Thursday, March 26, 1998

An Absurd Existence: Freedom and Guilt in The Fall and The Trial

It can be said that one of the trademarks of twentieth century philosophy and literature is the abandonment of the strict ethical forms of previous centuries. Human nature has come to be seen as more broad in definition than simply good or evil, right or wrong, and true or false. A more vivid and accurate account of mortality lies in the spectrum between these extremes, and is indeed a combination of them. While such a fluid moral stance can be seen in older works— Flaubert’s Madame Bovary is an immediate example—it was not until this century that the idea of ambiguous morality became widespread. Indeed, such events as the first World War, which did not have a distinct moral centre as atrocities were exhibited by both sides, forced intellectuals to re-evaluate man’s moral stance in such a world. The primary concern was how humanity was to exist in an absurd universe. Previously in the nineteenth century, Nietzsche had proposed that man became alienated by attempting to conform to the polar morality of good or evil. His philosophy in particular was of great influence to both Albert Camus and Franz Kafka. Pressed into an absurd world the main characters of The Fall and The Trial, Clamence and Joseph K. respectively, attempt to orient their moral compasses, and consequently determine the purpose of their existence. Their feeling of estrangement is closely tied with feelings of guilt, the sense that the hardships that each of the characters endures is in a manner deserved. In both cases this guilty conscience is reflected in and created by the protagonists. Clamence faces his own culpability when he remains inanimate as a young woman kills herself and he is compelled to question the integrity he once cherished. He concludes with the belief that no such concept as innocence should be applied to the human condition; every man in inherently guilty. Similarly, through his rejection of the judiciary processes in which he is engrossed, Joseph K. is the architect of his own guilt and consequent judgement in view of the presiding authority. In this sense, both Clamence and Joseph K. can be seen to have authored their own degeneration. A second facet relates the two characters, summed up by a quote from The Fall: “the keenest of human torments is to be judged without a law” (Camus, 117). Neither character has a reference point with which he can gauge his guilt or innocence, and thus each is left, alone and alienated, to question his own existence in a world of absurdities.

An absurd world is indeed to be found in The Fall. Yet in the novel, ‘the absurd’ does not signify an implausible or even an illogical setting for the characters. Another meaning of the word is intended: the world in which Clamence exists is entirely real and understandable, yet it is fallacious. Initially, ‘the absurd’ applies to Clamence himself, as the reader is to question the authenticity of his character. Over the course of his monologue, the reader begins to understand Clamence’s moral ambiguity. He initially states that he was considered a good man, a respected lawyer, who earned praise for his compassionate deeds. By the end of the text, however, the reader has learned the subconscious purpose of his benevolence. It is merely a public display, an act to appease his vanity and endear him to the masses. Indeed, he admits himself to be an actor: his is “a double face, a charming Janus...Don’t rely on it” and “After playing my part, I would take the bow” (Camus, 47). Though he would gladly aid a blind man to cross a busy street—indeed, he yearned for the opportunity to display his altruism—he could not aid a person who in fact needed to be rescued. When he does not attempt to save the woman who threw herself from the Pont Royal, an incident which did not allow him to demonstrate his nobility to an audience, Clamence proves the duplicity inherent in his nature. All of his moral self-satisfaction is shattered by this event. Yet, while he could not jump into the river to save the woman, the excuse he provides for not doing so is natural and even universal:

I was trembling, I believe from cold and shock. I told myself that I
had to be quick and I felt an irresistible weakness steal over me. I have
forgotten what I thought then. “Too late too far...” or something
of the sort. (Camus, 70).

This incident of cowardice periodically haunts Clamence in the guise of disembodied laughter; the world is now mocking his supposed innocence. He changes from living in a state of judging others, of being a lawyer, to repenting the guilt he feels for the artifice of his character and becoming the penitent. Stifled by the guilt that weighed down on his conscience, he wanted to remove the mask that he had been wearing, to “reveal to all eyes what he was made of...[and] break open the handsome wax-figure I presented everywhere” (Camus, 94). This feeling of liability had alienated him from others, and to alleviate his estrangement he attempted to implicate and deride himself: “I wanted to put the laughers on my side, or at least to put myself on their side” (Camus, 91). Unsuccessful, he reverted to his past ways of consuming women and alcohol, although this time he recognized his faults. Indeed, he soon came to the conclusion that he had found a way out of this circle of moral duplicity: acceptance of falsehoods.

It is at this point that Camus implicitly explains the meaning of the novel’s title. Clamence becomes the confessor not to absolve his past sins, but instead in order to repeat them:

I permit myself everything again, and without the laughter this time.
I haven’t changed my way of life; I continue to love myself and make
use of others. Only, the confession of my crimes allows me to begin
again lighter in heart and to taste a double enjoyment, first of my
nature and secondly of a charming repentance. (Camus, 141-2)

As he judges himself, thus he is able to judge others and to call himself a “judge-penitent”. Thus, he remains true to his nature at night, a deceptive man who requires supremacy over others, and in his mind ‘preside’ over the patrons at the Mexico City. Indeed, it is only in these immoral experiences that he finds truth: “No man is a hypocrite in his pleasures” (Camus, 66). It is in fact through the act of confession that Clamence tries to implicate others in his own guilt and thus vindicate his own character. Thus, after his debaucheries, the fall from which the novel takes its name occurs. The fall is in effect a vindication of a guilty conscience. Clamence does so by stating that no one is in fact innocent; every person, even Christ, feels guilt. This guilt does not derive from original sin—the Fall is not the Fall from Eden—but instead has its origins in freedom. Freedom allows no innocent actions, as Clamence learned when he allowed the young woman to die—“on the bridges of Paris I, too, learned that I was afraid of freedom” (Camus, 136)—and is thus just as guilty as a murderer: “I haven’t killed anyone? Not yet, to be sure! But have I not let deserving creatures die? Maybe. And maybe I am ready to do so again” (Camus, 95). Freedom condemns the free because it allows them to be judged; Clamence can be proclaimed guilty. The only way to avoid judgement, Clamence quickly learns, is to incriminate everyone else. Man becomes the Last Judgement for himself as “every man testifies to the crime of all others” (Camus, 110).

