Mythos & Kallos · Part 09-11
Mythos & Kallos · Part 9 · Tyrant β
B suddenly felt a wave of chill, and unconsciously drew the coat tighter; after the chill passed, there came a flutter of palpitation in the heart, which caused B to interrupt A's words.
B: Don't you feel it's too cold in here?
A: Oh, my friend, do you feel cold? I have no such sensation.
B: How strange. Perhaps it is merely the illusion of slight tipsiness after drinking.
At that moment B noticed that in the very center of the bar there stood a small fire, kindled from a little pile of firewood; before this instant, B had never once perceived the existence of this little fire.
B: Was this little fire here before?
A: Oh yes, it has always been here.
B: That I truly never noticed — I have come here several times and never discovered such a thing here. Is this normal?
A: It is normal, my friend. I once heard a saying: even when some things lie right before our eyes, we still overlook them. To see is not necessarily truly to see; to be seen is not necessarily truly to be seen. This is quite normal.
B: "To see is not necessarily truly to see; to be seen is not necessarily truly to be seen." Haha, that sounds exactly like something you would record in your notes. But my friend, do you not find this a little strange?
A: What is it that strikes you as strange?
B: This little fire is so tiny — what practical use could it have? Can it truly provide warmth? Or is it purely decorative, an expression of the owner's personal aesthetic? Could it exist merely for the sake of admiring the inconsequential dance of that minute flame?
A: Or perhaps — it is a symbol? People seek intoxication, yet do not necessarily wish to be drunk on alcohol itself; their hearts may yearn for the consolation of Sleep (Ὕπνος = Hypnos = Sleep) and Forgetfulness (Λήθη = Lethe = Forgetfulness). The traveler in a foreign land (ξένος = Xenos = Stranger / Foreigner), trudging through the long icy cold of deep winter — if such a one can behold the presence of fire in a tavern along the road, then even though its radiance cannot illuminate the world outside, it will kindle in them a feeling of drawing near to the homeward path. What do you think?
Hearing these words from A, B was struck still for a moment.
B: Is that also something you recorded in your notes?
A: Oh, very possibly. I often write down too many sentences, until in the end even I can no longer tell which ones were recorded and which have been forgotten.
B: Indeed, human beings are strange creatures. We do not know how memory is born, nor do we know how forgetting infiltrates the Soul. We believe we understand ourselves well, yet we know neither what we remember nor what we have forgotten.
A saw that B was staring blankly at the little fire, lost in a daze, and so A merely drank quietly, offering no reply to B's soliloquy.
After a long while, B seemed to return from some recess of memory.
B: My apologies — I was just thinking of some things from the past. Pray continue with that myth about the tyrant, my friend.
A: Of course.
In the records room, the searcher of old archives found, within the records of R005's contacts with the defector high official, certain myths connected with the "anchor (ἄγκυρα = anchor)." These documents concerning the "anchor" seemed somewhat out of place amid the entire mass of the government's classified archives, appearing to be memoranda added by different later hands.
The peculiarity of these memoranda lay in this: different people had crossed out portions of one another's original annotations.
For instance, in one document, one could see:
"Owing to problems of language, I cannot fully translate the myth concerning the anchor (ἄγκυρα = anchor) from the original document, (crossed out), I believe those who come after should handle the related problems of translation with caution, and (crossed out), Ariadne's Thread (Ἀριάδνης μίτος = Ariadne's Thread) is not (crossed out), therefore, (crossed out)."
Or:
"Found some more primordial records concerning the anchor (ἄγκυρα = anchor); the crux lies not in the problem of language, (crossed out), but in the problem of translation; what my predecessor meant to express was (crossed out)."
Or:
"(crossed out), what comes closer is (crossed out), misleading, (crossed out), a kind of well-intentioned misunderstanding and being misunderstood, (crossed out), is precisely what the one before spoke of (crossed out), (crossed out) gave birth to the Minotaur (Μινώταυρος = Minotaur), (crossed out)."
Or:
"In the past I took this for rhetoric meant to frighten, naively believing (crossed out), it turns out the one in error was always me. I can only agree with what my predecessors said — those who come after should handle the problems of translation with care, (crossed out), the Labyrinth (Λαβύρινθος = Labyrinth) cannot (crossed out)."
