i .first glance, as the perpetrator of evil within Euripides1 I play, Aphrodite appears to be the chthonic force personi fied. However, at the play's end, the seemingly good god dess Artemis shows her dark side, vowing to avenge Hippoly- tus1 death with the same evil, warlike gusto exhibited by ■Aphrodite. 1 Examining the play's goddesses, Bernard Knox noted that "we become aware of them as impersonal forces which act in repetitive pattern, an eternal ordered dance of 71 action and reaction, equal and opposite." Then how does one begin to analyze these deities of Euripides' drama when they both appear to be simultaneously alike and opposite? 88 I Recalling that each of the play's characters is but a splinter of Theseus' mind, is it possible that they are I (and were originally) one being? The following investiga tion of this hypothesis, aided by mythological investigation i . . into the origins of the goddesses Aphrodite and Artemis, canj I .lead to a fuller understanding of these Euripidean 1 I characters. : David Bidney said that "the history of mythological 1 I theory demonstrates that there have been two basic approaches 1 jto the interpretation of myth, the literal and the sym- 1 72 bolic." This latter approach appears to be particularly 1 applicable to a study of the characters peopling Euripides' drama. Shirley Barlow has ascertained that Euripidean meta phors (symbolic references) are actually indicative of 73 intrinsic traits of the play's characters. Therefore a symbolic approach was used to correlate mythological infor mation with metaphors found in Hippolytus. The sea and the forest are two predominant meta phoric symbols found in the play. Jung believed that these two symbols are also prominent as representatives of the 74 mother archetype m mythology. Jung observed that the mother archetype basically possesses three attributes: '(1) cherishing and nourishing goodness, (2) orgiastic i ' 89 Jemotionality, and (3) Stygian (hellish) depths.^ Each of these attributes may also be associated with mythological data surrounding Aphrodite and Artemis. I Geoffrey Grigson's The Goddess of Love traces the | ] Greek goddess Aphrodite to the Babylonian-Assyrian goddess Ishtar of the second millenium B.C. Grigson describes 'Ishtar as "the Evening Star, bringing man and woman to bed: she appears as the Morning Star, waking men to go fighting in wars, a decidedly violent goddess, a wielder of weapons, ' 7 ( 5 as well as the goddess of love." * The next step in the evolutionary progression of the [goddess may be seen in the Phoenician inculcation of Ishtar 'as Astarte. The Phoenicians, many of whom drew their live lihood from the production of purple dye, settled in numer- i bus seacoast regions where the small mollusk shellfish from i which purple dye was produced were plentiful. The Greek goddess Aphrodite, said to have sprung ;from a seashell, may perhaps be ;seen as the offspring of Astarte of the Phoenicians, who drew their sustenance from jthe purple-dye-producing mollusk shell. Coincidentally, it was at the coastal Athenian territory of Kythera, off the Peloponnnese, where the Phoenicians maintained one of their principal trading stations, that the most ancient Greek 77 [temple dedicated to Aphrodite was erected. ; 90 i Aphrodite may be viewed as a goddess of love I through her ancestral link to Ishtar, the orgiastic, emo tional counterpart of the Jungian mother archetype. The 'cherishing and nourishing maternal aspect of the mother ; I archetype can also be seen to stem from Aphrodite's ances- j i ■tral link to the sea. Jung has interpreted the sea as a • 7 8 "symbol for the unconscious, the mother of all that lives." I Recalling her link to Ishtar, however, Aphrodite ! must also be viewed as a goddess of war and violence. This : may be seen as paralleling the hellish, Stygian depths Jung cited as being an aspect of the mother archetype. Expanding' further upon this chthonic side of the goddess representa- ! tive of the "loving and terrible mother" archetype, Jung wrote: "On the negative side the mother archetype may con note anything secret, hidden, dark; the abyss, the world of ithe dead, anything that devours, seduces, and poisons, that , 79 ■is terrifying and inescapable like fate." Upon superficial inspection of Euripides' two god desses, dominant attributes appear to emerge. Aphrodite appears to be primarily the force of instinctual sexual i desire. Artemis appears to be solely identified as the .goddess of the hunt (the wielder of weapons). This would .seem to suggest that at some point in time the goddess Aphrodite may have splintered into two godheads. 91 Hesiod's writings supply support for this assump tion. He noted that the newborn Aphrodite was accompanied ;by Eros: "Before long this winged Eros was taken to be the i child of Aphrodite; he was to dwindle to the badly brought :up child directing his fatal arrows at this breast and j 8 0 ^ that." The similarity of Artemis to Eros may be seen in ; I Edith Hamilton's description of the Greek goddess, which | even stresses her seemingly male character: "She was the I Lady of Wild Things, Huntsman-in-chief to the gods, an odd i 81 office for a woman." Eros, the brainchild of Aphrodite, may have thereby been replaced by Artemis. f In effect, the goddesses are alike. They are inter-, i changeable with one another. Proof of this contention may be cited by the fact that in Asia Minor the opposite align ment occurred. The other side of Artemis was developed "until she became the fertile mother-goddess par 8 2 excellence. The interchangeability of the goddesses within Euripides' play is also notable. Barnes observed that "al though Euripides' Artemis shows no trace of the old fer tility goddess, there is a suggestion of mysticism and religious ecstasy in Hippolytus' worship of her which is normally found only in connection with her Asiatic counter- 8 3 part." Perhaps the most stunning example of Aphrodite's iand Artemis' shared link to the sea symbol of fertility may 'be seen by a comparative analysis of the Nurse's descrip tion of Aphrodite and the Chorus's description of Artemis. The Nurse says of Aphrodite: "She ranges through the air, 84 and she is in the wave of the sea." And the Chorus de scribes Artemis in a similar fashion, even using the same opening phrase: "She ranges through the marsh waters, over ; 85 the land and over the sea." Aphrodite, the goddess associated with daves and dark forests, may thereby be seen to be synonymous with Artemis, the "lover of woods.It is therefore not sur- p ■prising that, as Aphrodite has begun the play with the exer- I i cise of her will to destroy men like hunted prey, Artemis jWill conclude the action by the continuation of sworn ■revenge against the same seemingly helpless human prey. The true significance of the affinity between these two god desses may best be seen in the moment when the Chorus reflects upon the tragedy that has befallen Theseus' house hold. The cry is voiced, not against Aphrodite, the obvious perpetrator of the evils that have befallen them, but against Artemis' counterpart, Eros: Eros, Desire! Our eyes perplex and cloud over when your essence dissolves within them, your assault waves of crushing delight pour into hearts marked by you for destruction. May the cruel hand of your power never touch me, may I escape ever bearing too much of you, who stampede to distraction our quiet pulse-beats. Neither the shooting stars nor the slashing lightning surpass in terror those shafts of Aphrodite aimed and thrown by your hand: they set our lives on fire.®^ The Human Prey: Hippolytus, ! Phaedra, and Theseus ( Tragedy befalls Hippolytus, Phaedra, and Theseus jbecause they are each oblivious to the gods peopling their : own minds. Thus the tragedy may be seen as man's failing I to fully comprehend the nature of his own psyche. i I Hippolytus and Phaedra both tragically fail to com prehend the full mature of their godheads. They are both trapped by the false belief that if they faithfully serve .one god they will be saved. Hippolytus remarks that "man must choose among the 8 8 gods as the gods choose among men." He, in turn, chooses reason and proceeds to serve Artemis exclusively. I In the process of this extreme devotion to reason, he fails to acknowledge his own instinctual sexual desires. His full nature surfaces in spite of his self-imposed repression. At the beginning of the play, while offering a floral wreath of reverence to Artemis, he prays in words that are filled with obvious sexual symbolism: "The bee 89 ■alone explores the virgin field." f Hippolytus, while on a subconscious level likening i ■himself to a pollinating bee, consciously fails to acknowl- l ■edge his own instinctual desires. Because of this divorce J ; i I from that aspect of himself, he is incapable of empathizing | I I t with Phaedra, who has succumbed totally to those instinctive! I forces. Instead of responding to her helpless state with i understanding and sympathy, Hippolytus berates his step- j mother's, weakness and incapability to reason nobly and to 'gain control over her situation. This prudish self- 'righteous attitude is his downfall. ! Even when he is wrecked by what Artemis calls his "noble generous mind," Hippolytus fails to see the nature of his own failing: "Why me? I have not done one wrong act, 90 in my whole life." He has failed to see that nothing is absolute. He has not learned that "every good quality has its bad side, and nothing that is good can come into the world without directly producing a corresponding evil. This 91 is a painful fact." Thus Hippolytus may be seen to paral lel Pentheus in Euripides' The Bacchae, who calls the god Dionysus a stranger because he is unable to recognize the fact that Dionysus is indeed the other half of his own psyche. Phaedra, on the other hand, divorces herself from 95 Ireason (symbolized by her seclusion within the palace, cut i off from the light of day). She succumbs totally to i I Aphrodite's domination. Her choice between silence and j t 1 speech may also be seen as a choice between passion and ! judgment. Unfortunately, she has contained her passion in I silence for too long. She has permitted it to grow and ! I I .fester within the unconscious darkness of her own soul. And Hike a cancer, her passion has grown monstrously, beyond ihope of containment. 1 When Phaedra finally speaks, she endangers the honor I that has been her life's aim. Because she is capable of i compassion and communal concern, she is more concerned for i the welfare of her children and husband than she is for her , own life. The central concept of an individual character's life often destroys them. This is true of Phaedra and her desire for honor. For honor (morality, decency, and all socially created codes) is conceived of on a rational level and often conflicts with instinctual desires. Phaedra may indeed be seen as an adjunct of the pas sionate Aphrodite. In her gallant struggle to deal con sciously with the true nature of her own feelings, she is 96 cut down viciously by Hippolytus' unfeeling verbal attack. I I . I ! Filled with the same taste for revenge that has permeated j i i jAphrodite's being, Phaedra carries out the goddess's will by writing the words that spell Hippolytus' doom. Hazel E. I I 'Barnes agrees that Phaedra "functions for the goddess her- i 92 'self." Therefore the fertility deity may still be held responsible for Hippolytus' destruction. f Bernard Knox's statement that "the search for a ^central tragic figure in this play is a blind alley," is 93 1 ;erroneous. By the play's end Theseus is clearly the tar get upon whom the tragic process is focused. He has been ritualistically cleansed in the gods' sea from which he will1 emerge a changed (reborn) man. He will acknowledge this act ,in his own words: , "I see troubles around me in an endless expanse,.