After I read my post from last week, something occurred to me: I didn’t bring Apollo into my archetypal discussion of Sherlock Holmes. For some people, he might seem like more of a natural match for the archetype of the Great Detective, with his devotion to science, music, and other pursuits. He didn’t even occur to me while I was writing the post, though I admit Mr. Holmes has attributes in common with him. I should at least have brought him up and said why Mr. Holmes seemed to me more like Athena than Apollo, so I’ll do that now. There are really several reasons.
First, I think of Apollo as trailing clouds of glory, making grand entrances, and otherwise creating a grand spectacle. He’s good at a number of different things and rather a proud god, sure of his appeal to nymphs and mortals alike. As the god of light, he’s always shining, and I can’t help but think of him in his most natural guise as possessing enviable golden curls that are constantly glinting and gleaming. In other words, you really can’t miss him—a room is almost too big to contain him. Mr. Holmes, on the other hand, is more of an indoor person, most at home talking things over with Watson in his rooms in Baker Street. Although you could say that he “sheds light” on the facts of his cases, it is more as if he points out to people things that they have seen for themselves but failed to understand. He does have a large store of knowledge about chemistry and other sciences, but aside from that, he’s uncannily observant.
I think of Mr. Holmes as more professor-like than the grandiose Apollo, as someone who uses his brain to the full. For that reason, he seems closer to Athena, who sprang from her father’s head and whose attribute is the owl. (Apollo seems more eagle-like.) Besides that, Mr. Holmes is no skirt-chaser, being very abstemious in that regard—more like Athena, Apollo’s chaste sister. In many ways, he seems not to care that much for his body and physical well-being. There is a darkness that clings to his character, a kind of counterbalance to his logical brilliance and devotion to scientific methods. He has an opium addiction that sometimes sinks him very deep into darkness, giving him more in common with Morpheus, the god of sleep and dreams, than with shining Apollo.
And yes, I know that both Apollo and Sherlock Holmes play stringed instruments, but Orpheus also played the lyre, and his melancholy seems much more in synch with Mr. Holmes than Apollo’s blazing virtuosity (I don’t object to blazing virtuosity; I’m only trying to draw a distinction between styles). I assume Apollo rarely does anything without the accompaniment of crescendos and thundering chords, those Fabio locks all a-tumble, as he overwhelms some poor Greek on the battlefield or chases a fleeing girl who couldn’t care less about his perfect pitch. His is more the grand style of Bach or Handel than the lyricism of Orpheus. I think of Mr. Holmes, generally, as playing for himself rather than with intent to impress.
Lastly, I was thinking about Mr. Holmes’s faculty with disguises, which reveals a tricksterish quality that he occasionally employs to good effect on cases. This sly, shape-shifting ability to change his coloration is at odds with Apollo’s proud, clear lines. In another context, I compared Apollo with an airline pilot, a role in which you expect clear-headedness, precision, and perhaps a certain amount of bravado, but most of all, decisiveness—you don’t want your pilot playing tricks on you or doing something unexpected. Many of the gods (including Apollo) had the ability to disguise themselves and play tricks when they wanted to, but Hermes is known for his quicksilver quality. Mr. Holmes, like Hermes, seems not only to make use of disguises for his own purposes but also to enjoy tricking people.
All of this is really to say that Mr. Holmes, like all of us, is an amalgam of different qualities, with perhaps one or two dominating. He’s not above showing off. And for those of you who think I’m being too hard on Apollo—who does, after all, have gifts of his own and sometimes plays an important, positive role in human affairs—I admit that there is something in what you say. My blog, however, is currently represented by an image of Apollo chasing a distressed nymph, so it’s probably a good idea to point out that all the gods have both light and dark aspects. I do think other qualities predominate in the character of Sherlock Holmes, though he takes much of his scientific brilliance from dazzling Apollo. But not the curly hair.