Or:
"Utter madness, (crossed out), complete madness, (crossed out)."
Or:
"The Minotaur (Μινώταυρος = Minotaur), is it? (crossed out), I shall follow the custom (νόμος = nomos = custom / law / convention) of those who came before, (crossed out)."
Among these peculiar documents, the archive-searcher discovered several common threads. Beyond the concept of the "anchor (ἄγκυρα = anchor)," some of the documents repeatedly mentioned the legendary monster of Greek myth: the Minotaur (Μινώταυρος = Minotaur).
This was connected with the defector former high official whom R005 attended — for this old man, sinking daily deeper into madness, had beheld the Minotaur (Μινώταυρος = Minotaur) in his dreams.
R005: Sir, I hear you did not sleep well last night.
The old man's countenance was haggard; the medical team reported that throughout the entire day he had drunk only a little water and eaten nothing at all.
The surveillance team indicated that the old man had requested to read certain books of Greek mythology — in particular, the myths concerning the Minotaur (Μινώταυρος = Minotaur).
The analysts advised that, considering such mythological reading might become a new source of psychological agitation, for the present the old man should be told that the relevant books would be purchased, but that it would take some time. They surmised that, in the best case, after a while the old man would forget the request of his own accord.
Old Man: I am sorry that you must still come to help me write my autobiography while I am in such a state. Indeed, I did not sleep well.
R005: Can you tell me the reason? I too sometimes sleep poorly, and find it hard to fall asleep.
Old Man: I dreamed of the Minotaur (Μινώταυρος = Minotaur).
R005: The Minotaur (Μινώταυρος = Minotaur)?
Old Man: The monster from Greek mythology — that monster half man and half bull.
R005: I have heard of it; that mythical tale is spread far and wide.
Old Man: It is the enemy.
R005 could not follow the leaps of the old man's thought.
R005: The enemy? What do you mean?
Old Man: That half-man, half-bull monster is the enemy — it is no ordinary enemy — it is the enemy!
R005: Forgive me, I do not quite understand — you are saying…?
Old Man: It is not an external enemy! Not like those enemies my country once faced!
R005: Sir, I am afraid I still do not understand…
The old man appeared somewhat agitated.
Old Man: My country was once invaded by foreign peoples; it perished in the hands of my forebears' generation.
R005 noticed the old man's emotions growing ever more unstable, and answered with caution.
R005: Yes, sir, that was indeed a grievous chapter of history — thankfully that era has passed.
Old Man: No! No! No! History does not simply pass away like that! The foreigners were defeated and departed from my country — but that is merely the ending visible to the naked eye. History did not end; that invisible undercurrent still remains. I know! I know! I know everything! I too was once one of those who wrote history!
R005 could not comprehend the old man's agitated reaction, and for a moment could find no fitting words of reply.
Old Man: We defeated the foreigners! But that seed of terror was sown at some unknown hour!
R005: Seed?
Old Man: Yes! The seed — the seed of the Minotaur (Μινώταυρος = Minotaur)! That seed — those seeds — gave birth to the half-man, half-bull monster! Sheer madness! He actually broke the Oath! So it was because of that Oath!
R005: Oath?
Old Man: How foolish I am — to perceive all this only now, at this late hour. It was that Oath! It was truly that Oath!
R005: What oath?
Old Man: The Oath of King Minos (Μίνως = Minos)! You must believe me! This is important! This is supremely important!
Seeing the old man's increasingly unstable emotions, R005 too felt a rising panic.
R005: Sir, I believe you. I do believe you.
Old Man: Yes — you must believe me, I beg you to believe me. I… I do not know how to say it, I do not know how to explain; I have paid a most grievous price. I implore you to believe me — I beg you — do not follow my example, never follow my example, I beg you…
R005: I believe you, sir. I believe you.
Seeing the old man's emotions return somewhat to stability, R005 took the initiative to end this session of contact.
Hearing this far, B could not help but begin to complain, gaze shifting from its fixation upon the little fire back toward A.
B: What is this? This is far too chaotic — was the story originally written this way?
A: Oh, this may be a fault of my own. This myth was perhaps not originally so chaotic; but since I cannot smoothly recall everything, it suffers many defects. Perhaps much of the chaos you perceive originates from me.