‘as though I were awash in mid-ocean— I can't swim 94 back to my old life." Because he has chosen to ignore the gods and has .acted hastily without deliberation, Theseus' home has been 'destroyed. Jung has associated "home" symbolically with 95 ’"person." The gods Theseus has denied have possessed him and have prevented him from acting reasonably. His former 'psychic state has thereby been destroyed. The power of destruction, symbolized by the bull 97 jgiven to man by Theseus' father, and Theseus' use of that j 'power to willfully ravage and kill, has brought disfavor J from the gods. Unlike the gods, who are attuned to each | I f | jother and who are able to weigh all sides, Theseus has j | I 'acted independently of their internal counsel and, as a ; i result, has been harmed by his own extremism. Richard Lattimore has translated the tragic charac- ; ' 96 ter flaw hubris as "the activity of wild animal spirits." i ! This animalism can be seen as Theseus' crime. Like a savage jbeast, Theseus took his wife, Phaedra, as a prize of war. iTheseus can also be seen as the cause for his son's sexual Irepression. Savagely, the king had ravaged the Amazon 97 Queen Hippolyta, causing her to die m childbirth. Hip polytus was thereby cursed by the guilt of illegitimacy and i I ,of causing his own mother's death. Theseus’ savagery, apparent in these acts, can be seen as a canker desperately in need of excision. The wild ; bull from his father's sea is resurrected in the course of ; the plot. Theseus refers to it as the "miasma" that has 98 blown over him out of some black swamp of history. The pleansing process has been painful— "Ahhhl Sorrows in infi- 99 nite waves break over me." In the end, the tragic hero admonishes himself for his own sins and acknowledges the \ 98 ■gods within: "Aphrodite, I have no heart for your graces. r »100 I remember forever only your savagery. I i ' Conclusion I i i I The plot and characters of Euripides1 drama have I culminated in what has been called the first "full drama of J ; the mystery of the human person. Melchinger has called I 102 it "theater such as has never again been written." and I Lattimore has described it as: "Dianoia, thought, meaning, I ,the grand design, ceremony: they all suggest the final in- \ 103 definable dimension: the gods." I The drama may then be seen as a ceremonial enactment 'by the gods. Perhaps because of its presentation of the psychic gods, mere mortals have flocked to theatres to see Euripides' Hippolytus through the ages. Kerenyi has ob served that it is "in them [the gods], richness of life and 104 richness of meaning are one." The gods represent the lintensity that is lacking in man's life— total awareness of : i ’ the polarities inherent in human nature. Jung has assessed such awareness to be a sign of high culture: One-sidedness, though it lends momentum, is a mark of barbarism. The reaction which is now beginning in the West against the intellect in favor of feeling, or in favor of intuition, seems to me a mark of cul tural advance, a widening of conscioussness beyond the narrow limites set by a tyrannical intellect.105 99 The gods reflect upon all aspects of life: "The seeing and the thing seen, knowing and being, are, as | .everywhere in Greek life and thought, blended into unity." When such an attunement with every object comprising the i i world perceived by the psyche is realized, life is experi- i ,enced at an intense level. Jung remarked: 1 I Nothing could persuade me that "in the image of God" applied only to man. In fact it seemed to me that the high mountains, the rivers, lakes, trees, flowers, and animals far better exemplified the essence of God than > men with their ridiculous clothes, their meanness, 1 vanity, mendacity, and abhorrent e g o t i s m . 1 ^ The one-sided static view repeatedly taken by man of his world has continued to plague his existence with untold miseries. Euripides beheld all too clearly the self-j inflicted miseries of war and social unrest brought upon ;mankind through its absolute one-sided approach to life. >At the end of Hippolytus, Theseus warns: I If all this wickedness wells up even in the lifetime of one man, and each generation outdoes the previous in sophisticated vice, the gods will need to provide us another planet, which will soon swarm like a rotten fruit with sinners and men born lewd and vulgar.108 Euripides' Hippolytus envisioned the cleansing of King Theseus of the savage urge to kill and to destroy. Through the addition of the destruction of the mother figure Phaedra to the ancient rite, the playwright illustrated the fact that savage acts in the long run are unproductive. 100 pnless man can contain such impulses, the world holocaust envisioned by Euripides through Theseus' aforementioned words appears inevitable. 1 In light of the atomic capabilities held by the , 4 present generation, and its potential to indeed totally ' I destroy this planet, the concern voiced by Euripides' trag- 1 edy appears to have been uncannily prophetic. 1 0 1 Notes "'"Brian Vickers, Towards Greek Tragedy: Drama, My'th, Society (London: Longman, 1973), p. 201. 2 Siegfried Melchinger, Euripides (New York: Fred- Ungar Publishing Co., 1973), p. 22. I 3 Allardyce Nicoll, The Development of the Theatre (New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, 1966), p. 6. ! 4 ■ Vickers, Towards Greek Tragedy, p. 201. ' 5 , G. M. A. Grube, "Euripides and the Gods," in Euripides: A Collection of Critical Essays, ed.' Erich Segal (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, 1968), p. 33. 6 Stanley Edgar Hyman, "The Ritual View of Myth and 'the Mythic," in Myth: A Symposium, ed. Thomas A. Sebeok , (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1972), p. 138. 7 Geoffrey Grigson, The Goddess of Love (New York: ;Stein & Day, 1977), p. 35. O Hyman, "The Ritual View of Myth and the Mythic," p. 138. 9 Claude Levi-Strauss, "The Structural Study of Myth," in Myth: A Symposium, ed. Thomas A. Sebeok (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1972), p. 84. i ■'■°Lord Raglan, "Myth and Ritual," in Myth: A Sympo- sium, ed. Thomas A. Sebeok (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1972), pp. 133-134. I Richard Lattimore, Story Patterns in Greek Tragedy ! (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1964), p. 72. ■I r\ ' Raglan, "Myth and Ritual," p. 133. 13 Erich Segal, "Introduction," in Euripides: A Col lection of Critical Essays, ed. Erich Segal (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, 1968), p. 9. 102 14 i Hazel E. Barnes, Hippolytus in Drama and Myth j : (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1960), p. 81. : 15 I Alexis Solomos, The Living Aristophanes (Ann i Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1974), pp. 55-56. i 1 6 T , ! Ibid., p. 57. j ! i 17 W. C. Green, ed., "The Frogs" of Aristophanes (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1879), p. vi. 18 Maurice Croiset, Aristophanes and the Political 'Parties at Athens (London: Macmillan & Co., 1909), p. 147. 19 Bruno Snell, Scenes from Greek Drama (Berkeley: ■University of California Press, 1964), p. 23. 20 Melchinger, Euripides, p. 40. 21 David Bidney, "Myth, Symbolism, and Truth," in Myth: A Symposium, ed. Thomas A. Sebeok (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1972), p. 13. 22 Lattimore, Story Patterns m Greek Tragedy, p. 1. 23 Bettina L. Knapp, Jean Racine: Mythos and Renewal in Modern Theater (University: University of Alabama Press, 1971), p. 176. 24 Melchinger, Euripides, p. 53. 25 Reider Th. Christiansen, "Myth, Metaphor, and Similie," in Myth: A Symposium, ed. Thomas A. Sebeok (Bloomington: University of Indiana Press, 1972), p. 64. 26 I Barnes, Hippolytus m Drama and Myth, p. 80. 27 Mary Louise Baldwin, "The Influence of Classic ;Greek Tragedy Upon the Drama of Eugene O'Neill: A Selective :Study" (M.A. thesis, University of Southern California, ' 1944) , p. 146. 2 8 Barnes, Hippolytus in Drama and Myth, p. 101. 29 Lattimore, Story Patterns in Greek Tragedy, p. 72. 103 ! 30 : Edith Hamilton, Mythology (New York: New American |Library, 1940), p. 151. I ' 31 Euripides, Hippolytus, trans. Gilbert Murray (Lon don: George Allen & Unwin, Ltd., 1902), p. 87. 32 Raglan, "Myth and Ritual," pp. 130-131. i » 33Ibid., p. 125. I ! 34Ibid., p. 131. | 3 5 ' Hyman, "The Ritual View of Myth and the Mythic," | p. 137. : 3 6 Barnes, Hippolytus in Drama and Myth, p. 107. 37 Euripides, Hippolytus, trans. Kenneth Cavendar, ed. Robert W. Corrigan (New York: Dell Publishing Co., .1965), p. 12. 38 Euripides, Hippolytos, trans. Robert Bagg (London: Oxford University Press, 1974), p. 77. 39 Ibid., p. 60. 40 Barnes, Hippolytus m Drama and Myth, p. 96. 41 Euripides, Hippolytus, ed. Corrigan, p. 87. 42 Euripides, Hippolytos, trans. Bagg, p. 18. 43 S. H. Butcher, ed. and trans., Aristotle's Theory of Poetry and Fine Art (New York: Dover Publications, 1951), p. 347. 44 Levi-Strauss, "The Structural Study of Myth," p. 86. 45 Euripides, Hippolytus, trans. Murray, p. 8. 46 Philip Vellacott, Ironic Drama: A Study of Eurip ides' Method and Meaning (London: Cambridge University Press, 1975), pp. 116-117. 47 Euripides, Hippolytus, trans. Murray, p. 35. 104 48 Barnes, Hippolytus m Drama and Myth, p. 120. 49 Euripides, Hippolytus, ed. Corrigan, p. 10 5. 50 Euripides, Hippolytos, trans. Bagg,. p.\57. 51 Vellacott, Ironic Drama: A Study of Euripides1 Method and Meaning, p. 117. 52 Lionel D. Barnett, The Greek Drama (London: Fol- croft Library Editions, 1972), p. 2. 53 Euripides, Hippolytus, trans. Murray, p. 19. 54 Euripides, Hippolytus, trans. Donald Sutherland (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1960), p. 15. 55 Euripides, Hippolytus, ed. Corrigan, p. 87. 56Euripides, Hippolytos, trans. Bagg’ , p. 48. ~*^Ibid . , p. 35 . 5 8 . Ibid., p. 70. 59 Euripides, Hippolytus, trans. Murray, p. 64. 60Euripides, Hippolytos, trans. Bagg, p. 84. ^Segal, "Introduction," in Euripides, p. 8. 6 2 Bernard M. Knox, "The Hippolytus of Euripides," in Euripides: A Collection of Critical Essays, ed. Erich Segal (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, 1968), p. 110. ( 5 3 Barnes, Hippolytus in Drama and Myth, pp. 105-106. 64 Melchinger, Euripides, p. 93. ^Barnes, Hippolytus in Drama and Myth, p. 72. 6 6 Carl G. Jung, Memories, Dreams, Reflections, trans. Richard Winsten and Clara Winsten (New York: Vintage Books, 1965), p. 229. 105 6 7 Joseph Campbell, The Flight of the Wild Gander: Explorations in the Mythological Dimension (New York: Viking Press, 1969), p. 128. 6 8 Grube, "Euripides and the Gods," p. 35. 69 Ibid., p. 40. 70 . Jung, Memories, Dreams, Reflections, p. 168. 71 Knox, "The Hippolytus of Euripides," p. 112. 72 Bidney, "Myth, Symbolism, and Truth," p. 21. 73 Shirley A. Barlow, The Imagery of Euripides (Lon don: Methuen & Co. Ltd., 1971), p. 98. 74 Carl G. Jung, Four Archetypes, trans. R. F. C. Hull (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1973), p. 15. 75 Ibid., p . 16. 7 6 Geoffrey Grigson, The Goddess of Love (New York: Stein & Day, 1977), p. 27. 77 Ibid., p. 28. 78 Carl G. Jung, Psyche and Symbol, ed. Violet S. deLaszlo (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday Anchor Books, 1958), p. 143. 79 Jung, Four Archetypes, p. 16. 8 0 Grigson, The Goddess of Love, p. 36. 81 Hamilton, Mythology, p. 82. 8 2 Barnes, Hippolytus in Drama and Myth, p. 111. O O Ibid., p. 122. 84 Knox, "The Hippolytus of Euripides," p. 112. 85,., Ibid. 106 ^Hamilton, Mythology, p. 31. 87 Euripides, Hippolytos, trans. Bagg, pp. 4 2-4 3. 8 8 Knox, "The Hippolytus of Euripides," p. 106. 89 Barnes, Hippolytus m Drama and Myth, p. 122. 90 - . Euripides, Hippolytos, trans. Bagg, p. '81. 91 Carl G. Jung, Modern Man m Search of a Soul, trans. W. S. Dell and Cary F. Baynes (New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, 1933), p. 199. 92 Barnes, Hippolytus in Drama and Myth, p. 121. 93 Knox, "The Hippolytus of Euripides," p. 90. 94 Euripides, Hippolytos, .trans. Bagg, p. 56. 95 Carl G. Jung, Man and His Symbols (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday & Co., 1964), p. 78. 96 Lattimore, Story Patterns m Greek Tragedy, p. 23. 97 Melchinger, Euripides, p. 93. 9 8 - Euripides, Hippolytos, trans. Bagg, p. 56. 99 Ibid., p. 58. 10°Ibid., p. 85. ■ ' “^Barnes, Hippolytus in Drama and Myth, p. 71. ^^Melchinger, Euripides, p. 69. 103 Lattimore, Story Patterns in Greek Tragedy, p. 71. 104 Carl G. Jung and C. Kerenyi, Essays on a Science of Mythology, trans. R. F. C. Hull (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1969), p. 26. 105 Jung, Psyche and Symbol, pp. 306-307 107 ogy, 106 Jung and Kerenyi, Essays on a Science of Mythol- . 154. 107 Jung, Memories, Dreams, Reflections, p. 45. 108 Euripides, Hippolytos, trans. Bagg, pp. 61-62. 10 8 CHAPTER IV MYTH IN ONGOING FORM Man and Myth Why have the logic, the heroes, and the deeds of Greek myth survived into modern times? How does myth change with time? Is there a basic need in man for mythic reaf firmation in ongoing form? These questions are explored in this chapter. V. To begin with, the first query— based upon observa tions by Jung and Freud--implies that myth has offered soemthing to humankind that has enabled the ancient expres sive form to survive into modern times.'*' What is the essence of this expressive form that has permitted its con tinued place within human culture? James Joyce's term "monomyth," from his book Finne gan 's Wake, serves to point up the singular nature that has 2 led to the continuation of myth. Jung also noted a singu lar monomyth underlying all life: "a solidity underlying 3 all existence." This prevailing monomyth can indeed be seen as uniting all men in all periods. It may be 109 interpreted as being the tragic story of man's fate: of man's inevitable death. According to Joseph Campbell, this inevitable human mortality and the desire to transcend it may be seen as the 4 initial impulse leading to myth formation. The trans cendence may be seen as containing two parts: (1) the re- experiencing of the intensity of life, and (2) the identifi cation of the individual with the prevailing social order. The Intensity of Life: Initiation Mircea Eliade has written that myths reveal a desire to "rediscover the intensity with which one experi- 5 enced or knew something for the first time.” As man approaches death, he loses the high degree of responsiveness to the world that he possessed at the beginning of his life. His feelings, in many respects, appear to deaden with age. Through the desire to cling to life--to recapture his youth— man may utilize myth as the means to reexperience his initial intense response to life. According to Jung, archetypal images "have peopled g the heavens of all races from time immemorial." This con ceptual phenomenon may be linked to man's need to recapture the initial response to life through reexperiencing the thrill of initiation. 