Showing posts with label Athena. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Athena. Show all posts
Sunday, April 14, 2019
Sunday, April 7, 2019
Essay on Panache
Last week, I wrote about the plethora of Sherlock Holmes stories currently flooding the bookshelves (and there are many others besides the ones I wrote about). I didn’t get to say everything I wanted to, though, about the appeal of the detective’s character. Although Mr. Holmes does represent an archetype, it’s not enough just to say that. I wonder, in fact, if he doesn’t represent the appearance of a new archetype that arose with the development of science, technology, and other aspects of modernity. I remember having a conversation with someone about whether new archetypes ever appear. I believe they do, in response to changing conditions. Maybe Sherlock Holmes is an instance of an archetypal character that appeared in response to the times and couldn’t have appeared sooner.
I was taught that the multiplicity of gods in the Greek and Roman pantheons represents various conditions and forces that affect all aspects of human life. In other words, there should be a god for every occasion. Sherlock Holmes probably has the most in common with Athena (or Minerva), but it’s not an exact match. Athena, who sprang from the head of her father, is the goddess of wisdom, but she is also a warrior goddess and often appears in the capacity of aiding or advising her favorites in matters of war and strategy. Holmes is a logician who combines finely honed powers of observation with an ability to draw conclusions from the evidence, which is perhaps not quite the same thing as wisdom, Athena-style. He solves puzzles and unravels mysteries, something the Greek gods were not necessarily wont to do, being more expert at creating mysteries and expecting mortals to accept things as they were.
There’s a chapter in my book on the nature of the labyrinth in the literature of the 19th century, and I discuss the detective novels that appeared at that period. I wrote at length about Wilkie Collins’s The Woman in White and about the way the plot of that novel resembles a labyrinth in which the characters are caught and out of which they escape only by following the threads that have ensnared them. They get very little assistance from anyone else and have to be their own detectives. The mood of the novel is somber, and although they succeed in rescuing a loved one, they prevail in spite of a largely uncaring world. Their triumph, however, is very real. Unlike the Greek story of Orpheus and Eurydice, The Woman in White features a return from the underworld. The protagonists barely escape the labyrinth, but escape they do—their determination and detective work carry the day.
Sherlock Holmes is the professional embodiment of these characteristics. Doing what comes naturally to him, he makes a science of solving mysteries for other people. In his time, scientific inventiveness and technological advances were rapidly changing ways of life that had been settled, in some cases, for centuries. Much was gained, but much that had seemed certain, like Christianity and man’s place in the universe, didn’t seem as rock solid as it had been. I always think of Matthew Arnold’s “Dover Beach” as the expression of this sense of the loss of certitude: one lover exhorts the other to remain true in the face of a growing feeling that nothing—not the institutions of society nor the universe itself—offers security in an atmosphere of gathering darkness.
Behold, then, the entrance of Sherlock Holmes upon this somewhat chilling scene. While it may be true that the modern world really has “neither joy, nor love, nor light/nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain,” damn it, Sherlock Holmes is on the case, and you can bet he’ll give satisfaction, let the forces of darkness do what they will. He represents the triumph of mind over matter, and while I would agree that it’s quite possible to take the ascent of thought too far (in separating ourselves from nature, for instance, when we are always and ever a part of it, merely), Mr. Holmes does something the Greek heroes were rarely able to do, and that is to snatch people back from the edge of a precipice the Fates have prepared for them, and to do it without turning a whisker. Not only is he preternaturally effective, he also has style. I think style is vastly underrated.
By the way, I am not arguing that God is dead, or never lived, or that life has no meaning. I never said that. (Personally, I believe in God, by whatever name you call him/her.) I’m only describing the conditions in the 19th century in which people had reason to question a lot of what had been accepted as gospel for a long time. It’s necessary, in my opinion, to do this, to question things you’ve been told, but it can be quite uncomfortable. I don’t think the appearance of the archetype of the Great Detective means that man is in charge of all he surveys; it is more, perhaps, that he is taking his destiny into his own hands and fighting back against the joylessness, darkness, and pain that have, after all, been with humankind from the beginning and that religions were designed, in some measure, to deal with. Rather than opposing or replacing God, Sherlock Holmes rises to meet him, you might say, which is perhaps what God intended all along.