B: Truly despair-inducing. I think you genuinely cannot triumph over your friend — you will lose ground, battle after battle, in this war of "the tyrant is beautiful." The logic of your narration is far too disordered; for one like me, who holds faith in clear order and tidiness, it is truly hard to accept.
A: Oh, my friend — though I am most reluctant to accept this, I too feel that what you say will come to pass.
B: What exactly was that Oath you mentioned in the story? I have some impression of King Minos (Μίνως = Minos) in my mind, and I remember that half-man, half-bull monster, but in truth I never paid particular attention to the details of this mythical tale. I have forgotten the specifics — I remember only that a half-man, half-bull monster was born. Why not recount it in detail?
A: In the myth, King Minos (Μίνως = Minos) once prayed with a sincere heart to the Sea God Poseidon (Ποσειδῶν = Poseidon), beseeching that great God of the Sea to reveal a miracle (θαῦμα = miracle) before the eyes of mortals. Minos (Μίνως = Minos) yearned for the people to know that he was beloved of the God, one chosen by Heaven, destined by Fate to rule over the land.
B: And then?
A: Minos (Μίνως = Minos) swore an Oath (ὅρκος = horkos = oath) to the Sea God Poseidon (Ποσειδῶν = Poseidon), vowing that whatever gift was bestowed within the Divine miracle (θαῦμα = miracle), he would offer it up as a sacrifice (θυσία = thysia = offering, sacrifice), to express his gratitude for the Grace (χάρις = charis = grace) of that great God's favor.
B: That detail I truly never noticed before. And then?
A: The Sea God Poseidon (Ποσειδῶν = Poseidon) answered the prayer of Minos (Μίνως = Minos), and from the dark and boundless ocean sent forth a white bull of surpassing beauty.
B: Haha, the myths the ancients wrote are truly amusing. Why did the Sea God send not a sea creature, but a bull? If I were the one writing the myth, I would think sending a whale far more reasonable than sending a white bull. Do continue.
A: The God answered the mortal's wish, and thus the moment of decision (καιρός = kairos = critical moment) fell into mortal hands. By this Divine miracle (θαῦμα = wonder, miracle), Minos (Μίνως = Minos) sat secure upon his throne; but that Heaven-sent white bull was simply too beautiful — it was so perfect, so pure — and so Minos (Μίνως = Minos) began to hesitate.
B: He hesitated?
A: Yes, my friend, he hesitated.
B: Why?
A: When the people beheld that beautiful white bull, they were all convinced that Minos (Μίνως = Minos) was truly favored by the God, and thus from the depths of their hearts they submitted to his rule (ἀρχή = arche = rule, source, beginning, principle). But at this point, Minos (Μίνως = Minos) began to calculate: if he truly slew the white bull, would the people still be willing to follow him? It was because of the white bull that the people submitted to him; if the white bull perished in the rite of sacrifice and returned to the God, would the people not think, "the God no longer favors me"?
B: Hm, it is quite reasonable, quite rational, for him to think this way — it would be digging up his own foundation.
A: And so the newborn king not only wavered in indecision, but even sought to deceive the very God who had answered his prayer. He violated his Oath to the God, hid away that white bull, and substituted another, ordinary bull in its place, offering it in sacrifice to the God.
B: And then?
A: Oh, my friend — Minos (Μίνως = Minos) committed arrogance and transgression against the God (ὕβρις = hubris), and so the Sea God Poseidon (Ποσειδῶν = Poseidon) sent down Divine punishment. Yet this Divine punishment was not aimed directly at the king himself, but descended upon his other half.
B: His other half?
A: That is, his queen — the consort of King Minos (Μίνως = Minos) — Pasiphae (Πασιφάη = Pasiphae).
B: What happened to the queen?
A: The Sea God caused the king's queen to be infected with a twisted mania — a perverse passion for a beast. The queen fell in love with that God-given white bull; under an irrepressible compulsion, the queen united with the white bull. From their coupling, the seed at last brought forth a monster half man and half bull — and that was the Minotaur (Μινώταυρος = Minotaur); the very name of this monster means "the Bull of Minos."
B: I must protest — why is it that the king committed the offense, yet the queen was made to bear the punishment? The man does wrong, and the woman must suffer for it? These Gods are far too strange! And the manner of punishment — so inhumane, so twisted!