110 Aphrodite, an archetypal mythological being, repre sented the initiation of man to love. She has been por trayed stepping from her seashell birthplace onto the shores of man's world, thus signifying the birth of love. The con tinuation of this ancient Greek goddess has been noted by Geoffrey Grigson, who observed that she has not died away 7 from our emotions. Aphrodite--as the embodiment of love— was transformed into the Roman Venus and was born again in the Western world during the Renaissance in Botticelli's painting, Birth of Venus. Her ability to elicit a place for herself among diverse times and cultures has been ob served by Eliade as being indicative of the fact that she serves as the continuing representative of initial human emotion: "The world of Supernatural Beings is the world in which things took place for the first time— the world in which the first tree and the first animal came into exis tence; in which an act, thenceforth religiously repeated, 8 was performed for the first time." Edgar Snow further noted that he saw a color print of Botticelli's Venus in the home of a modern-day Chinese 9 steel worker near the Great Wall. This may reveal the cross-cultural timelessness of the mythological goddess and the response she continues to elicit. Ill John Lahr also notes the pull of mythology back to an imaginative first source. The continuing relevance of myth to human need may be seen as the result of this element of indoctrination. Lahr cites the ongoing quest for knowl edge as being significantly related to the ancient myth dealing with the initiation of man to this quest: "The awful guilt of the apple is something every one of us car ries around."^ Campbell shares this view of man's harping back to initial response as being the quest for "the lost Atlantis of the co-ordinated soul."'*''*' In other words, through the reattunement with initial response afforded by myth the human psyche may be brought into coordinated balance. The dramatic end product of katharsis— purging of excessive emotional urges so that psychic balance can be attained--can thus be seen as synonymous with the end prod uct of the initiation aspect of myth. Eliade notes that through its initiation aspect, an alteration is produced in 12 those exposed to myth. Through myth's process of initiation, the spectator becomes "another." He is vicariously purged and is thereby enlightened through exposure. This change may also be said to occur in the theatre audience partaking of Greek mytho- drama. 112 Euripides' Hippolytus, seeking to find the initial cause of man's savage instincts that were being exercised callously in the Peloponnesian War of the playwright's day, utilized kathartic rites to restore the tragic King Theseus to psychic balance and fuller awareness. Recalling the original indoctrination of man to savagery through Posei- don's white bull— and the ensuing fertility rite— man's savagery was flagrantly exposed. The brutal dismembering of Hippolytus upon the rocks and the splintering of Theseus' psyche— into the various characters of the play— may be seen as paralleling the initial tragic premise of myth: man's fragmented psyche confronting death. The psychic identity of man can be viewed as fragmented over time because of the various stages comprising the total life of man— his various ages and roles. The human psyche may therefore be viewed as dis membered and spread over time. Joseph Campbell believed this view of psychic dis memberment to be a common element of Greek tragedy as well as of modern romance. He has called "dismemberment" synony- 13 mous with "life in time." The continued quest for fuller understanding of human nature, which can be seen as the common quest of both 113 myth and drama, through mythological referents pertaining to initial awareness of instinctual urges may be seen as pivotal to Euripides' drama. Because of its quest for understanding the roots of human emotion, Hippolytus serves as an excellent example of the relevance that initiation rites may have to mytho-drama. Hippolytus epitomizes the dramatist's quest for better understanding human emotions: "For all practical purposes there is only man and his feelings."^ Social Order Versus the Individual Recognition of the individual's inevitable death has been combined with the concept of the endurance of social order to constitute what Joseph Campbell has identi fied as "the nuclear structuring force" of myth.^~* A cru cial aspect of myth's ability to transcend individual mor tality may be seen in its alliance with those elements of society that outlive the individual. Myth generally con cerns itself with universal attributes uniting, rather than separating, men throughout time. The subject matter of myth most often concerns itself with the totality— the fullness— of man, not as a separate member, but as part of the body of society as a whole: "the individual can be only an organ." 114 Great mytho-drama, such as Euripides' Hippolytus, has prevailed because it has continued to give pleasure to succeeding generations. The communal focus of mytho-drama ■may indeed be seen as a possible answer for the continuing human need to transcend death. Through its focus upon social verities, mytho-drama thereby retains its relevance for succeeding generations of theatre audiences. In Greek society, leaders were not considered to be selfish glory seekers, but rather the embodiments of col lective will. They were viewed as splinters of the collec tive psyche of man. The psychic whole that was Greek soci ety— which endured beyond the individual psyche— was itself viewed as being comprised of multifarious psyches (the Greek citizenry). The focus of myth upon society as a whole is in direct opposition to the twentieth-century existentialist belief voiced by Nietzsche's Thus Spake Zarathustra, stating that all gods are dead and that only man's physical con- 17 scxous state prevails. Under existentialist doctrine, man is isolated in a hostile world where he is forced to make his individual mark at any cost: "The ancient human heri- 18 tage of ritual, morality, and art is in full decay." Because man is robbed of his link to humanity at large, his 115 isolation and ability to relate and to contribute to the society in which he exists is diminished. As a result of this narrowed perspective, modern existentialist playwrights have progressively been losing touch with the social truths mirrored in the theatre of Dionysus, where men felt themselves absorbed into the larger psychic being of the community: "Harmony, Unity, the Com munion of the Saints! Have they gone for ever with the tri- 19 umph of the conscious intelligence?" Much theatre today stresses idiosyncratic traits that differentiate men from one another and serve to assert the individual's dissimilarity to the whole of society. The effect of this continued orientation is reflected in the spiraling hedonism--drug abuse, narcissism, nuclear armament buildup, and the growing trend toward self-aggrandizement at any cost--that will neither benefit nor prolong society as a whole. The fact that several absurdist dramas end in sui cide— The Chairs and The Zoo Story, among others— and that many of the so-called great existentialist playwrights (Sartre and Camus, for example) have been nonprolific may be symptomatic of the short-lived fate awaiting man if this growing misalliance with society prevails. 116 It is interesting to observe David Bidney's comment that the perennial function of myth has been to provide a 20 basis for social faith and action. Thus man may draw hxs inspiration and transcend his fate through the social focus found in myth. To say that men have totally lost contact with this aspect of myth would be untrue. Even though playwrights may outwardly profess modern tenets, Jung contends that certain poetic creations are often characterized by a bor- 21 rowing, not always conscious, from myths. And Joseph Campbell has agreed that aspects of myth prevail in modern drama "unheard by outward ears, perhaps, yet recognized 22 within by all." It is therefore not surprising to find echoes of Euripidean mytho-drama in contemporary dramatic works. Considering the sense of transcendence offered to man by the intensity of his j,reattunement with initial experience and by the social-prolongation focus found in myth, it is significant to note that throughout time, play wrights have either consciously or unconsciously utilized mythic elements in their works. Carl Jung's pronouncement may indeed prove of value to the modern-day playwright: "The most we can do is to dream the myth onwards and give 117 23 it a modern dress." This belief about the ongoing rele vance of myth to humankind may hold true as long as the life of the individual remains ephemeral. Myth in Time A General Overview: Formation, Transformation, Eternal Mind's Eternal Recreation The prevailing influence of Greek dramatists upon dramas produced by succeeding generations of playwrights is apparent. Erich Segal wrote of Euripides' continued influ ence : Needless to say, the playwrights worshipped him, come dians as well as tragedians. This awe is reflected in the famous remark by Philemon, writer of Greek New Comedy, who claimed he would hang himself to meet Euripides. Euripides' influence on Seneca is well known, while the romantic comedy he inspired in Menan der gave models to Plautus and Terence for their Roman entertainments. . . . And in one way or another "Euripidean drama" is still being written.^ Hence the Greek's mytho-dramas survived and continued to supply future generations with examples of the process of adapting mythic themes to current conditions. In Part II of his Faust drama, while attempting to describe the ever-looming chaotic storehouse of knowledge confronting man, Goethe may have unwittingly supplied a key to understanding humankind's relationship to myth throughout .11.8] time: "Formation, Transformation, Eternal Mind's eternal 25 recreation." Goethe's drama therein alluded to the three pronged advancement of human thought mirrored by the myth- formation process. To begin, the myth-formation process can be seen as an innate function of the human brain: "The brain is fol lowing its own law; it is actively translating experiences into symbols, in fulfillment of a basic need to do so. It carries on a constant process of ideation."2^ In other words, the metaphorical process of myth formation leading to conceptualization— symbol, character, concept— may be seen as essential to the development of human thought (see fig. 2). Plato realized that the survival of man may indeed 27 be dependent upon mythic symbols that propel him to act. Goethe's concept of "formation" can be seen, then, as rep resentative of this basic human endeavor to deal with man's inevitable fate. The second aspect— transformation— is a concept that initially spawned this study, for even upon superficial sur veillance, many so-called "classic" dramas throughout the ages appear to possess aspects of ancient Greek mytho- dramas. These commonly held attributes may be indicative of the fact that the myth-formation process serves to _____________________________________________________________119. SYMBOL CHARACTER CONCEPT Fig. 2. The Myth-Formation Process (Myla Lichtman, 1978) enlighten through its mirroring of the inner workings of the human psyche. Although man's so-called accomplishments have spiraled, the properties of his functioning mind have remained constant and enigmatic. The need to fully compre hend the mind of man has prevailed throughout time and con tinues into the present. Utilizing ancient myth as a starting point, play wrights such as the twentieth century American playwright Eugene O'Neill have been able to express the mythos of their own nations and times. Edward Maitland, writing in 1890, observed that with reflection upon specific ideas, related ideas become visible, "the impression produced being that of mounting a ladder stretching from the circumference towards the center of a system, which was at once my own system, the solar system, and the universal system, the three systems 2 8 being at once diverse and identical." In other words, myth may serve as an heuristic source of inspiration that can lead the playwright to articulate eternal truths as they are manifested in his own time. Jung believed that by giving shape to archetypal images, artists translate these fundamental human instinc tual properties into the language of the present: "Therein lies the social significance of art: it is constantly at 121 work educating the spirit of the age, conjuring up the forms 29 in which the age is most lacking." The transformation of properties of ancient myths into modern garb appears to be a significant aspect of mytho-drama. Finally, Goethe's recognition of the "eternal mind's eternal recreation" may be seen as the final key to the endurance of mytho-drama through time. Because of its meta phorical nature, the complete meaning of myth cannot be totally perceived: it remains "a challenging persistent suggestion of more remaining to be experienced than will ever be known or told."