And you thought Hermes was a crazy baby...

As many of us know, Bacchus is the young god depicted in the story
of Pentheus and Bacchus in Metamorphosis. What you may not know is that he is the god of wine, and patron of intoxication, fertility, and abundance...and he is a contender in the crazy god baby category.

In this one he rides a leopard... painted by the German painter Franz von Stuck.








And in this one, he is clearly drinking wine and... urinating. Painted by Guido Reni in 1623.

Talk about having a good time!

Take Two: An Imaginary Life

After reading everyone’s interpretations of Malouf, I felt like writing a second blog because I realized there are a lot of things I hadn’t really been thinking about while reading the first time.

For example I was reading Christina’s blog entry, and at the beginning of it she said how she thought the plot seemed “circumstantially bound”, and then realized that she was reading the times instead of the eternities. I think I was doing the same thing to some degree unconsciously. Like I thought about the deeper lessons and connections between nature and man as eternal and of absolute truth, but I found myself considering too much Ovid’s situation. I was thinking for some reason, that the fact of his exile is what led him to this metamorphosis. And I know that it was his true destiny, and he accepted it as that, and everything fit into place as it should, blah blah. But it made me wonder if something that extreme must happen to warrant that kind of a transformation? But then considering Metamorphosis, something dramatic always has to happen for some transformation to take place. Because why would someone change, unless some circumstance prompted it? And then that’s where I started! I just look at it as like, even though Ovid’s exile was the “beginning”, the final transformation was one of eternity.

Along those same lines (same lines being my overly literal interpretation of the text at times), I realized I wasn’t looking at the feral Child as much more than exactly that. I realize that he represents a transition mechanism, the embodiment of nature in a human, etc. But I wasn’t looking at him as a symbol so much as an actual being. What I mean to say, is that the contrast between his human qualities and other-earthly qualities, if you will, makes it a bit confusing for me to interpret his character. One minute he is an elusive mystical being, basking naked in the winter’s night, and imitating animal calls…and the next he is like a regular child trying to learn from Ovid, bundling up in the cold, and fishing in the stream for supper. I understand that Ovid’s treatment of the Child serves as a representation between civilization and nature and it’s effects. But the point is that it’s hard for me to see the Child as solely a symbol when he has such humanly qualities at times. I don’t know, because then again, it might not be important how much of a symbol the Child truly is, because his role is what is symbolic, and this story is about Ovid after all. I’m just talking myself through these I guess!

The third thing I was thinking about was transformation as adaption. Is Ovid’s transformation begot of destiny, or is it a natural adaption to his “circumstances” and the truths of life to which man must recess in order to become whole? You could probably argue that his destiny and regression are one in the same, so then is it destiny that requires him to adapt to what surrounds him and what truths he is uncovering? Is adaption even the right word? The stories in Metamorphosis just made me think about why a certain transformation would occur (why that specific thing) and what exactly that transformation is. For example, Niobe turns into a weeping stone after all her children are killed. Is that an adaption to her situation? Did the fierceness of her sorrow require something other than her human body to house itself—something more permanent and appropriate of such deep despair? There is a possibility that I am thinking about the purpose of these transformations too hard, for I’m sure there is no universal purpose, and Ovid is more interested in the emotional upheaval and gore anyway. But I just thought the parallel between destiny and purpose was an interesting one.

Oh and lastly, I’m still just not quite sure what the title An Imaginary Life means. But other than that, I have no more thoughts on the subject☺

An Imaginary Life: assignment

The class theme is “All that is past possesses the present”. This novel connects to this in many ways. Most obvious is when Ovid begins to recall memories from his childhood, but truer and clearer than he had remembered before. He described it as if “I were being handed a new past, that leads, as I follow it out, to a present in which I appear out of my old body as a new and other self” (95). There are unknowns in his past, and as he stumbles upon things he never knew or never realized he could know, these unknowns come streaming back, and he is conscious of the past he never before conceived to be relevant.

Ovid talks about becoming part of the universe, letting the universe in. The Child is outside himself, his “energy distributed among the beasts and birds whose life he shares, among leaves, water, grasses, clouds, thunder-whose existence he can be at home because they hold, each of them, some particle of his spirit” (pg 96). We are made up of more than we know; we are possessed by more than we are aware of. Ovid realizes this and says when the spirit of all things migrates back into us we will then be whole. He chooses to exist in a world of simplicity and observation. He chooses to become more than himself, and in that pursuit transforms into the truest human he could be.