Religion recognized the dangers of freedom: “since they don’t want freedom or its judgements, they ask to be rapped on the knuckles, they invent dreadful rules, they rush out to build piles of faggots to replace churches” (Camus, 135). Conversely, while Clamence does not have a belief in a god or higher authority, he does in fact desire one to control him. He has no reference point to which he can gauge his guilt or innocence, no higher authority telling him how to act, and therefore in his mind his reaction on the Pont Royal seems justified. Thus Clamence praises the bonds of slavery, and indeed the circular nature of his debauchery-and-repentance lifestyle has placed him in chains. At the same time, by implicating all of humanity along with himself Clamence relieves the alienation he had felt when he believed himself to be guilty as others were innocent. He feared death, which is “solitary, whereas slavery is collective. The others get their too, and at the same time as we—that’s what counts” (Camus, 136). Confession is a dialogue, an act of inclusion, and by engaging in it Clamence feels part of a whole. Yet, he places his experiences above himself; they become representative of the whole of humanity. Again deception is apparent, as Clamence states that he adjusts his story to represent the listener as well as himself:

I choose the features we have in common, the experiences we have
endured together, the failings we share...[to] construct a portrait which
is the image of all and of no one...the portrait I hold out to my
contemporaries becomes a mirror. (Camus, 139-40)

The irony of this statement may not be lost on him however; he may not view himself in fact with such high esteem. Even though he frequently proclaims his life as judge-penitent to be superior to the false masks worn by most people in their lives, and that “false judges are held up to the world’s admiration and I alone know the true ones” (Camus, 130), by the end of his confession he states that he is in fact a “false prophet” (Camus, 147). When he says “I feel at last that I am being adored” (Camus, 143), the reader has to question the sincerity of his confession; indeed, as he stated before, he may be “about to dress the corpse” (Camus, 120). This conclusion leaves the reader to contemplate the moral ambiguity and perhaps even hopelessness of the vicious circle of sin-and-absolution in which Clamence finds himself.

Joseph K. finds himself ensnared in a similar cycle. The world that he had created for himself was one of meticulous order and a strict adherence to his established routine. Such an artificial construct ostensibly granted him control over the world outside of his own; K. is terrified of losing control of his environment. Nevertheless, such occurs when the door to his apartment is forced open and he is arrested by the Court. He is promptly condemned as a guilty man, yet no evident laws or authorities govern this conviction. Thus he becomes extremely disillusioned as the anarchy and apparent lawlessness of the Court is forced into his reality and he is compelled to endure its labyrinthine operations. Yet, unlike Clamence, Joseph K. never acknowledges his guilt. In the very first line of the text K. proclaims himself innocent: “Someone must have been telling lies about [me], for without having done anything wrong [I] was arrested one fine morning” (Kafka, 1). For the remainder of the novel he fights the judgement brought against him. These efforts only prove to escalate his guilty status and intensify the proceedings in which he finds himself circumscribed. The first such escalation occurs when K. is told to attend his trial, yet never having been given directions about the location or schedule of the offices he arrives to find himself in contempt of the Examining Magistrate for tardiness. Subsequently, he attempts to determine the underlying structure and methodology of the Court and to accord it with his own rational system of thought. Yet the Court does not adhere to his logically organized world. Thus he cannot function within its framework, and to the end of the text remains impotent to act against it. This is confirmed when K. traverses the court offices only to find himself oppressed by the climate therein. Indeed, this episode is a microcosm of his intercourse with the Court: as K. became increasingly ill at the offices—”the farther he went the worse it [became] for him” (Kafka, 68)—his physical condition correspondingly worsens as the narrative continues.

In order to escape from the machinations of the Court, K. needed to recognize that he is indeed guilty. Yet, while he proclaims himself innocent, the mere fact that he has been condemned by the Court proves his guilt. Through his mere existence he has condemned himself and is guilty, as are all men. The Court eventually condemns all men who do not acknowledge the guilt inherent in their existence. This fact is confirmed in a conversation between K. and the clergyman:

“I am not guilty,” said K.; “it’s a mistake. And if it comes to that,
how can any man be called guilty? We are all simply men here,
one as much as the other.” “That is true,” said the priest, “but
that’s how all guilty men talk.” (Kafka, 210)

Indeed, as Clamence had stated, every man becomes a judge of all the others and similarly in The Trial there is a Court under every roof in the city. To understand Joseph K.’s predicament, it is necessary to apply the metaphor of the ‘little-ease’ found in The Fall. Like the operations of the Court, the confining walls of the little-ease—an oubliette of sorts—do not allow the prisoner to live comfortably or function properly. Life inside is in direct opposition of life outside: “one had to take on an awkward manner and live on the diagonal; sleep was a collapse, and waking a squatting” (Camus, 109). Similarly, the operations of the Court were contrary to K.’s ideologies and he was unable to function within its context. The analogy becomes even more explicit when Clamence states that the prisoner experiences an “unchanging restriction that stiffened his body” (Camus, 109). K. did indeed experience a stiffening of his body as has been stated, and more significantly he likewise felt his freedom curtailed. The Court repeatedly emphasized that he was free to live his life as he had before his arrest, yet when he deals with the clergyman, who is a representative of the Court, he feels compelled to remain in its presence. The conversation is abbreviated as follows:

K: “I must go.” “Well,” said the priest, “then go.” The priest had
already taken a step or two away from him, but K. cried out in
a loud voice, “Please wait a moment...Don’t you want anything
more from me?” “No,” said the priest...”But you have to leave
now”. “Well, yes,” said K., “you must see that I can’t help it.”
(Kafka, 221)

From this incident, it is possible to infer that K. had in fact recognized the authority of the Court despite his remarks otherwise. Yet, unlike the prisoner mentioned by Clamence, he never “learned that he was guilty and that innocence consists in stretching joyously” (Camus, 109-10). K. adamantly proclaims his innocence even after he had been sentenced and was being executed. His defiance can be explained by the lack of an external reference by which he can calibrate his guilt. The Court officials act apathetically to him and his questions remain unanswered. Similarly, there are no concrete references in the Law itself to measure K’s guilt: the books of the Examining Magistrate prove to be filled not with law codes and precedents but with pornographic pictures. Despite a similar lack of external reference point for guilt, however, Clamence had accepted his guilt; indeed he had revelled in it. Yet, Joseph K. could not do the same. He continued to press his innocence and thus was found ever more guilty. Indeed, like the prisoner in the little-ease, the proceedings for K. did “gradually merge into the verdict” (Kafka, 211).

The issue of a guilty existence permeates the entire texts of both The Fall and The Trial. Indeed, in each of the two novels guilt is a direct consequence of existence. “Man is seen more as continually falling than fallen.” This fall originates in freedom, mainly the freedom to judge and be judged. For both Jean-Baptiste Clamence and Joseph K., a guilty conscience becomes all consuming. Clamence accepts his liability almost passionately, and through his confessions attempts to convert others to his ‘new-found religion’. Conversely, Joseph K. refuses to acknowledge his guilty status even as he accedes to the proceedings of the Court. This renunciation proves to be his downfall. Yet, arguably the reader is in disagreement with the narrators of the two texts. By the end of The Fall, Clamence is seen to be a somewhat repulsive character whose sincerity is never entirely believed. Alternately, Joseph K. is held in high regard; to the modern reader his defiance and perseverance are commendable. Perhaps the universal guilt espoused in each of the texts remains unacceptable and even odious to the modern conscience; both Clamence and the Court would proclaim the reader guilty.

Bibliography

Camus, Albert. The Fall. Trans. Justin O’Brien. New York: Vintage International, 1991.

Kafka, Franz. The Trial. Trans. Willa and Edwin Muir. New York: Schocken Books, 1995.


Supplementary:

Amoia, Alba. Albert Camus. New York: Continuum Publishing Company, 1989.

Cruikshank, John. Albert Camus and the Literature of Revolt. New York: Oxford University
Press, 1966.

McBride, Joseph. Albert Camus: Philosopher and Littérateur. New York: St. Martin, 1992.

Rhein, Phillip A. Albert Camus. Revised edition. Boston, USA: Twayne Publishers, 1989.

Wednesday, March 18, 1998

The Gracchi and the Roman Elite

By the middle of the second century BCE, Rome had established its dominance over the majority of the Mediterranean, either through direct conquest or treaty. This period was a prosperous one, although not equally so for all roman citizens. Predictably, the majority of wealth and power in the Republic was in the possession of a select group of elites. This senatorial oligarchy controlled virtually all the economic production of the state through their vast landholdings, while simultaneously controlling its political operations. Yet, there were many, even among the elite, who were critical of the situation at Rome. Foremost among these antagonists were the Gracchi brothers. To the ruling oligarchy, the laws proposed by each of the Gracchi were seen as encroaching on or even subverting their powers. During his tribuneship in 133, Tiberius propsed and passed legislation that directly opposed the authority of the Senate. While he was hardly a democrat, Tiberius believed that the Republic could only survive and progress if power were apportioned otherwise than it was at Rome. The Senate obstructed the improvement of the Republic, and thus it had to be circumvented. Ten years later, his younger brother Gaius continued along a similar ideology, although in several respects he surpassed his older brother’s contention to senatorial authority. Yet, he did not wish to obliterate oligarchical rule through democratic revolution; he merely wished to broaden it. Ultimately, the Roman elite maintained its supremacy in the Republic, and the Gracchi and their followers were killed. Indeed, the issuance of the senatus consultum ultimum by the Senate in order to deal with Gaius forcibly demonstrated its authority.

The expansion of the empire created many opportunities for the Roman elite to amass power and wealth. Military conquest itself proved to be highly profitable: plunder from war added greatly to the coffers of the generals and other senators, while hardly being noticed by the soldiers themselves. Those who supplied the armies also benefitted greatly by war. Additionally, the land conquered by Rome within Italy was largely in the hands of the wealthy. Many peasants in Italy sold their plots of land to the rich, either because they were forced or less likely because they wanted the money to climb the social hierarchy themselves. Increasingly prevalent, however, was the appropriation and exploitation of ager publicus—the public land in Italy. While Roman law prohibited ownership of more than 500 iugera of ager publicus, the law was rarely adhered to. While large estates, or latifundia, began to become evermore conspicuous in rural areas, the majority of land held by the elite was to be found in many smaller plantations. Indeed, such monopolization of land was a virtual necessity as the wealth gained by the aristocracy during the wars had to be spent in an honourable trade such as property ownership; senators themselves were barred from trade and thus maintained their prestige through their landholdings. At the same time however, these estates were worked by the large number of slaves captured during Rome’s conquests. Increasingly, therefore, poor citizens, already having been evicted from their land, found themselves lacking employment as well. They found no recourse in the army, however, as minimum property requirements to enter the legions remained in place. Even if they met the requirements many plebeians did not wish to enter into military service as there was little opportunity to gain from the experience. Previously, veteran soldiers received plots of land upon retirement, yet by the mid-Republic, most of the land in which such colonies could be created was in the hands of the elite. Consequently, recruitment declined and the army suffered due to the lack of soldiers. It can be seen that the gap between the rich and the poor was increasing, and indeed, the failure of the latter was a direct consequence of the success of the former. By 133 the condition of the plebians seemed desperate.