^ Thus the "eternal mind" will con tinue to reflect upon the meaning of the various petal-like layers of myth that unfold in light of the spirit of the age in which it is viewed. An example of this final concept pertaining to the position of myth in time may be seen by the fact that aspects of myths that have merely beeen mouthed by one gen eration can be physically realized by succeeding generations, Jung noted that the Romans were familiar with the mechanical principles and physical facts necessary for constructing the steam engine; however, all that came of it was a toy made by Hero of Alexandria. It was not until the nineteenth century, when the division of labor and specialization led 122 to a pronounced need, that the storehouse of ancient knowl edge was realized on a broader physical level: the steam engine would lead to revolutionary changes. The physical and mental aspects of man's world would change along with the transfiguration of mythological symbols reflecting those changes. Another example of the profound multilevel store house of myth can be seen in the case of hypothetical equa tions (which may be seen as synonymous with myths, because they are not fully proven on a scientifically conscious level) pertaining to heated gases. These myths governing the turbulence of gases existed long before actual physical investigation of the gases had transpired. Again myths can be seen as concentrated storehouses of knowledge that man can glean only with time and the proper spirit of receptivity. Jung intimated that the illusive intensity found in myth can be linked to that which is indefinably eternal in man. Jung paralleled the unfathomable depths of myth to the rhizome (hidden roots) of plant life: "Yet I have never lost a sense of something that lives and endures underneath the eternal flux. What we see is the blossom which passes. 31 The rhizome remains." _________________________________________________________________ 123 Myth may thus be viewed as being the rich mulch from which succeeding generations can draw inspirational nourish ment. As with the rose, specific myths may be seen to bud and bloom and decay; however, the rhizome— the essence of myth that may be paralleled to the roots of the rosebush— will continue to produce new progeny for succeeding genera tions. Myths, like roses, may vary in outward form, depend ing upon the spirit of the ages in which they are produced; nevertheless, they will continue to spring from the endur ing, life-producing rhizome. What has just transpired is an application of meta phoric thought to reveal aspects of the metaphoric phenome non that is myth. To reinforce these concepts and to verify their possible validity, a survey of specific examples of the transformations of Euripides' Hippolytus mytho-drama through time follows. Introduction: The Hippolytus Mytho-Drama in Time The link between our present Christian era and the pre-Christian world of Euripides has been noted by Jung. The basic similarity of the Christian Jesus myth to the ancient pre-Christian Egyptian Osiris-Horus myth is sig nificant. Jung maintained that "the Christian era itself _________________________________________________________________ 124 owes its name and significance to the antique mystery of the god-man, which has its roots in the archetypal OsiriS-Horus 32 myth of ancient Egypt." The relevance of basic religious rite to Euripides' Hippolytus has been established. Additionally, Gilbert Murray has recognized the significance of religious rite in mytho-drama throughout time. In his 1914 Shakespeare lec ture, "Hamlet and Orestes," Murray compared the common rit ual origins of the seventeenth century A.D. Shakespearean 33 drama to the fifth century B.C. Greek drama. Pre- Christian myth was thereby seen to have maintained its sig nificance for succeeding generations within Western Judaeo- Christian civilization. The aspect of reinitiation found in the Hippolytus of Euripides may possibly be seen to have direct correla tions in the Christian world. The Christian ritual of baptism is essentially an initiatory rite. Baptism in Christianity involves the immersion (or sprinkling) of the initiant in water. In this light, the words of Euripides' Theseus appear to hold up through time. Like the pre-Christian Theseus who is cleansed of his sav agery in the ocean waters so that he can be born again, Christians also believe that they are born again as the re sult of being washed of their sins by baptismal waters. .__________ 125 Hence there appear to be basic ritualistic bonds uniting the ages of man. These ritualistic ties may serve to ensure the continuation of mytho-dramatic works such as Euripides' Hippolytus and to guarantee their transfigura- I I [tion throughout time. I , , The theme of adultery found in Euripides' drama can i jalso be cited in numerous other literafy works. Another [example of the seduction of a young man by the wife of a 'respected nobleman is found in the story of Joseph's seduc- ition by Potiphar's wife in Gen.: 39 :7-20. This same theme :is also found in the Homerian Iliad tale of the seduction I i 'of the pure young man Bellerophon by Anteia, and in Pindar's 'tale of the seduction of Peleus by the wife of Acastus7' | i In the first century A.D. , the Roman playwright : i 'Seneca would look directly to Euripides' mytho-drama for j I j [inspiration. Seneca chose to present Euripides' Phaedra, i |however, as the pivotal character in his drama and even I [ ^hose her name for the title of his play. I I i I jean Racine's Phaedra j Neoclassical concerted effort to reabsorb and to ^mirror the mytho-drama of ancient Greece resulted in French i neoclassic playwright Jean Racine's reinterpretation of I [Euripides' drama. The fact that myth retains its relevance i throughout time is apparent in Jean Racine's seventeenth Lentury mytho-dramatic interpretation of the Greek Hippoly- i jtus myth. Racine's Phaedra reflects the psychic climate of ! I ;the neoclassic era in which it was conceived while retaining the essence of the original mytho-drama from which it Isprang. : Racine had been raised as a member of the Jansenist sect of Catholicism. Jansenist doctrine contends that man's fate is solely determined by a godhead and not by man's i lability to reason and to thereby determine his own destiny. iThis belief was directly opposed to King Louis XIV's "Age i lof Reason," which carried a sun symbol for its crest sym- ! bolizing the gloire allegiance to reason and the rejection j of passion. Because of this philosophical conflict, Jan- .senist schools were closed through governmental pressure u land eventually the Port Royal Jansenist community was dis- , banded. Political oppression, however, forced Jansenists .to uphold their doctrines with fervent zeal. I King Louis XIV1s court endeavored to model itself (after the rationalistic classical era of enlightenment. .Jean Racine, like Euripides, saw all too keenly the danger iin such a one-sided allegiance to reason. Just as the jsocratic dictum that if a man knows what is good, he will choose it failed to prevent widespread acts of violence in Euripides' Greece, French neoclassic society with its false rationalistic pride found itself constantly engaged in (Warfare - i ! Louis XIV's court was likened to a bivouac between 'two campaigns. First there was the War of Devolution with .Spain in 1667. Then, during the time Racine wrote Phaedra I (1677), France was engaged in a seven-year war with Holland, which could have ended disastrously for France had Great I ;Britain succeeded in joining the coalition against the i ■French king. i Even theatre during Racine's lifetime was beset by 'acts of violence. According to Abbe D'Aubignac's first hand account in his 1657 publication, La Pratique du The- I ■atre, spectators wore swords to the theatre and often attacked other members of the audience during the course of ! . 3 5 .a dramatic presentation. Both Euripides and Racine can be seen then as con- I fronting the same dilemma: the need to understand the root ! i :cause for irrational acts of violence being perpetrated during their so-called "rationalistic" times. Euripides !recognized that passions drove men to action. Racine ( ■shared this basic belief when he interpreted the Jansenist ! 128 godhead determining man's fate as being the passion driving ■men to action. In the Racinian interpretation of the Greek mytho- drama, Hippolytus, who had personified an all-out allegiance 'to Artemis, the goddess of reason in the Euripidean version, i [is consumed by Aphrodite's fires of passionate love for the i i Ichaste Princess Aricia. Racine's entire drama exemplifies \ |the power of such psychological god-like passions beyond Iman's control that propel humankind to take actions beyond rational control. i ! In his endeavor to understand more fully the nature i ( o.f that passionate force propelling men to action, Racine i ! i 'further splintered the original myth's characters. Through] I the introduction of Confidant characters— Oenone and | i I Theramenes— allied with the play's principal characters, j I jRacine more cleatly defined the forces of passion versus i j jreason. i Phaedra and Hippolytus are both consumed by their passions, whereas their mentors, Oenone and Theramenes respectively, personify the rational aspects of Phaedra and jHippolytus. In this regard, Racine's play further splin tered human makeup to more fully explore the significance ;of humankind's fundamentally dualistic nature. Through this further delineation of the rationalistic and passionate aspects of the original myth’s characters, Racine's thesis that passion guides human destiny was most powerfully 'presented. I The goddess Artemis of the original version is I ^humanized into the Aricia character in Racine's drama. I I [Aricia, like Artemis, is chaste; however, she is consumed i i [by love for Hippolytus and ceases to be the reasoning, dis passionate soul of Euripides' original conception. It is i (significant that at the play's end Theseus declares Aricia i ito be his daughter and heir and thereby acknowledges the I jdominating passionate forces that determine human destiny. [ Despite the rigidity of neoclassic rules that j (govern decorum and art, and a voiced repudiation of William Shakespeare's romanticism by staunch members of King Louis XIV's French Academy, the success of Racine's Phaedra dur- [ing the time of its conception reveals an apparent social i t [dichotomy. Its success revealed the basically romantic core of French society of that era. The rules and pomp of ! jFrench neoclassxc society may therein be viewed as accoutres | |ments masking emotions that needed to be expressed. Racine's interpretation of the mytho-drama tends to (disavow the classical precept of "The Golden Mean." It is 130 easy to surmise that perhaps his extreme alliance with the I I forces of passion may have been prompted not only by his ingrained religious background, but also by a subconscious attunement to the imbalance existing in the society of his I 'day. In light of Louis XIV's alignment with the forces of ’reason, Racine sensed the need for artistic expression of • I 'the emotional aspects of his society. In this regard Imytho-drama can be seen as serving to nurture the psycho- i jlogical well-being of the civilization for which it is | conceived. Because mytho-drama is capable of reflecting the psychological climate of the times in which it is re- i 'interpreted, it continues to be relevant for succeeding ! t I ■generations. The enduring quality of Racine's Phaedra is ■evidenced by Schiller's eighteenth century German transla- ! jtion, which enabled its expanded exposure throughout !Europe. The play was eventually translated into many lan- I i .guages, and the renowned actress Sarah Bernhardt continued | |to perform the lead role throughout her extensive travels I [well into the latter years of her long and illustrious i i jcareer. As recently as 1960, the world-renowned Theatre iFrangais produced Racine's mytho-drama. Racine's seven- i :teenth century transfiguration of the Greek Hippolytus can I 131 therefore be seen as having shared in the apparent eternal 'mind's eternal recreation enjoyed by Euripides' original i jmy tho-drama - t I ' The Hippolytus Myth in Modern Times I ! The numerous examples of the rebirths of Hippolytus I i 'through time are too plentiful to be entirely accounted for I | jin the context of this study. However, additional works I I jthat appear to share similar attributes of the Greek mytho- idrama are Maurice Maeterlinck's Pelleas and Melisande drama I ■ of 1892; Tolstoi's nineteenth century novel, Anna Karenina; Lorca's twentieth century drama, Blood Wedding; and Rex- 3 6 roth's recent verse play, Phaedra. Maeterlinck's drama deals with the themes of adultery and incest. Melisande, like Phaedra, is married to a nobleman (Golaud) who is older than herself. She becomes i helplessly infatuated with her husband's attractive younger 1 (brother, Pelleas. Like Euripides' mytho-+drama, Maeter- j jlinck's play ends in death for the two ill-fated lovers, jand the king's loss of two kinsmen. » J Mircea Eliade has observed that in modern societies J 'the prose narrative, especially the novel, has taken the i 37 place of the recitation of myths in ancient societies. 132 iThe transformation of the same theme found in Euripides' i Hippolytus is found in Russian author Tolstoi's novel, Anna Karenina. Like Phaedra, Tolstoi's Anna is a well-bred, nobly married mother who is overcome by adulterous pas sions. The Euripidean hangman's noose as the means for i 'suicide has been modernized, however. At the novel's end i 'Anna Karenina throws herself beneath the wheels of a steam- i ! jdriven train. ! Garcia Lorca's twentieth century Spanish drama, jBlood Wedding, also contains many thematic elements found in IEuripides' tragedy. The Bride in Lorca's work is caught in i I the same dilemma as was Phaedra. Married to an older, affluent gentleman, she yearns to appease the adulterous j sexual desire that is driving her insane. She runs off jwith the handsome adulterer Leonardo on her wedding night, jHowever, Lorca sees the drama as a purging of the Bride, !for both her husband and her lover meet with death, leaving her alone to meet her fate at the play's end. I In Kenneth Rexroth's 1951 verse drama, Phaedra, |which was based upon the Greek myth, there are striking I changes in the ancient myth that serve to reveal the abil ity of myth to reflect the changes and climate of the times jin which it is expressed. The ability of mytho-drama to 133 transcend the individual and to tap into the dilemmas confronting society at large is particularly apparent in this recent reinterpretation of the Greek mytho-drama. The most striking change in the mytho-drama is King Theseus' reaction to Hippolytus' confession of raping ^Queen Phaedra. Theseus says, "You are my son. I'd be I ! 