In this class we read all about transformation. The transformation of stubborn rulers into tragic hero’s, domestic women into radical activists, perfect growing seasons to inhospitable drought and famine, enemies to friends, humans beings into trees and animals and stone. Is it going too far to say that in these transformations our characters are becoming what they were destined to become? Is it a natural part of their fate, as it was for Ovid? We can look for clues, like the prophecies of Tiresias (predicting Creon’s fate, Pentheus’ death), that show us that what has happened was inevitable. And through all these transformations we see much tragedy, and is it still as tragic if it was meant to happen?

Ovid’s story begins as a tragedy and becomes the exact opposite. He goes from being miserably exiled, to not only accepting his fate, but reveling in it as it his “true” fate. It all seems so right, the village, his regression into nature, and finally with the crossing of the Ister he enters into “the final reality”. There is no more time, he stops counting the days, is not thinking of any final destination. All things will continue on, but he will not. His transformation was necessary. His end came naturally.

Isn’t that what we are attempting to discover or become aware of? That is, our existence is in the midst of everything that has ever existed and will ever exist. Ovid exists in every moment in the end “It is summer. It is spring. I am immeasurably happy. I am three years old. I am sixty. I am six. I am there.” (pg152). He is where? He is everywhere—in his past, his present, in the earth. He is whole.

When we read about our past, when we discover that everything that is happening now has already happened and been happening forever, when we find the roots of all our stories and fantasies, when after all that we are still curious, we come ever closer to being whole too.

Summary of Bacchus and Pentheus

Pentheus, King of Thebes, was a disbeliever in the famous prophecies seen by the wise Tiresias. He laughed at the old man, when Tiresisas warned him that he dreamt the king would meet his death by being torn to pieces by unsuspecting fingers, due to the workings of the new god Bacchus. (hilarious right?)

Pentheus steps outside and sees the entire city engaged in a frenzied celebration over the new god (Bacchus), and orders his arrest. Instead of the god though, the guards bring back a man by the name of Acoetes, a priest of the god. He recounts to the king the tale of his voyage where his crew attempted to kidnap the girlish boy (unaware that he was a god) and were turned into dolphins. All except for Acoetes who saw this boy for what he was at the beginning, and was thus rewarded with priesthood.

Pentheus, obviously not enjoying this story, sent Acoetes away to be tortured. But while the torture instruments were being prepared, the shackles binding Acoetes magically combusted and set him free.

Outraged by this, Pentheus marches into the woods to find and arrest this Bacchus himself. He then happens to stumble into a clearing where women Bacchic worshippers were performing rites, and when they saw him, he no longer appeared to them in the form of their king, but as a boar. They attacked at once began to rip him limb from limb, while he cried out to no avail. Finally, it is Pentheus’ mother who wrenches his head from his body, and with a cry of victory, lets his blood rain down on her.

Ovid's Statue

Here is a picture of the statue of Ovid that resides in a square in Constanta, Romainia. The inscription on the statue reads:

Here I lie, who played with tender loves,

Naso the poet, killed by my own talent.

O passerby, if you've ever been in love, let it not be too much for you

to say: May the bones of Naso lie gently.

Tristia

We talked in class about the exile of Ovid to Tomi, where he was to spend the last 10 years of his life, miserable. One consolation was that he wrote poetic letters to absent family and friends. They remain today in a collection titled Tristia. And while they are all on the subject of Ovid’s lamentation, they are actually pretty entertaining! Since Ovid is basically one of the most influential writers you’ve never heard of, I thought it would be interesting to look up some of his other works. Here’s and example, which is the first poem in the collection:

Book TI.I:1-68 The Poet to His Book: Its Nature

Little book, go without me – I don’t begrudge it – to the city.
Ah, alas, that your master’s not allowed to go!
Go, but without ornament, as is fitting for an exile’s:
sad one, wear the clothing of these times.
You’ll not be cloaked, dyed with hyacinthine purple –
that’s no fitting colour to go mourning –
no vermilion title, no cedar-oiled paper,
no white bosses, ‘horns’ to your dark ‘brow’.
Happier books are decorated with these things:
you instead should keep my fate in mind.
No brittle pumice to polish your two edges,
so you’re seen ragged, with straggling hair.
No shame at your blots: he who sees them
will know they were caused by my tears.
Go, book, greet the dear places, with my words:
I’ll walk among them on what ‘feet’ I can.
If, in the crowd, there’s one who’s not forgot me,
if there’s one, perhaps, who asks how I am,
say I’m alive, but deny that I am well:
that I’m even alive is a gift from a god.
Otherwise, be silent – let him who wants more read –
beware of saying by chance what isn’t needed!
The reader, prompted, will soon recall my guilt,
the crowd’s voice make me a common criminal.
Beware of defending me, despite the biting words:
a poor case will prove too much for advocacy.
Find someone who sighs about my exile,
and reads your verses with wet eyes,
and silently wishes, unheard by enemies,
my punishment lightened by a gentler Caesar.
For myself, I wish whomever it is no ill,
who asks the gods to be kind to suffering:
what he wishes, let that be: the Leader’s anger done,
grant me the right to die in my native country.
Though you obey, book, you may still be blamed,
and called inferior to the flower of my genius.
The judge’s duty is to search out time
and circumstance. You’re safe regarding time.
Fine-spun verses come from a tranquil mind:
my days are clouded by sudden miseries.
Verse asks for a writer with leisure and privacy:
I’m tossed by winter gales, the storms, the sea.
Every fear harms verse: I’m lost and always
afraid of a sword slicing at my throat.
Even what I’ve created, will amaze just critics:
they’ll read it, whatever it is, with indulgence.
Set Homer, the Maeonian, in such danger,
his genius would fail among such troubles.
Go then, book, untroubled by fame,
don’t be ashamed to displease the reader.
Fortune’s not so kind to me now
for you to take account of any praise.
Secure, I was touched by desire for fame,
and I burned with ardour to win a name.
Enough now if I don’t hate those studies, verses
that hurt me, so that wit brought me exile.
You go for me, you, who can, gaze at Rome.
If the gods could grant now that I were my book!
And because you’re a foreigner in a mighty city
don’t think you come as a stranger to the crowd.
Though you lack a title, they’ll know the style:
though wishing to deceive, it’s clear you’re mine.
But enter quietly so my verse won’t hurt you,
it’s not as popular as once it was.
If anyone thinks you shouldn’t be read
because you’re mine, and thrusts you away,
say: ‘Look at the title: I’m not love’s master:
that work’s already got what it deserved.’

After reading a more poetic form of Ovid’s writing, I could really see how he would have inspired Shakespeare. The flow, the word choice, the sadness and lamentation imbedded in the dialogue with the book greatly engages our emotions. Switch a couple words around and this could easily be mistaken for one of Shakespeare’s love stories. Ovid could just have easily been talking to one of his children or some lost love, but the fact that it is a book clearly displays the passion with which he wrote and regarded his writing, and only emphasises the total desperation he feels with regards to his exile. It’s like he makes himself his own tragic hero.

Scanning the rest of the poems, although one would think he would run out of things to wail about, he writes about his wife, his journey to exile, his odyssey, being sick of exile, spring in Tomi, etc. Actually a lot of them seem to be quite similar. In any case, I find these poems completely fascinating, and the way they serve as like a memoir or a tragic autobiography, totally genius.

Phallocentrism

Male centered viewpoints. I was reading a medical article entitled The Medicalization of Impotence: Normalizing Phallocentrism, when I came across this quote:

‘Taken by itself, the penis is a floppy appendage which rises and falls and is the source of a number of pleasures. The Phallus is more than this. It is the physical organ represented as continually erect; it is the inexhaustibly of male desire; it is a dominant element within our culture. (Bradbury 1985, 134).’

This article talks about the literal and symbolic stifling of women’s sexuality when men become concerned about real or supposed erectile dysfunction, and how it serves to perpetuate male dominance. In Lysistrata there was obviously no problem of erectile dysfunction, but go with me. The author explains that men become so focused on achieving a ‘normal erection’, that they find it unacceptable to experience anything slightly different, even if their wives are still satisfied. I feel like this represents the rigid standard to which male dominated societies hold themselves. In Lysistrata, the women are suggesting they be in charge of things until the men can get themselves and the war under control. On page 29, Lysistrata suggests the women be in charge of management, and the continuation of her conversation with the Councilor onto page 30 is indicative that he thinks such a proposal is preposterous. Sure a woman-driven society could function, but it wouldn’t necessarily satisfy the standards or wishes of the men. It could work, but why should it matter when a male dominated society is obviously so much better. As Leonore Tiefer argues in this article, even though the erection may not be perfect, it may still satisfy a couples’ sexual standards—men just have a hard time accepting that.

Our culture perpetuates gender roles for both men and women; the construction of masculinity holding that men be dominant, protective, insensitive, strong, etc. The expectations to which male dominated societies are held are married to these ideals. Anything any less manly or less dominant are simply unacceptable.