It was from this dire economic climate for the plebeians that the Gracchi brothers emerged as tribunes, Tiberius in 133 and Gaius in 123-2. The laws proposed by both Tiberius and Gaius would have indeed ameliorated the situation of the poor and middle-class, and at the same time angered many in the aristocracy. The most potentially damaging to the Senate and to wealthy equites was the lex agraria, proposed by Tiberius in 133. The law was a measure to redistribute ager publicus in order to enfranchise the dispossessed urban poor and rehabilitate them “both as farmers and soldiers”. Landowners who possessed more than 500 iugera of ager publicus were to relinquish the excess land. Yet, while ager publicus was supposed to indeed be public, its possession was assumed “to be perpetual and hereditary”. A great deal of capital had been invested in these lands: households, industries, and lodgings for slaves were built. Obviously, landlords did not therefore wish to lose this land and simultaneously a portion of their wealth. The empowerment of the country poor would have affected the patron-client relationship however. In addition to slaves, many wealthy landlords employed indebted peasants, who were their clients, on their estates. Indeed, it was important that these clients remain indebted to the wealthy, as their vote was important in the tribal assembly. While many of the registered citizens of the country did not vote on a regular basis, the importance of their support for their patrons is evidenced simply in the constitution of the tribal assembly: thirty-one rural and four urban tribes. Thus, while the urban poor may have voted for legislation removing power from the elite, the numerical dominance of the rural tribes would have ensured the dominance of the aristocracy. If they were to acquire land themselves through the lex agraria, they would be freed from dependence on their patrons for survival, and consequently would vote according to the interests of their own socio-economic class.

Yet, while this law would have affected the elite, it was not the content of the law but rather the means by which it was passed with directly threatened senatorial authority. The law itself was not new; C. Laelius, consul in 140, had proposed a similar law to ameliorate recruitment in the legions but withdrew the measure, according to Plutarch, after protests by the “influential”. The means of passing the law were novel however, and greatly agitated the oligarchy. Disregarding legislative traditions, Tiberius circumvented senatorial consultation and advanced the lex agraria before the concilium plebis. This action itself was not entirely revolutionary however, and Tiberius himself viewed it as traditional. Indeed, through the potestas tribuni plebis he had the power to do so, and in a sense he was restoring the office to its traditional function as protector of the plebeians. More significantly however, he most conspicuously threatened the authority of the ruling oligarchy when he eliminated their means of legal recourse against the lex agraria. By unseating M. Octavius, the only tribune who had vetoed his motion, Tiberius explicitly demonstrated his contention with oligarchical rule; many authors stress the ‘democratic’ nature of Tiberius’s argument for the deposition of Octavius. The bill was passed into law and a council (triumviri agris dividendis adsignandis) was established to oversee the details of land distribution and settlement. Thus, the Senate was forced to exhibit its financial power by withholding funds from Tiberius’s council. Yet, when Tiberius appropriated the inheritance of Attalus III of Pergamum to fund the council, the Senate became obstinate. The legacy was bequeathed to the Roman state, and therefore Tiberius interpreted the funds as being under his jurisdiction as tribune. He wished the money to be given to the plebs along with their section of ager publicus in order for them to establish small farms and achieve a degree of economic independence. Additionally, the establishment of the new colony would be administered by the Assembly. Consequently, the Senate viewed Tiberius not only as an obstacle to its authority—he was intervening in its main realms of power—but he was also threatening to become too powerful, perhaps even a tyrant. If he were to supervise the establishment of colonies, he would gain numerous clients. Such a possibility was unthinkable to the Senate, and Tiberius and his followers were killed to maintain command by the ruling elite.

Shortly after obtaining the tribuneship in 123, Gaius proved that he was as equally opposed to oligarchical control of the state as his brother had been. He did not wish power to be maintained solely in the hands of the traditional elite, and consequently he proposed laws which pandered to the equites, the Italian non-citizens, the impoverished citizens, and the provincials. He re-proposed an agrarian law, nearly identical to Tiberius’s earlier measure; he also provided for the poor with the lex frumentaria, a measure to provide cheap grain for the destitute in Rome. Additionally, he proposed a lex de abactis which would have given further sovereignty to the Assembly and curbed the power of the Senate. The sovereignty of the people was also evidenced by the lex de capite civis romani, which held that only courts appointed by the people could inflict capitol punishment, a right which was up to then had been held by the consuls. Moreover, Gaius was passing laws which directly affected the behaviour and authority of the Senate, and thus it became increasingly hostile toward him. One of these laws controlled the assignment of provinces, a device frequently used to reward or punish magistrates. He appealed to the equites by giving them jurisdiction over the publicani, who were their peers, in extortion trials; by this law, governors lost control over taxation in their provinces. This law in particular was of great consequence to senators, as it “fundamentally altered the balance of power between [them] and knights [equites]”. Thereafter, the equites were bound to Gaius and offered him their support; indeed, perhaps Gaius wanted to elevate many of the equestrians to senatorial status in order to establish support therein. Most controversial, however, was the proposal to grant citizenship to all Italians. This measure was held in equal contempt by the Senate and nobility, who feared that Italian franchise would upset the balance of “clientage and electoral corruption”, and by the plebeians, who did not wish to extend the privileges of Roman citizenship to “outsiders”. The oligarchy also feared that the newly-franchised citizens would become clients of Gaius, and therefore support his more revolutionary measures. Consequently, he failed to be re-elected for his third tribuneship, and became once again a private citizen. Similarly to his brother Tiberius, however, throughout his tribuneship Gaius continually threatened to become overly powerful and dominate Rome. Once again the Senate and consuls could not remain inert, and in 121 the consul L. Opimius persuaded the Senate to rule Gaius and his supporters as traitors and issue the senatus consultum ultimum, which authorized their deaths.