A: Oh, my friend, I too am most curious why the myth was written thus.
B: I think it may reflect certain biases and prejudices of the ancients. In some ancient cultures, women were at times depicted as symbols of ill omen or impurity.
A: I too am unclear as to the deeper reasons within.
B: So this is how the Minotaur (Μινώταυρος = Minotaur) was born. This passage you have recounted is far clearer than that chaotic material from before — its structure more orderly as well. I think you ought to maintain this clarity.
A: I thank you for your praise, my friend.
Mythos & Kallos · Part 10 · Tyrant γ
Though B had not drunk much, a slight tipsiness had already set in, and the somewhat melancholy mood of before relaxed along with it. B's gaze shifted from the fire to the wine glass at hand; in the dim light, B beheld the blurred reflection of B's own countenance — it did not look as weary as imagined, even though the night before had afforded little sleep.
B: In truth, I think the Gods were making much ado over a trifle — matters need not have come to this at all.
A: My friend, why do you say so?
B: Suppose there truly were Gods in this world, and suppose the Gods were as omnipotent as the myths describe them; then the Gods ought not to put human nature to the test.
A: I do not understand.
B: It is a very simple principle: human nature cannot withstand testing — and before immense gain, human nature can withstand it even less. There are few in this world who can truly refuse the seductive whisper of power and station; that is why saints are so rare, and why saints are usually indistinguishable from madmen.
A: Is that so? Even for those who dwell in high places?
B: Those in high places all the more so — for the higher one stands, the more painful the fall. If a person has become a king or a queen, such a one who dwells on high cannot possibly do anything that would cause the loss of that station. For a commoner, losing one's standing may cost but a little face, for the commoner does not stand high; but for one enthroned on high, to lose one's station is at times equivalent to death.
B gently swirled the wine glass in hand.
B: In the mythical tale, since the king had already obtained the beautiful white bull, and the subjects under his rule had, because of this white bull, acknowledged his sovereignty — how could he possibly take the needless risk of "returning" the white bull to the God? That would violate both his interest and the rationality as he understood it. What if his subjects came to believe that the king had in fact never received the God-given white bull, that everything before had been deception? In their fury, his subjects and his enemies alike would rise up against him as one. A station already grasped in hand — how could it possibly be relinquished lightly? How could it be permitted to be relinquished lightly? That is real human nature.
B looked up toward A.
B: In history, for the sake of the throne, kin have slaughtered kin, friends have turned against friends, allies have betrayed allies, exhausting every conspiracy and stratagem — such affairs are beyond counting. Do you acknowledge these facts, my friend?
A: Indeed it is so; history truly holds many such examples — though I myself believe the world ought not to be of such a shape.
B: Therefore, if the Gods truly exist, either They should erase this unchanging human nature that has been verified by history, or They should simply refrain from putting human nature to any test at all.
A: Then what do you think the Gods ought to do?
B: Ha — how would I know? I am no God; I do not believe in Gods, nor do I think Gods exist. I only know what humans ought to do: humans can make institutional changes to prevent these foreseeable conflicts from arising; tragedy can be averted — that is human wisdom.
B watched the bewildered expression upon A's face.
B: Are you pondering some strange question again?
A: My friend, a question has indeed arisen in my heart, though I am not sure whether it counts as strange.
B: What question?
A: I was thinking: since a human cannot surpass the wisdom (σοφία = sophia = wisdom) of the Gods, how could a human avert a tragedy (τραγῳδία = tragedy) which even the Gods did not avert?
B: Your question rests upon two premises: first, that Gods exist; second, that Gods possess more wisdom than humans. In my view, neither assumption holds — or rather, neither can be proven. If the Gods do not exist, your question is utterly meaningless; if the Gods exist but are no wiser than humans, your question is equally meaningless.
B continued to watch A's expression growing yet more bewildered.
B: What have you thought of now? Speak it.
A: My friend, why do you believe that the Gods do not exist? And why do you believe that the Gods are not necessarily wiser than humans?
B: Is that not a self-evident fact? We no longer live in that pre-modern age of ignorance and superstition. The Gods are most likely mere products of human imagination — a collective cultural creation, a mass hypnosis. The ruling classes then exploit such deified cultural narratives to reinforce the legitimacy of their rule — for instance, "the Divine right of kings," or grand and sacred narratives such as the founding of a mighty regime under the guidance of the Gods. Can you follow my line of thought? I find none of this difficult to understand; the difficulty lies not in understanding, but in accepting.