I was taught that the multiplicity of gods in the Greek and Roman pantheons represents various conditions and forces that affect all aspects of human life. In other words, there should be a god for every occasion. Sherlock Holmes probably has the most in common with Athena (or Minerva), but it’s not an exact match. Athena, who sprang from the head of her father, is the goddess of wisdom, but she is also a warrior goddess and often appears in the capacity of aiding or advising her favorites in matters of war and strategy. Holmes is a logician who combines finely honed powers of observation with an ability to draw conclusions from the evidence, which is perhaps not quite the same thing as wisdom, Athena-style. He solves puzzles and unravels mysteries, something the Greek gods were not necessarily wont to do, being more expert at creating mysteries and expecting mortals to accept things as they were.
There’s a chapter in my book on the nature of the labyrinth in the literature of the 19th century, and I discuss the detective novels that appeared at that period. I wrote at length about Wilkie Collins’s The Woman in White and about the way the plot of that novel resembles a labyrinth in which the characters are caught and out of which they escape only by following the threads that have ensnared them. They get very little assistance from anyone else and have to be their own detectives. The mood of the novel is somber, and although they succeed in rescuing a loved one, they prevail in spite of a largely uncaring world. Their triumph, however, is very real. Unlike the Greek story of Orpheus and Eurydice, The Woman in White features a return from the underworld. The protagonists barely escape the labyrinth, but escape they do—their determination and detective work carry the day.
Sherlock Holmes is the professional embodiment of these characteristics. Doing what comes naturally to him, he makes a science of solving mysteries for other people. In his time, scientific inventiveness and technological advances were rapidly changing ways of life that had been settled, in some cases, for centuries. Much was gained, but much that had seemed certain, like Christianity and man’s place in the universe, didn’t seem as rock solid as it had been. I always think of Matthew Arnold’s “Dover Beach” as the expression of this sense of the loss of certitude: one lover exhorts the other to remain true in the face of a growing feeling that nothing—not the institutions of society nor the universe itself—offers security in an atmosphere of gathering darkness.
Behold, then, the entrance of Sherlock Holmes upon this somewhat chilling scene. While it may be true that the modern world really has “neither joy, nor love, nor light/nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain,” damn it, Sherlock Holmes is on the case, and you can bet he’ll give satisfaction, let the forces of darkness do what they will. He represents the triumph of mind over matter, and while I would agree that it’s quite possible to take the ascent of thought too far (in separating ourselves from nature, for instance, when we are always and ever a part of it, merely), Mr. Holmes does something the Greek heroes were rarely able to do, and that is to snatch people back from the edge of a precipice the Fates have prepared for them, and to do it without turning a whisker. Not only is he preternaturally effective, he also has style. I think style is vastly underrated.
By the way, I am not arguing that God is dead, or never lived, or that life has no meaning. I never said that. (Personally, I believe in God, by whatever name you call him/her.) I’m only describing the conditions in the 19th century in which people had reason to question a lot of what had been accepted as gospel for a long time. It’s necessary, in my opinion, to do this, to question things you’ve been told, but it can be quite uncomfortable. I don’t think the appearance of the archetype of the Great Detective means that man is in charge of all he surveys; it is more, perhaps, that he is taking his destiny into his own hands and fighting back against the joylessness, darkness, and pain that have, after all, been with humankind from the beginning and that religions were designed, in some measure, to deal with. Rather than opposing or replacing God, Sherlock Holmes rises to meet him, you might say, which is perhaps what God intended all along.
Sunday, April 14, 2013
Crash of the Gods
As a student of myth, I've been trained to look at everyday events through an archetypal lens. This is not the only way to understand life, but it's often useful. I've found, though, that it's one thing to gleefully deconstruct a favorite film in terms of mythic themes and another to apply the same lens to difficult events in your own life.
Take the fender-bender I was involved in last week. At the time it was happening, I was calm but very annoyed. What a nuisance, on top of other things I had to deal with! I was on my way to read and drink iced coffee at Starbucks. It was a sunny April afternoon. I was coming up to a busy intersection when I heard an ambulance approaching from the left and stopped. A couple of seconds later, I felt the impact as someone hit me pretty hard from the rear. My first reaction was simply to feel stunned -- what happened? And then I felt aggravated. I put on my caution lights and got out to talk to the other driver.