Rome by the time of the Gracchi was ruled by a senatorial elite; in many respects the Gracchi were a threat to this hegemony. Yet, it must be noted that neither Tiberius nor Gaius wanted to revolutionize the government of Rome. They merely wanted to diversify and enlarge the oligarchy, allowing equites into the tightly controlled circle of governmental authority. That ruling class greatly feared the brothers, not so much because of the equites but instead because it seemed to them that both Tiberius and Gaius were setting themselves up for one-man rule of Rome, of tyranny in a sense. Indeed, they believed that the Gracchi were in fact doing harm to the state, and thus their countermeasures—notably the senatus consultum ultimum—seemed justified. Each of them pronounced their popular focus however, and thereafter the term populares was applied to politicians who followed the same path. There fates of the Gracchi cast a more ominous shadow on popular measures, as the bloodshed in 133 and 121 had proven the danger inherent in opposing the Senate.


Bibliography

Plutarch. Lives. Vol. 10. Trans. Bernadotte Perrin. London: William Heinemann, 1921.


Bernstein, Alvin H. Tiberius Sempronius Gracchus: Tradition and Apostasy. Ithaca, USA: Cornell
University Press, 1978.

Boren, Henry C. The Gracchi. New York: Twayne Publishers, 1968.

Crawford, Michael. The Roman Republic. Sussex, UK: Harvester University Press, 1978.

Marsh, Frank Burr. A History of the Roman World From 146 to 30 B.C. London: Methuen
& Co., 1967.

Masson, Georgina. Ancient Rome from Romulus to Augustus. New York: Viking Press, 1974.

Richardson, Keith. Daggers in the Forum. London: Cassel, 1976.

Shotter, David. The Fall of the Roman Republic. New York: Routledge, 1994.

Smith, R.E. The Failure of the Roman Republic. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press,
1955.

Stockton, David. The Gracchi. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1979.

Fear and liability in the Book of Job and The Trial

In comparing the thematic nature of the Book of Job and The Trial, one becomes aware that these two temporally disparate works share a central ideology. The protagonists in each of the two texts were the prime instigators of the crises contained within each narrative; the fear exhibited by each for circumstances that opposed their convictions resulted in the materialization of such occurrences. In this sense it can be seen that both Job and Joseph K. administered their own degeneration. The phrase that provides the most comprehensive synopsis of their respective dilemmas can be found in the Book of Job: “Truly the thing that I fear comes upon me, and what I dread befalls me” (Job 3:24-25). In each text, the paranoia inherent in both Job and Joseph K. literally surfaces as a higher authority imposing its condemnatory judgement. Yet what differentiates the two protagonists are their particular responses to the accusations brought against them.

As described in the Book of Job, the extent to which the protagonist recognizes his personal accountability in determining his fate is the crisis to be reconciled in the text. By conceding to his fears, which are centered upon his loss of control, Job actualizes his condemnation. He reasons that the authority that he publically displays over his family and his business affairs might be compromised by the actions of his children, who in his eyes act immorally. Yet such parental consideration is superficial: indeed Job worries about the state of his children not for their moral benefit, but for the maintenance of his own public image as “blameless and upright” (Job 1:1). Such an egotistical aesthetic is Job’s fundamental flaw and is destined to incur punishment from a more powerful source, which in this narrative is God. Thus the sacrifices that he performs in the stead of his children draw the attention of the Lord, who promptly casts judgement down upon him and dispossesses him of the personal and financial aspects of his power. Job becomes ostracized by his society, he becomes “a byword to them... [and] they do not hesitate to spit at the sight of [him]” (Job 30:9-10). Throughout his ordeal he proclaims his innocence vehemently and bemoans his miserable fate, and he questions the justice of God’s punishment: “does he not see my ways, and number all my steps?” (Job 31:4). By continually questioning the Lord’s judgment, Job merely furthers his vanity and thus increases his guilt in the eyes of the divine. Apparently Job has some grasp of his situation, yet he does not fully appreciate the consequences of his actions until the Lord speaks to him personally. Thereafter he realizes the consequences of his vanity and renounces his former ideology:

See, I am of small account; what shall I answer you? I lay my hand
on my mouth. I have spoken once, and I will not answer; twice, but
will proceed no further....therefore I despise myself, and repent in
dust and ashes. (Job 40:4-5, 42:6)

Job realizes that he must not fear the anger of the Lord else such wrath will befall him; he must exist knowing that every action performed by God is executed because it is just. Upon apprehending this truth--”I had heard of you by the hearing of the ear, but now my eye sees you” (Job 42:5)--Job regains a prosperous life.

The Trial contains a much more obscure, and ultimately malicious, embodiment of the culpability of the protagonist. The world that Joseph K. created for himself revolves around meticulous order and a strict adherence to his established structure. Such an artificial construct ostensibly grants him control over the ‘outside’ world in which he lives, being in K.’s mind the realm of chaos. The nature of K.’s fear is akin to that of Job: he too is frightened by the prospect of losing control. As the Lord was attracted to Job, similarly the Court is to Joseph K, who is promptly condemned as a guilty man. However, no evident laws or structures are governing his conviction. Thus K. becomes extremely disillusioned as the anarchy and apparent lawlessness of the Court is forced into his reality. He immediately blames another for such an intrusion: “Someone must have been telling lies about [me], for without having done anything wrong [I] was arrested one fine morning” (Kafka, 1); analogous to Job he does not place blame upon himself. Thereafter, K. endeavors to prove his innocence and assuage the Court from its decision, yet his efforts continually escalate his guilty status. His efforts prove to actuate and intensify the proceedings in which he finds himself circumscribed. One such example occurs when K. is told to attend his trial, yet not having been given directions about the location or schedule of the offices he arrives only to find himself in contempt of the Examining Magistrate for his tardiness. Subsequently, K. ventures to determine an underlying structure and methodology to the Court in an attempt to accord it with his own rational system of thought. Yet the Court does not follow such a constitution--indeed it is the antithesis to K.’s analytic and logical ideology--and thus he cannot function within its framework.