A: My friend, I can follow your line of thought.
B: Since the Gods are more likely products of human imagination, how could the Gods be wiser than humankind? They are, in the end, merely humanity's collective creation, a collective imagining… wait — why do you seem to have drifted off?
A: My apologies — a thought suddenly surfaced just now; this thought was asking me: what is imagination (φαντασία = phantasia = imagination)?
B: You drifted off over that? It is not a difficult question to answer. Imagination is a mental activity that people generate upon the basis of everyday experience — just like dreams. The materials of dreams derive from the experience of actual life, and human imagination likewise cannot escape the experience of actual life. Whether the content of dreams or the content of imagination, both are a kind of mapping of reality.
A: My friend, you speak these words with remarkable fluency, as though exceedingly familiar with them.
B: Of course — for I have debated with those obstinate priests of my country far too many times, so many times that I have grown weary of it.
A: Why would it make you weary?
B: Because by the end of the debate, usually no one is ever persuaded. Either everyone disperses in displeasure amid dead silence, or my words enrage some of those present, plunging even more people into a chaos of quarreling like a marketplace of vegetables. Some would call me an apostate cursed by the Gods; some would call me an unbeliever whose soul walks toward death; and I would only say to them: since you cannot refute my words, you can only assault my soul.
A: None of that sounds like a pleasant experience.
B: Of course it was not pleasant in the least. What is more sorrowful still is that such strife in my country is but a microcosm; upon the political stage, similar theatrics are being performed on a far grander scale. My friend, I assure you, this is no ordinary squabble between neighbors in the streets. I sense a colossal bomb buried within my country, primed yet undetonated. I feel pessimistic; I feel disappointed.
A listened quietly as B spoke.
B: I am certain that all I know and all I say is without fault; regrettably, I cannot prevent the tragedy from unfolding. Sometimes I wish to ask Heaven why this must be so — but who knows? Perhaps humankind is simply this ignorant; even though we have long left the pre-modern (pre-modern) behind, perhaps we have in truth never genuinely transcended the pre-modern? Perhaps the imagination of modern people, like the imagination of pre-modern people, can only remain confined within each one's own mind.
B took a sip of wine.
B: My friend, you too once witnessed my disputes with the priests of my country. I refuted much of what the priests said — yet certain questions they raised are ones for which I too am seeking answers. Why is it that civilization has developed to this day, with technology so advanced, and yet so many people still live in suffering and poverty? Why is it that at times society appears to progress, yet human beings live like machinery?
B took another sip of wine.
B: Everyone seems to have lost some deeper stratum of meaning, sinking into nihility. People feel they are merely moving mechanically, rather than truly living. And war seems to have grown yet more insane, mass-producing newer, faster, more convenient machines of killing. I too wonder why this is so. Pre-modern people imagined their Gods — and we moderns, or postmoderns, what have we imagined? Have we truly passed through the Age of Enlightenment? I do not know. I too wish to know the answer; I too hope someone might resolve for me this question that has troubled me for years: what, in the end, have we collectively imagined?
A: Oh, my friend, these words of yours remind me of something said by an ancient — precisely concerning imagination (φαντασία = phantasia = imagination).
B: Which ancient? And what did he say?
A: That ancient's name is Xenophanes of Colophon (Ξενοφάνης ὁ Κολοφώνιος = Xenophanes of Colophon), and it is said that he spoke thus:
If oxen, horses, or lions had hands,
or could draw and create works with their hands as humans do,
horses would draw the Gods in the likeness of horses,
and oxen would draw the Gods in the likeness of oxen,
and they would make the bodies of the Gods resemble their own bodies.
ἀλλ' εἰ χεῖρας ἔχον βόες ‹ἵπποι τ'› ἠὲ λέοντες
ἢ γράψαι χείρεσσι καὶ ἔργα τελεῖν ἅπερ ἄνδρες,
ἵπποι μέν θ' ἵπποισι βόες δέ τε βουσὶν ὁμοίας
καί ‹κε› θεῶν ἰδέας ἔγραφον καὶ σώματ' ἐποίουν
τοιαῦθ' οἷόν περ καὐτοὶ δέμας εἶχον ‹ἕκαστοι›.