This driver was in a large Ford pick-up, for which the bumper of my little Toyota was no match. I stated the obvious, which was that he had hit me. He said I had stopped in front of him. I pointed out that I had stopped for an ambulance, to which he had no real reply. Then he asked if I wanted to just exchange insurance information or call the police. I told him I would call the police, to which he replied, "Well, call them then." He didn't ask if I was OK or seem apologetic. He smiled through the entire conversation as if we were on some kind of a lark.
I called the police and waited 45 minutes for an officer to arrive. While we were waiting, the other driver came up to my window and asked if I knew how long it would be until someone came. I told him I didn't know. He asked if I wanted to go ahead and exchange insurance information. I told him I wanted to wait for the police; a little while later, an officer arrived. After we moved our cars out of traffic, the officer took our statements and told me I could get the report online. I told him I had a bit of a headache and would probably get checked out to make sure I was OK.
Since we were in the parking lot of a hospital, I went into the emergency room there. Besides asking a lot of questions and putting me through some range of motion exercises, the staff also recommended an X-ray for my arm, which was by then slightly sore. Figuring it was better to be safe, I had the X-ray, which showed I had no fracture. I was told the headache was due to an adrenaline rush.
OK, so much for the facts. Now, as one professor I know likes to say, which gods were present?
As I got out of my car and faced the other driver, I felt competing emotions. A car crash is a violent event, and the presence of all that adrenaline proves that the body reacts to it as such. I know I was feeling a bit under attack as I got out of my car, but another voice in my head reminded me of the importance of being calm. If you had been been nearby, watching the scene unfold, you would have seen the glinting armor and flashing helmet of warlike Athena emerging from the driver's side of that small Toyota. A goddess of war, yes, but not one who relies on brute strength; she is also known for wisdom and counsel. I'm glad she was there.
What of the other driver? I wasn't in his skin, so I can't answer for his state of mind (as far as I know, he hasn't contacted his adjuster yet, so I still don't know what he was thinking). However, his smile and veneer of joking make me think of no one so much as the trickster, Hermes (minus the charm the latter sometimes exudes). There's an element of the trickster in most accidents, but some hint of gaiety in the man's face, inappropriate under the circumstance, made this impression even stronger. He was clearly at fault, and perhaps acting clownish was his defense.
Then the officer, the representative of law and order, arrived. He was strictly professional and took the reports with a seasoned efficiency that spoke of having repeated the same scene many times. He was Zeus, appearing suddenly to dispense justice, only he came in a squad car instead of descending from on high. (Modern life requires some adjustment in the details.)
Then the emergency room. Apollo is the god most associated with modern medicine, with its scientific ways and means. Apollo is skillful and efficient but perhaps a bit cold; certainly I felt I was surrounded by capable people, but if you've ever spent any time in an emergency room cubicle, you'll probably agree that it's not the warmest, fuzziest place you can imagine. It was sterile and a bit chilly. I wasn't in dire straits, so I was left on my own for most of the time, behind a curtain, with someone coming in occasionally to ask questions, take my vital signs, or perform some other function. That's probably by design, as I'm sure the emergency room staff makes it a policy to keep accident victims under observation, even if they're seemingly intact.
Asklepios, the other Greek god most associated with medicine, had a different approach; patients sought healing at overnight visits to his temple, where it was believed that he visited them in dreams. My understanding is that the rest and attention given to the patient were part of the cure. I don't know the details, but I imagine reclining on a couch, eating grapes, and listening to the dulcet tones of a flute playing softly nearby. Perhaps a massage before dinner, then a bath in the healing waters, and a pleasant night's sleep on a cushioned and draperied bed, followed by a late breakfast and consultation with the resident healer, who looked like Dr. Joe Gannon.