The loss of his ability to function is another detail that greatly agitates Joseph K, a fear that increasingly emerges as reality. Escalating productivity that led to ascendency of the social and economic hierarchy marked his ‘normal’ life. Such was the structure to be found at the bank, an institution that was greatly synchronized to K.’s philosophy. It was ordered and compartmentalized for efficient production and allowed K. the optimal setting in which to function. K. himself states that in such a milieu he would have the mechanisms to deal with the confusion of the Court:

In the Bank for instance, I am always prepared, nothing of that
kind could possibly happen to me there....and above all, my mind
is always on my work and so kept on the alert, it would be an
actual pleasure to me if a situation like that cropped up in the
Bank. (Kafka, 20)

However, as K. pursues a model of order and efficiency in the apparent contradictions of the Court, he is clearly impotent to act against it. He cannot operate within the confines of the Court’s formalities and operation; this is confirmed when K. traverses the court offices only to find himself oppressed by the climate therein. Indeed his episode at the offices is a microcosm of his intercourse with the Court: as K. became increasingly ill in the offices--”the farther he went the worse it [became] for him” (Kafka, 68), correspondingly his physical condition worsens as the narrative continues. His impotence to act extends beyond the boundaries of the Court however, as he loses his ability to perform his responsibilities at the bank to such a degree that the Assistant Manager must conduct them in his place. While he greatly fears such intrusions into his professional life, especially by someone he considers a rival, he does not attempt to regain control for himself. Unlike Job, Joseph K. never acknowledges his impropriety, he never views himself as the instigator of his afflictions, and thus he never redeems himself in the eyes of the superior power. Truly he views himself blameless and remains insubordinate to the very end, yet remains inanimate and powerless against the Court: “He could not completely rise to the occasion...the responsibility for this last failure of his lay with him who had not left him the remnant of strength necessary for the deed” (Kafka, 228). Taken to its logical extreme, Joseph K. encountered that which he feared the most.

While the outcomes of the Book of Job and The Trial are vastly different, they are in accordance when viewed through the personal accountability of the protagonist. The beliefs, actions and anxieties of Job and Joseph K. precipitated their adversity. Yet each of the two reacted differently to the judgement cast upon them. Job, by sublimating himself to the higher authority, becomes reconciled with his situation and afterwards prospers. Conversely, Joseph K. never accedes to the Court--indeed he actively disregards its procedures, and is thus marked for execution. In such a context, each conviction concurs with the protagonists’ reactions to their judgement.

Bibliography

Book of Job. Holy Bible with the Apocrypha, New Revised Standard Version. New York:
Oxford University Press, 1989. 498-539.

Book of Job. The Norton Anthology of World Masterpieces. Gen. ed. Maynard Mack. 6th ed.
Vol. 1. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 1992. 69-86.

Kafka, Franz. The Trial. Trans. Willa and Edwin Muir. New York: Schocken Books, 1995.

Tuesday, March 10, 1998

Apollo/Dionysus and Inspiration - Mann's Death In Venice

While emotional inspiration is often seen as being contrary to intellectual introspection, most art theory suggests a balance of the two to be more desirable than either extreme. Such a view of art, and of the artist, can be found in Mann’s Death in Venice. This dichotomy becomes manifest in two of the recurring themes of the novel: Apollo, the giver of light, depicting intelligence; and Dionysus, the bringer of ecstasy, illustrating the emotional component of humanity. Mann’s philosophy is also reflected in the perception of age in the novel. From the outset, youth is associated with Dionysus and emotion, while old age is correlated with Apollo and reason.

Aschenbach is himself the apotheosis of the intellect as instrument to artistic creation. Continually likened to Apollo, the author in his older years has become a consummate craftsman of his medium. His life has become ritualized in order to provide an undisturbed environment in which he can compose, and indeed, this orderly life has caused him to become static in his writings. His style is described as “traditionalist, conservative, formal, and even formulaic” (p. 10), and interestingly was the culmination of a lifelong ambition. He had always sought the wisdom and craftsmanship of age, and thus to achieve perfection in his art, he began as a young man to “[curb] and [chill] the emotions” (p. 5) and to be constantly working—indeed “he had never known idleness...[nor] the carefree recklessness of youth” (p. 6). Therefore it is no surprise when Aschenbach shows a great deal of contempt towards the dandy, who is the other elderly figure in the novel, on the boat to Venice.. The dandy attempts to rejuvenate himself by living as the young around him, dressing in their style and copying their mannerisms. Yet Aschenbach quickly sees through this façade to the wrinkles, wig, and died hair, and is disgusted. The reason for this abhorrence becomes explicit when he sees the dandy inebriated: the old man has rejected the natural consequence of his years—the astuteness and discretion inherent in Apollo—for the drunken illusions of Dionysian ecstasy. He has lost his balance, both literally and figuratively, and Mann makes an effort to demonstrate this extreme.