3 8 jashamed if nothing happened." In other words, the king left home hoping that his son would sexually assert himself with the queen. J It is the queen's shocking realization of this I !complete moral laxity and lack of order in her world that 1 ; i jprompts her to commit suicide by impaling herself upon her | | stepson's sword. She exclaims: "I do not weep for our | 39 jprivate misery, but for the chaos of the world.” Without jrules, without order, without morals, humankind is reduced to animalism and the god Chaos rules men's, lives and their actions. Phaedra sees no hope for man's ascendance in the face of such chaotic disorder: there is no soil for her to k t jroot her existence in. Any act is acceptable. Finally, the goring of Hippolytus by the same bull jthat impregnated Phaedra's mother and introduced savagery to mankind is particularly significant in light of the atomic beast introduced to modern existence. For after the 134 I ------ — ibull murders Hippolytus, it flees into the darkness and is unleashed upon the world at large. Rexroth's drama therefore points up the new terrors i i 'confronting man's existence. The moral laxity and disinte gration of respect for rules governing social conduct are I particularly upsetting when viewed in light of man's new- Ifound ability to utterly demolish his world through atomic i [weaponry (represented by the bull in Rexroth's Phaedra). I | Hence the plot and characters of Euripides' {Hippolytus can be seen as reappearing in diverse 'cultures !spanning the ages of man. Again the ability of the sym bolism of myth to reflect the particular concerns of the t I age in which it is expressed may be seen as the key to the | t [prevalence of this expressive form throughout time. i ■ Significantly, the symbolic identification of man {with the horse (hippos) appears to have continued into I modern times. Henry Miller's 1943 painted vision offers { |evidence of this fact (see fig. 3). And British playwright i | Peter Shaffer's widely acclaimed drama, Eguus, serves as further proof of man's continued desire to recapture the iillusive intensity of life seemingly possessed by the jancient Greek era that openly acknowledged its relationship i i to its myths. The image of the horse and man's desire to Fig. 3. Man and Horse (Henry Miller, 1943) SOURCE: Jay Martin, "My Angel Paints," Westways, May 1978, p. 26. 136 acknowledge the bestial side of himself, represented by the four-hooved creature, is eloquently revealed through the psychiatrist protagonist, Martin Dysart, in act 1, scene 19 of the play: | I wish there was one person in my life I could show. | One instinctive, absolutely unbrisk person I could take to Greece, and stand of front of certain shrines ; and sacred streams and say "Look! Life is only com- j | prehensible through a thousand local Gods." And not just the old dead ones with names like Zeus— no, but I living Geniuses of Place and Person! And not just Greece but modern England!^® j ■Dysart is actually calling for greater understanding of our i > jhuman selves through giving recognition to and delineating Jthe multifarious gods determining our feelings and actions. - Noticeably missing from the aforementioned ref- j I erences to offshoot works of Euripides' Hippolytus is i jDesire Under the Elms, a widely lauded play by America's !leading playwright Eugene O'Neill. O'Neill openly acknowl edged his affinity for the ancient Greek mytho-drama. Therefore an in-depth examination of O'Neill's work (which, |unlike Racine's Phaedra, has not received widespread criti- I jcal assessment) may serve to highlight more graphically iaspects of mytho-drama in ongoing form, and to reveal the I I jvalue of utilizing aspects of mytho-drama for dramatic ;analysis. The following chapter is dedicated solely to this I |undertaking. j 137 Conclusion The continued presence of mytho-’ drama through time may be attributed to its ongoing psychological relevance. i ^The fact that Euripidean mytho-drama continues to receive widespread production and study— and spawns new dramatic I works— is indicative of its eternally appealing usefulness. 'Basically myth addresses itself to the question of man's jcontinuing struggle to survive against the insurmountable fate that forever faces him: inevitable death. The tran scendence offered by the initiation and social identifica- I :tion aspects of jnyth appears to give a partial answer to i {this prevailing human concern. f j The importance of mythic reaffirmation in on- i i 'going form was recognized by Jung. He wrote: "In reality we can never legitimately cut loose from our archetypal foundations unless we are prepared to pay the price of a !neurosis, any more than we can rid outselves of our body anc. ! 41 !its organs without committing suicide." He further con- j 'tended that man is constantly confronted with the task of finding new interpretations of inherited myths that will :render them appropriate to the spirit of the age. This 'transformation is essential to linking up the past that still exists in man with his present life. Jung warns [that if this process is not realized, psychic epidemics lie r t in store for humankind. The importance of recognizing the relationship of 'myth to drama in its ongoing form was clearly articulated ! by the American playwright Arthur Miller, who remarked that i I"a drama worthy of its time must first, knowingly or by 'instinctive.means, recognize its major and most valuable I 42 itraditions and where it has departed from them." ' Because of its ability to metamorphosize in order Ito meet the specific obsessions and requirements of the individual, the race, and the age in which it is expressed, i myth offers the dramatist a rich, ever-present link to | theatre audiences. j I The reaffirmation of human life (which may be rep- I > i resented only by intense emotional awareness) offered by myth can serve to enrich the quality of human existence. The depth of initial response— such as man's initial response to his first view of the earth from outer space— may be reexperienced through mytho-drama. As man pro gresses toward his death, the intensity with which he lives and experiences life often appears to diminish. Mytho- drama may provide momentary retardations in this deadly progression toward the obliteration of feeling. 139 Notes | Carl G. Jung, Memories, Dreams, Reflections, ed. ‘ ' “Joseph Campbell, The Hero With a Thousand Faces (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1949), p. 4. ! 2 Ibid., p . 30. 3 ( ; Aniela Jaffe, trans. Richard Winsten and Clara Winsten (New lYork: Vintage Books, 1965), p. 358. i 4 ( Joseph Campbell, Myths to Live By (New York: :Bantam Books, 1972), p. 20. \ 1 5 j Mircea Eliade, Myth and Reality, trans. Willard R. Trask (New York: Harper & Row, 1963), pp. 192-193. i j ^Carl G. Jung, Four Archetypes, trans. R. F. C. 'Hull (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1973), p. 18. 7 Geoffrey Grigson, The Goddess of Love (New York: 'Harper & Row, 1958), p. xv. 0 ( Mircea Eliade, Rites and Symbols of Initiation (New York: Harper & Row, 1958), p. xv. i I Grigson, The Goddess of Love, p. 36. ■ ^^John Lahr, Up Against the Fourth Wall (New York: (Grove Press, 1970), p. 16. i ! ■'"■''Campbell, The Hero With a Thousand Faces, p. 388. t 12 1 Eliade, Rites and Symbols of Initiation, p. x. ; 13 ‘ Campbell, The Hero With a Thousand Faces, p. 25. ! 14 Brian Swann, "’Silas Marner’ and the New Mythos," ■ Criticism 18 (Summer 1976): 110. I is ; Campbell, Myths to Live By, p. 21. I f 16 i Campbell, The Hero With a Thousand Faces, p. 3 83. 140 1?Ibid., p. 387. 1 R Ibid., p. 388. 19 George Sherringham and James Laver, Design m the Theatre (New York: Albert & Charles Boni, 1927), p. 29. 20 David Bidney, "Myth, Symbolism, and Truth," in Myth: A Symposium, ed. Thomas A. Sebeok (Bloomington: •Indiana University Press, 1972), p. 21. i ' 2 1 j Carl G. Jung and C. Kerenyi, Essays on a Science i of Mythology, trans. R. F. C. Hull (Princeton, N.J.: Trinceton University Press, 1969), p. 71. * • 22 i Campbell, Myths to Live By, p. 54. i I 23 j Jung and Kerenyi, Essays on a Science of Mythol- jogy, p. 79. ! 24 Erich Segal, ed., Euripides: A Collection of Critical Essays (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, 1968) , p. 10. i ' 2 5 1 Jun9' Memories, Dreams, Reflections, p. 196. i I 26 , Dean C. Barnlund, "A Transactional Model of Com- jmunication," in Foundations of Communication Theory, ed. ^Kenneth K. Sereno (New York: Harper & Row, 1970), p. 89. ^ 2 7 Plato, The Timeaus and the Critics, trans. Thomas Taylor (New York: Pantheon Books, 1944), p. 162. 28 Carl G. Jung, Psyche and Symbol, ed. Violet S. deLaszlo (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday Anchor Books, 1958), p. 323. 29 I Carl G. Jung, The Spirit in Man, Art, and Litera- jture (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1971), p. 82. I ' 30 I Campbell, The Hero With a Thousand Faces, p. 3. 31 Jung, Memories, Dreams, Reflections, p. 4. 141 I 32 Carl G. Jung, Man and His Symbols (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday & Co., 1964), p. 79. 33 Stanley Edgar Hyman, "The Ritual View of Myth and jthe Mythic," in Myth: A Symposium, ed. Thomas A. Sebeok j(Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1972), p. 141. I 34 Gilbert Murray, "Preface," in Hippolytus by Euripides (London: George Allen & Unwin, Ltd., 1902), p. 9. ' 35 A. M. Nagler, ed., A Source Book in Theatrical j History (New York: Dover Publications, 1952), p. 177. j i ^ ^ ! Maurice Maeterlinck, The Plays of Maurice Maeter linck, trans. Richard Hovey (Chicago: Herbert T. Stone & Co., 1896); Lev Nikolaevich Tolstoi, Anna Karenina, trans. Louise Maude and Aylmer Maude (London: Oxford Press, 1961); Garcia Lorca, Blood Wedding, in Classics of the Modern Theater, ed. Alvin B. Kernan (New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, 1965), pp. 303-351; Kenneth Rexroth, Phaedra, in Beyond the Mountains: Four Plays in Verse (New York: ;New Directions Books, 1951), pp. 12-55. ! 37 1 j Eliade, Myth and Reality, p. 191. j i 3 8 ' Rexroth, Phaedra, p. 52. i 39 , Ibid., p. 34. 40 j Peter Shaffer, Equus, m Types of Drama, ed. Sylvan Barnet, Morton Berman, and William Burto (Boston: ‘Little, Brown & Co., 1972), p. 274. 41 j Jung, Psyche and Symbol, p. 120. ! 42 i M. W. Steinberg, "Arthur Miller and the IdeaL.of Modern Tragedy," in Arthur Miller: A Collection of Criti cal Essays, ed. Robert W. Corrigan (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: J |Prentice—Hall, 1969), p. 92. CHAPTER V i I EUGENE O'NEILL'S DESIRE UNDER THE ELMS I | The Playwright i | Eugene O'Neill remarked that the imaginary prophet's I Iwords in Nietzsche's Thus Spake Zarathustra influenced him | more than anything he had ever read: "You must have chaos ,in you to give birth to a dancing star. I tell you that |you still have chaos in you."’ * ’ Hence the concept of the i t :Greek god Chaos as initiator of men's actions appears to ; I ,have continued into modern times. I ! During his six-month period of convalescence from '.tuberculosis at Gaylord Sanitarium, O'Neill pored over jcreek mytho-dramas, as well as Nietzsche's writings, and [was spiritually reborn. Aligning himself with the ancient ^theatre stemming from the Greek god Chaos, the twenty-five- f jyear-old former suicidal wanderer found his calling in "a !theatre returned to its highest and sole significant func- ! jtion as temple where the religion of life is communicated i 2 ito human beings." I ! 143 Nietzsche's dancing star loomed just beyond the I horizon for O'Neill, who endeavored to utilize the boundless wealth of mytho-drama in his own dramatic works. He be- i 'lieved that he had been blessed with the poetfs vision, i enabling him to glimpse the mythic "force" beyond the phy- I isical realm that enervates and provides the stimulus for all [action. O'Neill also may have found gratification in the mythic element of transcendence over the tragedy faced by humankind in its ephemeral lifetime. O'Neill's life was fraught with an overabundance of tragedy, which could have t !made the need for such transcendence especially pronounced. !His mother was a drug addict. His brother James was an I Jalcoholic. O'Neill had been shunted from one boarding i school to another, never having the security of family .homelife, because of his father's transient theatrical I ‘career. i I The results of O'Neill's exposure to Greek mytho- i drama were his plays— such as Desire Under the Elms— in [which mythic qualities are evident. He gave new form to .ancient Greek mythological motifs to attain the eternally ■sought-after transcendence inherent in them: i i 144 [His aim was] to develop a tragic expression in terms of transfigured modern values and symbols in the the atre which may to some degree bring home to members of a modern audience their ennobling identity with the tragic figures on stage. Of course this is very much of a dream, but where the theatre is concerned, one must have a dream and the Greek dream in tragedy is the | noblest ever!