Actually, I did have a curtain, and I did have a chair, although I couldn't get it to recline. It takes more imagination than I can summon to transform those clinical surroundings into an Asklepion temple, and I'm very glad I didn't have to spend the night. I have a feeling there wouldn't have been any flute playing. But as glad as I am to have been able to walk out on my own steam (which is really the main thing), it would have been nice to have a little nurturing. A cup of hot tea, perhaps, or a pat on the arm. Modern medicine recognizes the emotional impact of an event such as mine, as evidenced by the instruction sheet I was given that explained the possibility of feeling depressed or anxious afterwards. But there was little in the way of any therapy for the soul, any milk of human kindness (a bit of chocolate wouldn't have been amiss, either).
Of course, there's one last player in this event, and that's the ambulance whose approach started the chain of events. You may be struck, as I was, at the irony of being put in the emergency room by stopping for an emergency vehicle. I'm sure this isn't the first time it's happened, but since it happened to me, I'm trying to make sense of the scene. Was the ambulance simply a blind agent of Fate? Was it Apollo, carrying some other unfortunate in far worse shape and in dire need of healing? Since it was the sound of the siren that made me stop, it's tempting to compare it to the Sirens who made the sailors crash on the rocks (after all, the result was similar). Possibly, it was some combination of all of these. There are usually multiple stories involved in any situation, not just the one that seems obvious.
If this had been a movie, I would have been able to dissect it with some of the intellectual precision of Apollo, but since it's real life, it's a good deal messier and not as easy to interpret. Is there a theme? Were there heroes? Were there villains? Is there something to be learned? And just where was Asklepios when I needed him? The sum of what I know: An accident happened; it was a hassle. However, I did not lose my temper, despite a trying circumstance. And that's something (thank you, Athena).
The aftermath is that I'm doing a lot of walking for the time being. Good for the soreness, good for the soul, and a bit less stressful than entering the fray of traffic just now. I wrote a book called Solved by Walking, so I guess I'm following my own advice, though I didn't have this circumstance in mind when I called it that. No matter: whatever works.
Take the fender-bender I was involved in last week. At the time it was happening, I was calm but very annoyed. What a nuisance, on top of other things I had to deal with! I was on my way to read and drink iced coffee at Starbucks. It was a sunny April afternoon. I was coming up to a busy intersection when I heard an ambulance approaching from the left and stopped. A couple of seconds later, I felt the impact as someone hit me pretty hard from the rear. My first reaction was simply to feel stunned -- what happened? And then I felt aggravated. I put on my caution lights and got out to talk to the other driver.
This driver was in a large Ford pick-up, for which the bumper of my little Toyota was no match. I stated the obvious, which was that he had hit me. He said I had stopped in front of him. I pointed out that I had stopped for an ambulance, to which he had no real reply. Then he asked if I wanted to just exchange insurance information or call the police. I told him I would call the police, to which he replied, "Well, call them then." He didn't ask if I was OK or seem apologetic. He smiled through the entire conversation as if we were on some kind of a lark.
I called the police and waited 45 minutes for an officer to arrive. While we were waiting, the other driver came up to my window and asked if I knew how long it would be until someone came. I told him I didn't know. He asked if I wanted to go ahead and exchange insurance information. I told him I wanted to wait for the police; a little while later, an officer arrived. After we moved our cars out of traffic, the officer took our statements and told me I could get the report online. I told him I had a bit of a headache and would probably get checked out to make sure I was OK.
Since we were in the parking lot of a hospital, I went into the emergency room there. Besides asking a lot of questions and putting me through some range of motion exercises, the staff also recommended an X-ray for my arm, which was by then slightly sore. Figuring it was better to be safe, I had the X-ray, which showed I had no fracture. I was told the headache was due to an adrenaline rush.
OK, so much for the facts. Now, as one professor I know likes to say, which gods were present?
As I got out of my car and faced the other driver, I felt competing emotions. A car crash is a violent event, and the presence of all that adrenaline proves that the body reacts to it as such. I know I was feeling a bit under attack as I got out of my car, but another voice in my head reminded me of the importance of being calm. If you had been been nearby, watching the scene unfold, you would have seen the glinting armor and flashing helmet of warlike Athena emerging from the driver's side of that small Toyota. A goddess of war, yes, but not one who relies on brute strength; she is also known for wisdom and counsel. I'm glad she was there.