The proper balance between the Apollonian and the Dionysian is embodied in Tadzio; indeed, when he is likened to a Greek statue one is to recall classical teachings of beauty. This form first attracts Aschenbach to Tadzio, and he philosophizes about it: beauty is the perfect symmetry of regularity and individuality. Indeed, the youth displays both characteristics: Aschenbach is as equally drawn to the disciplined respect paid by Tadzio to his governess, as he is to the youth’s ‘rebellious’ seclusion in a few instances. It is also reflected in his features: his classically constructed face contrasts perfectly with the careless abandon of his hair. For this reason, Aschenbach is attracted to the boy and not to any of his sisters. The beauty of their youthful forms is subverted by their “uniform conventlike garb” and hair “plastered down close to the head” (p. 21); their youth has been controlled by reason to an unnatural extreme. Yet, the ideal of youth remains important in deciphering Aschenbach’s behaviour. The balance between emotion and intellect is only available in the passionate energy and beauty of a young person. For Plato and equally for Mann, a youthful form is a beautiful one, and beauty inspires the philosopher to imagine the divine. Through the most graceful Tadzio, Aschenbach is inspired to create, and indeed, as the translation notes, he becomes enraptured by enthusiasm. It is at this point that he is compelled to write, or in Mann’s words, manifest the “idea that can be totally transformed into emotion, and the emotion that can be totally transformed into an idea” (p. 37). By assimilating the “boy’s form as a model for his writing” (p. 38), Aschenbach regains the joy he once felt for words. The description of his work is fundamental: the balance between the Apollonian and the Dionysian is readily apparent in prose of “purity, nobility and pulsating emotional tension” (p. 38).

Simultaneously however, Aschenbach’s previously conservative conscience warns him of such emotional excess. He does not in fact demonstrate any such intemperance until he begins to hunt the boy. It is at this stage that he becomes wholly possessed by Dionysian ecstasy. The hunter motif indeed represents Aschenbach’s mindset by the end of the novel: he becomes, in effect, the tiger that haunted his dreams early in the text; simultaneously, it suggests the consummation of flesh which is the culmination of the Dionysian ritual. Indeed, he begins to fall in love with Tadzio as a person and not for the ‘divine balance’ that he represents; his worship becomes readily apparent when Aschenbach follows the boy into a church. He loses the reason he once applied to Tadzio and begins to delude himself, believing that “his friendly feelings and attention were not wholly unreciprocated” (p. 41). By rejecting reason, Aschenbach also demonstrates the hatred that he now feels for his old age, which he had once longed for. In order to appeal to the youth, he paints his face in the same artificial manner as did the dandy that he once abhorred. Other symbols demonstrate that this is in fact as hopeless a cause for Aschenbach as it was for the dandy: the “overripe, soft” (p. 59) strawberries that he eats in Freudian terms represent a man incurably past his sexual prime.

Desiring the ecstasies of youth and emotion, the entire fifth chapter quite literally is a quest by Aschenbach to rekindle the fires of youth that he had in fact never experienced. Ultimately, he is consumed by this pursuit. Speaking through the guise of Plato, Mann questions whether Aschenbach was in fact doomed to such an end, as “poets cannot travel the path of beauty without Eros joining company...and taking the lead” (p. 60). Aschenbach was indeed led by Eros; “form...lead to intoxication and desire” and ultimately, “to the abyss” (p. 60). The abyss for him turned out to be a solitary death transfixed by the sight of his beloved.

Bibliography

Mann, Thomas. Death in Venice. Trans. Stanley Appelbaum. New York: Dover Publications, 1995.


Supplementary:

Hamilton, Edith. Mythology. Boston, USA: Little Brown and Company, 1942.

Mann, Thomas. Death in Venice. Trans. David Luke. The Norton Anthology of World Masterpieces. Gen. Ed. Maynard Mack. 6th ed. Vol. 2. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 1992. 1555-1610.

Thursday, March 05, 1998

Women and the Western Frontier

The West offered many economic and social opportunities to those who braved the difficult task of establishing themselves therein. Contrary to popular belief, many of these prospects were available to women as well as men. Indeed, the occupational allowances of the west greatly differentiated frontier women from those in the East. The traditional roles of 19th century domesticated women became blurred on the frontier. This is most markedly seen in the interchange and sharing of labour between men and women in the domestic sphere. Additionally, many single women obtained land in the west, and they subsequently earned some degree of the economic independence allowed by such holdings. While most women worked in traditional jobs related to their household duties, many others were employed in occupations which were limited or closed to them in the east; indeed, many single women traveled west in order to obtain such jobs. Yet, in spite of such possibilities, most women were forced to care for their homes and their families, although such work was frequently accomplished jointly with their husbands. Despite the more liberal trends in the west however, the sex roles of women cannot be seen as fundamentally different from those in the east, even though in some cases the boundaries between the genders may be muted. One historian argues, in fact, that the domestic ideal did in fact shape frontier life for women.

The most important facet of a woman’s life in all parts of the country was her domestic role: principally, she was to care for the family and the household. Indeed, these tasks became vastly important to families initially trying to establish themselves in the west. Upon settlement, many women found their frontier households barren and decrepit. Elevating these ramshackle hovels into ideal households must have been intimidating and perhaps even demoralizing, although conditions did improve as the settlement prospered. In light of these somewhat desperate situations, the ingenuity displayed by women in order to survive and maintain their families is quite remarkable; women themselves acknowledged their accomplishments with pride. There was a great deal of work involved in establishing a new household, and both men and women had to share the workload more or less equally. Indeed, in many instances the traditional divisions of labour were not adhered to as conditions forced men into domestic roles and women into “masculine” functions. Men did perform traditionally feminine tasks, such as washing, cleaning, and sometimes even sewing, although usually only when the women in the family were somehow incapacitated. They also shared in caring for the elderly and infirm, as well as in the establishment of social institutions like schools and churches. Women frequently helped in the fields on farms and ranches, and they also aided in building construction, an enterprise deemed too extreme for women. Indeed, women even actively participated in the most tangibly masculine activity of frontier life—defense of the home. Women were also an integral part of the family income, especially during the first few years of settlement. By selling some of their domestic product—textiles and foodstuffs—women contributed greatly to the household economy, especially in lean times.