^ It may indeed be because of this pronounced attune- ment with Greek mytho-drama that O'Neill's plays have been i i 4 jdescribed as possessing "extraordinary intensity." The i search for re-arousal of the intense initial response to I life that was part of Euripides' Hippolytus appears also in I O'Neill's Desire Under the Elms. Euripides' initial desire j 'to find answers for the bestial, actions of man in his war- torn world may have been born again within the bosom of the [ American playwright who committed himself to returning the atre to its original guest. | On the eve of World War I— in 1913, to be precise— •Eugene O'Neill began his work in the psychologically cura- i Itive art form of playwriting. Like his Greek predecessor, i j Euripides, O'Neill beheld the pradoxical conflict of human reason and bestial savagery. Like the Greek world, I !0'Neill's society, which prided itself on its cultural and scientific advancements, was confronted by the uncontrol lable horrors of war. i 145 War was continuing to destroy social order. O'Neill realized that hope for transcendence of man's ephemeral existence may be found in an alignment and commitment to humanity at large. i O'Neill acknowledged Jung's influence upon him in a I I 'letter to Caroline Sparrow when he said that Freud had no linfluence upon him but that he had "some knowledge of iJung."~* He reflected upon the Jungian concept of the col lective unconscious uniting humankind when he wrote in 1922: Our emotions are instinctive. They are the result not only of our individual experience but of the experiences of the whole human race, back through the ages. They are the deep undercurrent, whereas | our thoughts are often only the small individual j surface reactions.® j Through the mythic connection to the collective unconscious, O'Neill hoped to provide his audiences with a spiritual reaffirmation of the immortal aspect of man that prevails in the social order. He believed that theatre might be the last staging ground for such spiritual reaf firmation in the modern world, and stated that: | [His plays would endeavor to find] the roots of the j sickness of today as I feel it— the death of the old | God and the failure of science and materialism to | give any satisfying new one for the surviving primi- | tive religious instinct to find a meaning for life 1 in, and to comfort its fears of death with.^ 146 j O'Neill hoped to provide a transcendence of death through his utilization of Greek myths. Returning theatre to its original religious function, he hoped to provide humankind with the curative psychic outlet for which it has I ^continued to thirst. The universal significance of I lO'Neill's utilization of Greek myth can be seen in Bennett r jCerf's remark that Eugene O'Neill was "the first univer- i j 0 isally recognized world dramatist America produced." | The relevance of O'Neill's works to both Greek i I Imytho-drama and to Jungian mythic precepts may be most suc- jcinctly evidenced in an examination of his play, Desire I ;Under the Elms. This play has been described as the first !of O'Neill's works in which the influence of Greek tragedy | | is clearly manifest and in which the influence is an i i . 9 extremely literal one. i [ I ; The Plot i J The plot, which is the soul of tragedy, may provide j i I !the first point for a comparative analysis of Euripides* i i 1Hippolytus and Eugene O'Neill's Desire Under the Elms. The i original Greek mythic plot, which was founded upon the j ‘ritualistic cleansing of the patriarch Theseus, can also be 1 !seen to be pivotal to Eugene O'Neill's naturalistic American .version. O'Neill describes the two elm trees, which are _____ 147 Ithe focal points of both the title of his play and of his stage set, as having tears that "trickle down monotonously and rot the shingles" of the house when it rains. This jsuggests that the house (which has been interpreted symbol ically by Jung to be synonymous with person) can undergo a isimilar baptism. < Had O'Neill been fully aware of the ritualistic implications of this stage device, he might have indicated 'a rainstorm at the end of his play, thereby bringing his jopening direction to fruition. A stage director who pos sesses this knowledge can utilize the playwright's opening suggestion and end the play by incorporating this fulfill ment of the ritualistic understructure of the drama. j In Desire Under the Elms, the Theseus of the Greek ( j !version becomes the elderly, robust farmer Ephraim Cabot I (also referred to as Cabot). The Hippolytus of Euripides ;is the mother-fixated, jealous stepson, Eben Cabot. The 'classic Phaedra figure is the security-seeking Abbie who, 'like Phaedra, marries the elderly patriarch who is capable of offering her the security she so desperately needs. O'Neill's play opens with Ephraim's three sons— i Ithe products of two marriages— returning from a work day in |the fields of Ephraim's stony New England farm. The two I I _ _ _ _ _ 1 4 8 lelder sons— Simeon and Peter— express their desire to break their slave-like bonds with.the life-consuming farm and to venture West in search of the gold that is just being dis- I ^covered in California (the play is set in 1850). The introduction of the gold-rush theme may be seen i as an excellent example of myth in ongoing form, and can be : seen as synonymous the the original myth's golden-fleece :theme. In the original Greek version, after Theseus has llost Phaedra and his son, the old king ventures forth after i ithe golden fleece, which he eventually does find. The gold ;rush of O'Neill's version can be viewed as a modern trans- ifiguration of this ancient treasure-seeking theme. In .other words, O'Neill was in tune with mythic aspects of his iown society that appear to have universal, timeless paral- j t [ ’ I lels. He was able to incorporate those aspects of his own j culture's myths (the American West) into his drama, thereby jlending it an immediate relevance to his own society. i i ■ Eben, Ephraim's youngest son (aged twenty-seven), returns from Minnie the prostitute's place with the news jthat Ephraim has taken himself a young new bride. He offers to buy his brothers' shares of the farm in exchange !for the gold that Ephraim has hoarded and supposedly hidden. ;Upon seeing their father with his new bride, the brothers 149 accept Eben's offer. They sign over their shares of the farm and take the gold payment to use for boat fare West. Abbie, Ephraim's new bride (like her Greek counter part, Phaedra) is immediately consumed by adulterous, 'incestuous desire for her stepson, Eben. Eben, who hates the woman who has come to reolace his mother and to steal f f |his rightful inheritance (the farm)--like Phaedra had done to Hippolytus— shuns Abbie's overtures. He enrages her by I going to see the prostitute, Minnie. i I The incensed Abbie, seeking to restore her honor, and the seventy-seven-year-old Ephraim pray for a son of their own. This scene of prayer can be seen as significant jof the ritual aspect at the root of mytho-drama. Ephraim tells Abbie his life story— he (like Theseus) has had three wives. She is disinterested and | looks toward Eben's room. When Cabot leaves the house in i disgust and goes to sleep in the barn with the cows— ,again suggesting the original rite of human lying beside animal— Abbie goes to Eben's bedroom. Abbie plays upon Eben's suppressed desire for her. She gets him to unlock the parlor where his mother had been laid out for burial. Thus Abbie takes Eben's mother's place. Believing that his mother is seeking revenge 'against Ephraim through Abbie, Eben proceeds to fornicate [ iwith his father's new bride on the floor of his mother's sacred parlor. This adulterous act in itself may be seen as an i 'extension of the animal-substitute rite for the rending of .royal warriors in ancient Greece. Ironically, Eben's off spring (who will be considered by Ephraim to be his own son) i iis conceived to inflict warlike revenge against Ephraim for the brutal mistreatment he had inflicted upon Eben's (mother. The baby is therefore conceived in hate, rather than in love. The conception is an act of lustful revenge. ,This is the kind of initial act that can lead only to •tragedy: to the savage revenge of the gods. j Act 3 of the play occurs the following year, just [ [after the birth of the son Ephraim believes is his own. At f | [the celebration following the child's birth, the neighbors { I Igossip about Abbie and Eben behind Ephraim's back. This occurs while Abbie (who is still consumed by adulterous passion for her stepson) goes upstairs to find Eben admiring [their son. Eben goes outside to cool off and is confronted by his father. Ephraim tells his son that Abbie wishes to [possess the farm and would go to any lengths to accomplish this end. Eben suddenly believes himself to have been duped by the scheming female's love trap. Confronting Abbie, Eben allows her no opportunity i jto correct his misconception of the situation. He proceeds to curse Abbie, the baby, and even himself in a manner that 'is recollective of Euripides' Theseus, who cursed his off spring, and of the Greek playwright's plot in which mother E [and son meet tragic doom. Eben proclaims: j I wish ye was dead! I wish I was dead along with ye ; afore this come! But I'll git my vengeance too! i I'll pray Maw t' come back t' help me— t' put her [ cuss on yew an him! . . . I wish he never was born! i I wish he'd die this minit! I wish I'd never sot j eyes on him! 1 Abbie proceeds to fulfill the curse. Hoping to .regain Eben's love, she smothers her own child in its crib. Upon learning of Abbie's horrendous act, Eben ileaves for town to tell the sheriff. Abbie, at her wit's !end, tells Ephraim that the child was not his. She tells ,him of her love for Eben and of her actual revulsion for the hard-nosed old man she has taken for her husband. Eben, having a change of heart, rushes back to i |Abbie ahead of the sheriff. He tells her that he suddenly understands how great her love for him must be. He tells iher that he will share in whatever horrible fate awaits , her. ! 152 Old Ephraim vows to burn the farm to the ground, to ■set the cows loose, and to head West to join Simeon and I i jPeter in gold hunting. However, the old man soon discovers that his sons have absconded with all of his money. He has been deserted and betrayed by all. I ' At the play's end, old Cabot, like Theseus, is left < 'alone to carry on with his work. His wife and son are parted away to meet their most certain doom. The stone- llike patriarch has been subjected to enough sorrow to purge I ihim of his savage ways. The goddess Aphrodite (the female j 1 lanima of Ephraim represented by the elm trees, the farm, J | |and Abbie) has wrought her revenge against the hard-nosed I i patriarch. j t This brings to mind Phaedra's comment in Euripides' play that "it cows a man, tho bold he be, to know a mother's I ' 12 jor a father's sin." Ephraim, like the patriarch Theseus, i 'as head of his household has been savage in his impulsive ness and murderous ways. In act 3, he remarks: "I've i I killed Injuns in the West . . . an' skulped 'em tool . . . An' I tuk vengeance on 'em. Ten eyes fur an eye, that was i 13 my motter!" This savagery may be seen, then, as having its disastrous repercussions within O'Neill's play. In this symbolic wedding of Ephraim to the cow (Mother-Figure 153 jsymbol), the marriage of the old man to the anima, which i I he had endeavored to murder and to deny, is realized. In act 1, scene 2 of the play, Eben accuses Ephraim of having murdered his mother by slaving her to death. This can indeed be seen as perhaps the original sin begin- i ,ning the disastrous chain of events. The Mother Figure will i taunt and torment the old man until she has forced him to reconcile with those emotional aspects of himself he has idenied and abused. This haunting of Ephraim by the anima | 'is seen vividly through Eugene O'Neill's carefully selected I symbols. I t I 1 A symbol that the playwright might have been sub- | Consciously aware of is the uroboros (see fig. 4). This j ! mandala-like symbol of a snake swallowing its own tail is 1 14 ;said to be one of the oldest symbols in primitive art. i |It may be seen as being representative of the womb-like ! 'state in which the child is totally encompassed by its i i jmother. When the child is thrust out of the womb it expe- 1 riences the trauma of rejection. If realization of "self" is to be attained, the child must learn to reconcile mascu- jline-and feminine aspects within itself. If animosity for i ithe initial rejection by the uroboros (female womb) is |maintained throughout life, then psychic imbalance results » I 154 Fig. 4. The Uroboros (Myla Lichtman, 1978) 155 ;and the person may become possessed by the instinctual feminine aspect that it endeavors to deny. j It should be noted that while he was writing Desire ' Under the Elms, Eugene O'Neill was in mourning for his mother, who died in 1922. He may have been wrestling with I the uroboric dilemma himself. For in the play the vision ! of the uroboros' self-swallowing action is alluded to in several instances. In act 1, scene 4, Simeon tells Ephraim 15 Ithat Eben will eat him because "dog'll eat dog." And in i |act 2, scene 1, Eben tells his stepmother: "Ye're aimin' It-' swaller up everythin' an' make it your'n. Waal, you'll I 16 [find I'm a heap sight bigger hunks nor yew kin chew!" I Thus the Mother Figure, Abbie, is actually visualized as j [swallowing the male offspring of Ephraim. Finally, in act [3, scene 2 of the play, Eben recriminates Abbie: "So that's [her sneakin' game— all along!