What of the other driver? I wasn't in his skin, so I can't answer for his state of mind (as far as I know, he hasn't contacted his adjuster yet, so I still don't know what he was thinking). However, his smile and veneer of joking make me think of no one so much as the trickster, Hermes (minus the charm the latter sometimes exudes). There's an element of the trickster in most accidents, but some hint of gaiety in the man's face, inappropriate under the circumstance, made this impression even stronger. He was clearly at fault, and perhaps acting clownish was his defense.
Then the officer, the representative of law and order, arrived. He was strictly professional and took the reports with a seasoned efficiency that spoke of having repeated the same scene many times. He was Zeus, appearing suddenly to dispense justice, only he came in a squad car instead of descending from on high. (Modern life requires some adjustment in the details.)
Then the emergency room. Apollo is the god most associated with modern medicine, with its scientific ways and means. Apollo is skillful and efficient but perhaps a bit cold; certainly I felt I was surrounded by capable people, but if you've ever spent any time in an emergency room cubicle, you'll probably agree that it's not the warmest, fuzziest place you can imagine. It was sterile and a bit chilly. I wasn't in dire straits, so I was left on my own for most of the time, behind a curtain, with someone coming in occasionally to ask questions, take my vital signs, or perform some other function. That's probably by design, as I'm sure the emergency room staff makes it a policy to keep accident victims under observation, even if they're seemingly intact.
Asklepios, the other Greek god most associated with medicine, had a different approach; patients sought healing at overnight visits to his temple, where it was believed that he visited them in dreams. My understanding is that the rest and attention given to the patient were part of the cure. I don't know the details, but I imagine reclining on a couch, eating grapes, and listening to the dulcet tones of a flute playing softly nearby. Perhaps a massage before dinner, then a bath in the healing waters, and a pleasant night's sleep on a cushioned and draperied bed, followed by a late breakfast and consultation with the resident healer, who looked like Dr. Joe Gannon.
Actually, I did have a curtain, and I did have a chair, although I couldn't get it to recline. It takes more imagination than I can summon to transform those clinical surroundings into an Asklepion temple, and I'm very glad I didn't have to spend the night. I have a feeling there wouldn't have been any flute playing. But as glad as I am to have been able to walk out on my own steam (which is really the main thing), it would have been nice to have a little nurturing. A cup of hot tea, perhaps, or a pat on the arm. Modern medicine recognizes the emotional impact of an event such as mine, as evidenced by the instruction sheet I was given that explained the possibility of feeling depressed or anxious afterwards. But there was little in the way of any therapy for the soul, any milk of human kindness (a bit of chocolate wouldn't have been amiss, either).
Of course, there's one last player in this event, and that's the ambulance whose approach started the chain of events. You may be struck, as I was, at the irony of being put in the emergency room by stopping for an emergency vehicle. I'm sure this isn't the first time it's happened, but since it happened to me, I'm trying to make sense of the scene. Was the ambulance simply a blind agent of Fate? Was it Apollo, carrying some other unfortunate in far worse shape and in dire need of healing? Since it was the sound of the siren that made me stop, it's tempting to compare it to the Sirens who made the sailors crash on the rocks (after all, the result was similar). Possibly, it was some combination of all of these. There are usually multiple stories involved in any situation, not just the one that seems obvious.
If this had been a movie, I would have been able to dissect it with some of the intellectual precision of Apollo, but since it's real life, it's a good deal messier and not as easy to interpret. Is there a theme? Were there heroes? Were there villains? Is there something to be learned? And just where was Asklepios when I needed him? The sum of what I know: An accident happened; it was a hassle. However, I did not lose my temper, despite a trying circumstance. And that's something (thank you, Athena).
The aftermath is that I'm doing a lot of walking for the time being. Good for the soreness, good for the soul, and a bit less stressful than entering the fray of traffic just now. I wrote a book called Solved by Walking, so I guess I'm following my own advice, though I didn't have this circumstance in mind when I called it that. No matter: whatever works.
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