Domestic skills were applied to the job market as women brought in extra money as cooks, launderers, tailors, and boarders, all jobs which could be accomplished from the home. These occupations therefore did not greatly interfere with a woman’s primary duty to her family, nor did it conflict with the belief in female domesticity. They were also vitally important to the initial settlers of the west—miners, cowboys, and other males who never learned such skills, or more likely didn’t want to “degrade” themselves by performing feminine tasks. Many single women traveled west during the early period of settlement to hire themselves out for the relatively high wages such in-demand jobs offered. A number of these women were blacks emigrating from the south to escape from social limitations and find opportunities in the west. While economic prospects for blacks were even more favourable than in the north, some social limitations remained. Many working women found employment in other ventures. They could, of course, control the family business if their husbands were incapacitated or killed, and many demonstrated the aptitude and business acumen they acquired while working alongside their mates. Teaching was also a popular occupation, although primarily the domain of single, childless women. Artistic and journalistic professions were also open to women. Yet, for women it was in land acquisition and trade that western economic opportunity differed from that of the east. Women could make land claims just as men could, and many exercised this right. While the majority of these women were young, single, and native-born, a significant portion of older women, especially widows, as well as new immigrants took claims in the west. Although some attempted to homestead on their own, most women who claimed land did so to sell it for profit. Land speculation companies were formed by some women, and a few in fact became quite rich. Women who indeed wanted to manage land successfully did so in conjunction with others, sometimes friends, but usually relatives: “two, three, and even four sisters often claimed adjoining land”. Various factors determined the decisions for and patterns of female homesteaders, and here historians are not in accordance. Garceau argues that some women acquired land next to future husbands, and then married them after proving up in order to increase the couple’s assets. Lindgen refutes this argument, alleging that most women married after arranging their land holdings. He also states that others wanted to provide land for relatives, including their children.

In either case, it is important to note that women themselves felt empowered by their opportunities to homestead. The most important aspects of frontier life for women were the greater amount of liberties they received. Indeed, the idea of female homesteaders became symbolically linked with the new freedoms of the west, and a romantic mythology developed around them. Female writers, in themselves symbols of western liberty, serialized the lives of frontier women and commanded a sizeable readership in the east. They stressed the independence and self-confidence of women that was being actualized on the frontier. While in actuality only a small portion of female homesteaders were in fact independent, these literary claims were not without some degree of truth. Growing up without the strict domesticity found in the East, many young western women found themselves freed from the limitations of solely being a housewife. However, the expanded sphere of work that was available to women in the west was less accessible and desirable to women who emigrated from the east than to their daughters born on the frontier. These young women felt more inclined to leave the domestic sphere, and as stated above, many did so to work and support the family. Additionally, the more liberal western universities allowed women to receive an education, and thus potentially make them eligible for careers in medicine, law, and other professions. Political activity by women was also accepted: while they could not run for political offices themselves, women were granted suffrage in the west before their eastern counterparts received it. Such freedoms at the community level reflected the greater degree of equality enjoyed by women in the domestic microcosm. Husbands recognized the importance of their wives to the survival of the family, and thus western women enjoyed a greater level of authority in the home than those in the east. It also seems clear that when men did not allow such equality, women increasingly turned to divorce as an option. Yet, not all historians believe that the west was indeed liberating for women. Many such detractors criticize the belief that domestic ideology became loosened in the west. Griswold argues that divorce was directly related to women’s sense of domestic morality. He also concludes that the cult of domesticity bonded women together on the isolating expanses of the frontier. This unification occurred at both the micro-structure of friendships and at the macro-structure of community projects to “civilize” the west. By loosening the concept of domestic ideology, Griswold argues that it becomes a moot point in comparing the freedoms of western women with their eastern counterparts.

Despite both the disagreement whether the notion of domestic ideology limited the freedoms of women in the west and the controversy surrounding the autonomy of western women, all historians agree that life for women living on the frontier was vastly different than in the east. The initial settlement was indeed hard for both men and women, yet the arduous labour required to succeed greatly equalized power between husband and wife. The majority of historians cited for this paper agree that the west offered a much wider occupational diversity for women than was available in the east. Although women could venture outside of the home to work, it is important to note that to a great extent they remained in “domestic” roles. A few brave others, however, were employed in strictly masculine occupations. Indeed, the participation of women in all aspects of settlement proved necessary for success, and the importance of women was recognized by the men who gave them a greater degree of social and political independence. For both sexes, the west was literally an open frontier.

Bibliography

De Graff, L.B. “Race, Sex, and Region: Black Women in the American West, 1850-1920,” Pacific Historical Review 49 (1980), 285-313.

Garceau, Dee. “Single Women Homesteaders and the Meanings of Independence: Places on the Map, Places in the Mind,” Frontiers 15 (1995), 1-26.

Griswold, R. “Anglo Women and Domestic Ideology in the American West in the Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Centuries,” Western Women: Their Land, Their Lives. Ed. L. Schlissel et al. University of New Mexico Press, 1988. 15-33.

Harris, K. “Sex Roles and Work Patterns Among Homesteading Families in Northeastern Colorado, 1873-1920,” Frontiers 7 (1984), 43-49.

Lindgen, H.E. Land in Her Own Name: Women as Homesteaders in... N. Dakota Inst for Reg Studies, 1991. 1-55.

Myers, S.L. Westering Women and the Frontier Experience. University of New Mexico Press, 1982. 141-66, 238-70.