— like I suspicioned at fust--1 I [t1 swaller it all— an' me, too." This is said in I lEphraim's presence, thereby making the swallowing of the I imale by the Great Mother (anima) stem from the old patri- I arch's acts— the offending of the anima and the murdering ■of the Mother Figure represented by Eben's mother. Just as Euripides' Hippolytus is dominated by the -presence of the twin goddess Aphrodite-Artemis representing 1 5 6 Ithe Mother Figure, O'Neill’s play is dominated by the presence of the anima (female projection of the human psyche). The elm trees are described as resembling mother I [figures clutching and smothering the Cabot home. This may ■ < * 'be seen as prophetic of O'Neill’s literal smothering of the t male offspring by its mother m the play. I t 1 The farm can be seen from a Jungian perspective as ,being symbolic of the female Earth Mother. Edith Hamilton Icommented that from the time of the Greeks the business of (hunting was assigned to the males and the caring of the I fields belonged to women, as they were felt to be most Understanding of the reproductive process connected with I 1 8 '' i i 1 ! the soil. The plougli (a primary farming tool) in the ^ 19 field was a common Greek sexual metaphor. And farm grain i has been viewed by Kerenyi as symbolic of "the primary god- j 2 Q Idess who is mother and daughter in one." Thus O’Neill1s i farm setting can be interpreted to symbolize the Mother i ;Figure and can be seen as permitting her presence to be I |maintained throughout the play. ! The connection between this symbolic use of the Mother Figure and the connotations of the smothering uroboros can be seen most graphically in Simeon's statement in act 1, scene 4 of the play when he stamps his foot on the |earth and addresses it desperately: "Waal— ye've thirty year o' me buried in ye— spread out over ye--blood an1 bone jan' sweat— rotted away— fertilizin' ye— richin' yer soul— i 21 jprime manure, by God, that's what I been t’ ye." These ■words may be be seen as exposing the terrible (chthonic) 'side of the Mother that can entrap the male in the womb- ;state and prevent individual growth and development. The introduction of the child to the plot by O'Neill i lean be seen as another variation on the theme of the i mother-son relationship of Euripides' mytho-drama. The ! jdestruction of the child is representative of the destruc tion of man's psyche resulting from the continuation of i 'man's lack of respect for all aspects comprising the human j makeup. Significantly, at the play's end Ephraim is com- i [pared to the stones that plague his farm. His stone-like I insensitivity and denial of his own anima have served to destroy the harvest of his life: the resulting anima ) I ^possession destroys his homelife. | The plot of Eugene O'Neill's play can therefore be i i . .viewed as true to its Greek predecessor on both literal and symbolic levels. By choosing the New England farm setting, the American playwright captured the essence of the per vading Mother Figure spirit of Euripides' mytho-drama. (Furthermore O'Neill found the American equivalent of jEuripides' envisioned psychic struggle. Puritanical New (England (which is the setting for the play) has been beset i jby the conflict between reason and instinct. The Puritan ethic upholding sexual suppression poses a ripe staging ground for the inevitable struggle between heavenly reason 'and earthly instinctual desire. Character Writing in the American Spectator, Eugene O'Neill noted that "One's outer life passes in a solitude haunted 'by the masks of others; one's inner life passes in a soli- I | 22 ■tude hounded by the masks of oneself" (see fig. 5). Thus O'Neill acknowledged his affinity for Jungian my tho-drama tic 'interpretation Of dramatic action in which archetypal ,'splinterings of a single human psyche can conceivably mani fest themselves as characters', peopling a dramatic work. i i O'Neill was familiar with the Strindbergian charac- I ■ters who split, double, and multiply. Having studied the ■Swedish playwright's dramas during the winter of 1913 to I ;1914 while convalescing at Gaylord Sanitarium, O'Neill re marked that these dramas offered him "the vision of what 23 modern drama could be." 159 Fig. 5. Red Mask (Susan Seddon Boulet, 1976) SOURCE: Reproduced from "Images" notepaper printed by Pomegranate, P. 0. Box 4 78, Corte Madera, California 94925. 160 Hence, in O'Neill's dramas, critics have also come to consider many of his characters to be archetypal symbols 24 rather than individuals. This would lead one to hypothe size that, as the characters of Euripides' drama were i 'splinters of the patriarch Theseus character, the charac- t iters of Desire Under the Elms can be similarly viewed as . |being the archetypal projections of the patriarch Ephraim i i jCabot. | Ephraim Cabot's primary flaw is his obsession with t i |a single aspect of his psyche. He is obsessed by the need i i jto exert an ironclad, godlike rule over the female aspect I ^of his psyche. Because he has scorned the soft feminine aspect of his own psyche (his anima), he is possessed by iti t jHe offends the ancient goddess Aphrodite aspect of his i ;psyche by viciously negating any feminine aspect that might i : soften his hard, stone-like existence. He belies this when \ !he tells Abbie that "Ye needn't heed Eben. Eben's a dumb 1 25 fool— like his Maw— soft an' simple!" i ; Speaking of the hard god of stone that drives him, ^Ephraim concedes that lonesomeness and misery are plaguing I I |him. He is unable to see, however, that this misery is the jresult of his own subservience to a single godhead. The i iold patriarch even has the audacity to negate the anima i i I [_ 161 entirely by taking credit for the fertility that it repre sents. In act 2, scene 2 of the play he retorts: "When ye kin make corn sprout out o' stones, God's livin' in yew! 2 6 . . . God hain't easy. An' I growed hard." i ! When the supposedly divine-god-possessed Ephraim is j (referred to as being possessed by devils (in act 3, scene 1), t The Greek view of a multifarious godhead is further evi denced. In this regard, O'Neill shared in the Greek mytho- jdramatic view of a human psyche comprised of divine and I (chthonic aspects (see fig. 6). I The allusion to animalism may be seen as a metaphor | i (uniting all of the characters within the drama under a | jsingle godhead. And particularly the use of domesticated | animal imagery can be seen as a further possession of the ‘ characters by the home-associated Mother Figure (the anima). I 27 I Eben is called a "cow" by Cabot. Abbie refers to I 2 8 ■her young stepson as "a prize bull" (thereby recalling the bull from the sea of Euripides' original version of the j jplay). And Peter even speaks of his youngest brother's ! 29 ‘"hoofs" in the drama. Simeon and Peter— who may be equated with Simon and ;Peter as disciples of the Father Figure— are also referred to as "beasts of the field.They are called "oxen" in 162 r *W. »« MU »<kJ» • W i w " " M jHT : w.-.Fr'S:. Ac* £*s m % Fig. 6. The Battle of Actium (George de Hoff, 1977) SOURCE: Reproduced from "Images" notepaper printed by 'Pomegranate, P. 0. Box 478, Corte Madera, California 94925. 163 •in the first scene of the play.^"*" Finally, even their departure from the farm is described more in terms of beasts of burden who have broken their halters and who have escaped from an oppressive master (godhead), as Simeon I ;espouses in act 1, scene 4: "The halter's broke— the har- ( ;ness is busted— the fence bars is down— the stone walls, air [crumblin' and tumblin'1 We'll be kickin' up an' tearin' 32 ! away down the road!" i ; Even before the new stepmother is seen, she is ( ireferred to as being a "cow."^ Peter tells his father that he had better turn Abbie out to pasture "with the 34 ;other cows." Abbie is united with the males of the play i [when she is described in the first act as having "the same [unsettled, untamed, desperate quality which is so apparent • n 3 5 in Eben. The single dominating godhead Ephraim is physically [linked to the maternal cow as he is drawn to the barn at j 'night. He sleeps beside the milk-producing beasts of bur- i iden and speaks to them as equals. i These shared traits uniting the characters are sig nificant of the overriding presence of the anima in Desire [Under the Elms. Carl Jung wrote that a godhead's close iaffinity with a symbolic animal is significant of ( i 1 6 4 junacknowledged psychic aspects that have yet to be inte- 3 6 grated by the human psyche. Jung noted that the animal signifies the potential anticipation of an individuation process that is approaching wholeness. This may indeed ! imply that through the tragic cleansing process of the play's ritualistic plot Ephraim may approach psychic whole ness . The animal within him, which he has endeavored to .suppress, must be set free in order for psychic balance to ! 1 be realized— ironically, Ephraim speaks of setting the cows free in the final scene of the play. ! Conclusion l The effectiveness of mytho-drama in ongoing form i I jis evidenced by the reception of Desire Under the Elms. ^Despite American newspaper critics' initial lack of enthu siasm, the play filled the Greenwich Village Theatre, I Iwhere it premiered in 1924, for two months. The produc- I jtion was then immediately transferred to Broadway. On i iBroadway, it first occupied the Earl Carroll Theatre and jwas later moved to the George M. Cohan Theatre where it 'remained through October 17, 1925. Additionally, road .companies of the play traversed the United States. I The play met with widespread critical opposition due to its highly controversial moral issues exposing the ! j_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ 1 6 5 Oedipal nature of the psyche (mother-son incest and father- son rivalry for the Mother Figure). The adverse publicity, however, served only to increase audience attendance. i I Through his acknowledgment and utilization of mytho- i 'drama, Eugene O'Neill attained his position as one of the i 3 7 j"major dramatists of the modern world." Speaking of » ' Desire Under the Elms, John Gassner wrote: "In any case, I jnothing comparable to this work in power derived from a I sense of tragic character and situation had been achieved jby the American theatre in the hundred and fifty years of j 3 g | its history." ■ The fact that Desire Under the Elms has continued |to strike responsive chords within theatre audiences may be{ evidenced by the play's continued revival by professional iand amateur theatrical companies. On January 11, 1963, i j ;Jose Quintero's production of the play began a successful run at The Circle in the Square Theatre on Bleeker Street ■in Greenwich Village, New York. The New York Times review |of that production serves as poignant evidence of the fact jthat mythologically based drama (because of its link to the eternal collective unconscious of humankind) is capable of transcending the life and times of the playwright: "If jyou think that Eugene O'Neill's Desire Under the Elms is 'old-fashioned and creaky, go down to Bleeker Street, in jGreenwich Village."^ Notes ^Frederick I. Carpenter, Eugene O'Neill (New York: Twayne Publishers, 1964), pp. 32-33. 2 Ibid., p. 176. 3 I Sophus Keith Winther, Eugene O'Neill (New York: Random House, 1934), p. 220. i : 4 : Arthur Gelb and Barbara Gelb, 0 1 Neill (New York: jHarper & Row, 1962), p. 571. i : 5 ; Mary Louise Baldwin, "The Influence of Classic 'Greek Tragedy Upon the Drama of Eugene O'Neill: A Selec- jtive Study" (M.A. thesis, University of Southern Cali fornia, 1944), p. 7. ^ ^Leonard Chabrowe, Ritual and Pathos: The The ater of O'Neill (London: Associated University Press, 1976), p. 16. 7 Ibid., p. 2. 8 1 John Gassner, Eugene O'Neill (Minneapolis: Uni versity of Minnesota Press, 1965), p. 43. I ^Gelb and Gelb, O' Neill, p. 539. ^^Eugene O'Neill, Desire Under the Elms, in Three Plays of Eugene O'Neill (New York: Vintage Books, 1959), ip. 2. : 11Ibid., p. 48. ' 12 : Euripides,-Hippolytus, trans. Gilbert Murray .(London: George Allen & Unwin, Ltd., 1902), p. 34. 1 13 I O'Neill, Desire Under the Elms, p. 43. I - ..... - 14 i Carl Richard Mueller, class lecture in drama, .'University of California at Los Angeles, October 17, 1969. 1 15 . O'Neill, Desire Under the Elms, p. 14. 168 "^Ibid. , p. 25. ' * ' 7Ibid. , p. 47 18 i Edith Hamilton, Mythology (New York: New American Library, 1940), p. 47. 19 Hazel E. Barnes, Hippolytus m Drama and Myth (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1960), p. 123. 20 Carl G. Jung and C. Kerenyi, Essays on a Science of Mythology, trans. R. F. C. Hull (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1969), p. 130. i 21 i O'Neill, Desire Under the Elms, p. 15. | 22Winther, Eugene O'Neill, p. 276. I i 23Gelb and Gelb, 0'Neill, p. 234. j 2 4 Baldwin, "The Influence of Classic Greek Tragedy iupon the Drama of Eugene O'Neill," p. 41. ' 25 O'Neill, Desire Under the Elms, p. 19. 26Ibid., P. 31. 27 Ibid., p . 27 . 28lbid., P- 24. 29Ibid., p. 15 . 30t^.„ Ibid., P- 6 . 31Ibid., p . 5. 32Ibid., P- 17 33Ibid., p. 12. 34Ibid., P- 19. 35Ibid., p. 18 . 3 8 Jung and Kerenyi, Essays on a Science of Mythol- .ogy, p. 85. 1 37 Carpenter, Eugene O'Neill, p. 179. 3 8 Gassner, Eugene O'Neill, p. 15. 39 Carpenter, Eugene O'Neill, p. 109. 169 I CHAPTER VI | SUMMARY AND CONCLUSIONS | I Summary ! I Drama and myth can both serve to create order out of; I the seemingly chaotic disorder that bombards the human mind ; and senses. Through mytho-drama's inherent reinforcement of the thought-formation process--symbol, personification, i conceptualization— it continues to find a place in the hearts and minds of successive generations of theatergoers, i Jung believed that myth has enjoyed repeated telling by i successive generations because of its inherent psychologi cally illuminating aspects. Mytho-drama can be viewed in terms of man's pro gressive struggle toward consciousness of the totality com prising his dualistic nature: reason and instinct. The aim of mytho-dramatic plot can be viewed as representing this envisioned conscious rebirth of man on a plane on which his totality is realized and on which transcendence over his strictly material existence is attained. This dramatic transcendence of the ephemeral physical world 170 enables mytho-drama to answer a universal need for uniting \ I i humankind throughout time. The playwright, through utiliza-| tion of mytho-dramatic plot and character may therefore i strike responsive chords within audiences spanning diverse [ i times and cultures. i $ The continuing importance of mytho-drama's mirroring! of the human psyche is evidence by the fact that while man appears to have gained ascendance over nature, humankind has ' not yet gained control over its own nature. The atomic bomb; blast at Hiroshima and the continuing devastations of life I through continued warlike acts serve to reveal this pre vailing human failure. The question then arises: Has drama grown directly from the festival and mystery play of the dismembered bull- ;god Dionysus? Ironically, Dionysus, as God of Theatre in i ’ ancient Greece, was himself brutally dismembered, according ! to myth, in an act resembling the ritualistic dismembering i of Hippolytus. Does this indicate that theatre itself can be linked to the ongoing quest for control over the same destructive, brutal aspect of human nature recognized and explored by Euripides' Hippolytus and by Eugene O'Neill's Desire Under the Elms? It is highly conceivable that Through the tragedean's effort to bring order out of chaos, 171 |to better gain control and understanding of human nature, i 'sensitivity to such self-destructive action might in some 1 i ; way be ameliorated. j i Through the ongoing mytho-dramatic quest to re- j attune audiences with the intensity of their initial j response to life, perhaps, the insensitivity to brute force I i can be remedied in the curative sense that Aristotle orig inally envisioned for theatre. Through mytho-drama1s abil- 1 ity to embody concepts (through the process of characteri- I ization), rather than to preach platitudes, audiences may be enabled to reexperience (through the kathartic identifica tion process) their initial response to all things com prising their world. This thesis may sound lofty and perhaps even a bit idealistic in its envisioned end; however, the responsi bility of the dramatist--as the molder of alternative visions of theatergoers cannot be ignored: If the dreamer had never tried to tell the dream that had come across him, even though to "betray his secret to the multitude must shatter his own perfect vision" the world would grow clogged and dull with the weight of flesh and of clay. And so we must say "God love you" j to the Image-makers, for do we not live by the shining of those scattered fragments of their dreams?-'- :If the philosophy of an alternative "ideal" is to prevail, ‘then we must return to a mythic approach. Without the hope i 172 jof rising above the imperfections of the world as it exists ,in its strictly physical sense, humankind may indeed be ! • I i ! ! doomed. I ! ! The value of recognizing mythological origins of ! ! . j ;dramatic works has been reinforced by the aforementioned ' i i ! i insights and new interpretations of aspects of Euripides' ■ r Hippolytus and Eugene O'Neill's Desire Under the Elms in ;chapters 3 and 5. The ritualistic pattern underlying both i dramas serves to point up the true protagonists (Theseus and .Ephraim, respectively) of each drama and to shed new light ' ■upon directorial possibilities for more fully realizing ;both works in terms of production. Playwright Arthur Miller remarked that "a drama worthy of its time must first, knowingly or by instinctive means, recognize its major and most valuable traditions and 2 where it has departed from them." Even though there is most definitely a subconscious , I ‘ element that feeds into the playwriting process, it can be argued that the informed mind has: greater subconscious intuitions— because intuitions do not occur in an empty 'head! Through increased understanding of the initial ‘ritualistic understructure of his drama, Eugene O'Neill might have improved Desire Under the Elms. Full realization 173 iof elements of the ritual that he had himself indicated at I the play's outset, but which were never brought to fruition, f might have further enriched his work. i Conclusions Through the playwright's increased understanding of the mytho-dramatic genre, his ability to reach widespread ^audiences most effectively can be realized. It can be argued that this is a highly speculative assumption. How ever, Carl Jung argued that in order to "penetrate the dark-' ness we must summon all the powers of enlightenment that ( ;consciousness can offer; as I have already said, we must 3 even indulge m speculations." Although in many respects jtheatre today has achieved new levels of technical superi- I i lority over preceding times, playwriting (and, in turn, dra- i matic analysis) still remains an activity waged very much i ! in the dark . Whether a dramatic work will succeed con- i Itinues to evade anxious producers, playgoers, and even I |playwrights up to the time of performance. The writing Jcontinues to be the most precarious and the weakest area of theatre. Speculations into this area therefore definitely appear to be in order. Consequently, the potential use of Jung's theory of ,'myth for dramatic analysis appears to be significant. If the 1 _______ 1 - 7 . 4 playwright, through increased understanding, can indeed tap j into the collective unconscious of universal theatre audi- J I t j i |ences, hxs success will be guaranteed. j ! The psychological need in modern man for mythic re- I ! i affirmation has been observed by cinematic scholar Carlos j I Clarens. He recognized that in our scientific era the need i for an escape valve into the mythic realm of fantasy is J ■ 4 1 'particularly pronounced. As a result, the demand for the | fantastic has reached a height never before attained: the high rate of mythic monster films serves as evidence for ■this contention. While these horror films may not be con sidered great drama, their widespread reception is indica tive of an existing psychological need for mythic i Nourishment. While the Greek tragedeans knew no such term as "psychology," they were nevertheless aware of the power of inborn tendencies that Jung has recognized as instinctual archetypal urges. With the added conscious psychological insights offered by Jung's works, the dramas of Euripides, and subsequently O'Neill, take on added dimensions. Because of their innate mythological (psychologically probing) natures,"they serve to further reveal aspects of the human psyche that have awaited discovery at the level of consciousness. 175 I The idea that all the characters peopling both i I Idramas are indeed the projections of the mind of each play's I ‘ protagonist could only be realized through the psychological insights offered by Jung's theories. The resulting reali- i I zation that human character functions on a basis of con- ; i \ .trusting elements leads to a rich fleshing out of character,) which is often lacking in inferior dramatic works. i ( The Jungian study of cross-cultural mythological ; symbols serves to highlight aspects of both dramas that might otherwise transpire unnoticed. These symbols (such as the baptismal sea and the Mother Figure) were used— perhaps ; subconsciously— by the playwrights to reinforce the under- i ;lying themes of their works. The significance of mytho logical symbols is evidenced by the ability of the play wrights to infuse their works with poignant subtextual com mentary. An example can be sighted in Euripides' allusions ; to both Artemis and Aphrodite in terms of the sea, thereby 1 linking these two seemingly opposite characters to one I another; or in O'Neill's utilization of the cow symbol to link the seemingly opposing figures of Ephraim and Eben. Brian Vickers wrote of "tragedy's reshaping of 1 5 myth." This ongoing reformation of mythological motifs within dramatic works can be seen as representative of man's 1 7 6 [psychological need to unlock the mystery of his existence j 'that may be held within the mythic symbols comprising his j :world. The symbols of myth— like the gods— can be viewed j I as representative of aspects of the human psyche that can ! be sensed but which remain just beyond the grasp of human , i articulation in terms of fully conscious conceptualized : thought (language). Joseph Campbell has concluded that "the way to become human is to learn to recognize the lineaments of God in all the wonderful modulations of the face of raan."^ The gods and symbols peopling mytho-drama can be viewed as extensions of man's psychic striving toward self- realization. They can be seen as continuing reminders of the looming ascendance over human nature that man has yet f to realize if indeed humanity is to prevail. The evolution of human thought has been reflected (by mytho-dramas conceived throughout time. Through their process of elevating instinctual urges to the level of consciousness, these dramas have served to express those feelings that had previously been just beyond the con scious grasp of theatre audiences. In this wa.y, mytho-drama serves to mirror the instinctual psychic climate of the ^ times in which it is produced. Therefore mytho-drama 177 records the evolution of our thinking-feeling human species I ' . taore accurately than any merely physical historical record j can ever hope to achieve. j It becomes increasingly apparent that mytho-drama \ I is crucial to optimum human growth and development. Its j 1 components are as basic as human thought formation. Its jrelevance to humankind is as crucial as psychological bal ance itself. Without the conscious airing of subcon sciously repressed thoughts, man may be cancerously de stroyed from within. Carl Jung's psychological precepts have served thus not only to point up significant aspects of mytho-drama, but to reveal the major role that this form of expression can serve in preserving the psychological well being of humankind. Suggested Studies This study has touched upon the surfaces of numerous areas that merit further investigation. It has challenged the established interpretations of Euripides' Hippolytus and Eugene O'Neill's Desire Under the Elms. This Jungian-mythic perspective of these works offers new possibilities for analyzing other mytho-dramas by these and other dramatists. A study of the symbols in the dramas of O'Neill and Euripides that were not dealt with in this study— such as : . 178 the bee and the moon, among others— and their psychological I I portent may serve to shed new light upon the mytho-dramas of Ithose playwrights. An awareness of the evolution of mytho logical symbols into modern times could conceivably serve to help modern playwrights find those modern symbols that most accurately express commonly shared modern instinctual aspi rations, hopes, and fears. The playwright is continually faced with the challenge of finding those symbols that are I essential to his time and that will thereby strike respon sive chords within theatre audiences. Ideally, this study will arouse many questions and lead to further investigation into an area of theatre that appears to be rich with yet-unanswered questions: the realm of dramatic analysis. 179 Notes ^James W. Flannery, W. B. Yeats and the Idea of a Theatre (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1976), p. 377. 2 I M. W. Steinberg, "Arthur Miller and the Idea of j Modern Tragedy," in Arthur Miller: A Collection of Criticalj Essays, ed. Robert W. Corrigan (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, 1969), p. 92. j 3 : Carl.G. Jung, Modern Man m Search of a Soul, trans. W. S. Dell and Cary F. Baynes (New York: Harcourt, Brace & 1 ■World, 1933), p. 97. ; 4 Carlos Clarens, An Illustrated History of the Horror Film (New York: Capricorn Books, 1967), p. xiii. 5 Brian Vickers, Towards Greek Tragedy: Drama, Myth, Society (London: Longman, 1973), p. 300. ^Joseph Campbell, The Hero With a Thousand Faces (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1949), p. 390. 180 r i i SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY l i 181 SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY Books Shirley A. The Imagery of Euripides. London: Methuen & Co., 1971. Hazel E. Hippolytus in Drama and Myth. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1960. Sylvan; Berman, Morton; and Burto, William, eds. Eight Great Comedies. New York: Mentor Books, 1958. Dctiiieu., Lionel D. The Greek Drama. London: Folcroft i Library Editions, 1972. ;Barnlund, Dean C. "A Transactional Model of Communication." In Foundations of Communication Theory, pp. 83-102. Edited by Kenneth K. Sereno. New York: Harper & Row, 1970. Berio, David K. The Process of Communication. 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