[Diels-Kranz B15]
B: I never expected the ancients to have said such things! This ancient spoke rightly: if animals could paint as humans do, they too would imagine the Gods in a likeness resembling their own. In the religions of different cultures, the Gods mostly bear human characteristics, descriptions, and emotions; this is precisely because the Gods ultimately spring from humanity's own imagination — it is the common nature of humankind! What else did that ancient say?
A: He said:
Yet mortals suppose that the Gods are born,
and that the Gods, like humans, have clothing, speech, and body.
ἀλλ' οἱ βροτοὶ δοκέουσι γεννᾶσθαι θεούς,
τὴν σφετέρην δ' ἐσθῆτα ἔχειν φωνήν τε δέμας τε.
[Diels-Kranz B14]
B: How perfectly said! I never imagined that a pre-modern ancient possessed such understanding. In my eyes, some modern people fall short of this ancient!
B seemed to recall something, and the tone took on a trace of anger.
B: It appears this ancient was one of history's rare atheists — or at the very least, an agnostic.
A: Oh, my friend, he may perhaps have been an agnostic to a certain degree, but he should not be counted an atheist.
B felt slightly bewildered.
B: Then who was he, really?
A: He believed in the existence of the Gods. He was a poet — and I sense that you are not very fond of poets.
B: Correct, I do not like poets. I detest ambiguous and obscure diction, and ornate rhetoric that relies upon inflaming the emotions. How despair-inducing — I had thought I might find in past history a figure who resonates with me; yet he turns out to be not only a theist, but a poet as well. Perhaps the ancients could never, in the end, escape the limitations of their era — no one can escape the limitations of their era. Still, I wish to ask: do you remember what else he said?
A: In my memory, he said:
The Gods did not reveal all things to mortals from the beginning,
but through seeking, humans find in time what is better.
οὔτοι ἀπ' ἀρχῆς πάντα θεοὶ θνητοῖσ' ὑπέδειξαν,
ἀλλὰ χρόνωι ζητοῦντες ἐφευρίσκουσιν ἄμεινον.
[Diels-Kranz B18]
B: Alas, you were right — I truly do not like poets. Sometimes you cannot even tell what these poets are trying to express, and I suspect they themselves do not know what they are trying to express. How did we come to speak of poets? What was it we originally set out to do?
A: Oh, friend, our aim is to vanquish the proposition that "the tyrant is beautiful."
B: Haha, that is really more your aim. I find the proposition "the tyrant is beautiful" itself quite fascinating; I would much rather sit as audience to the duel between you and your friend once your friend awakens.
A: My friend, I beg you — do not stand as a spectator to this disputation; you absolutely must help me. Even though you do not believe in the Gods, I believe the Gods would rejoice at your participation. And you do not truly believe that "the tyrant is beautiful" — do you?
B: I think that even if Gods exist, the Gods might rather delight in watching mortals strive against one another. Perhaps the Gods are like the audience of some grand drama? So long as there is a play to watch, They will watch — utterly indifferent to what the content of the drama may be.
A: My friend, your words have stirred certain memories in me. Regrettably those memories are far too blurred; I remember only that the fragments of those memories expressed this: the Gods are as spectators in the heavens; They love to watch the drama (δρᾶμα = drama) of the mortal realm, whether tragedy (τραγῳδία = tragedy) or comedy (κωμῳδία = comedy).
B: If the Gods truly love watching drama, then I must earnestly pray that these idle Gods love only comedies — rather than taking Their pleasure from the suffering of mortals in tragedies.
A: My friend, I do not believe the Gods would feel delight simply from human suffering.
B: Who knows? In the myths, tales of Gods tormenting humans seem hardly rare; in some myths the suffering has no reason whatsoever — it is purely the caprice of the Gods. And in reality, some genuine tyrants inflicting cruelty upon the subjects under their rule is likewise a commonplace of history; subjects may suffer abuse without having committed any fault — that is the caprice of the tyrant. Since in reality the suffering of those below can bring pleasure to those above, then perhaps human suffering can likewise bring pleasure to the Gods? It is a most reasonable inference.
B watched as A gave no immediate response, as though A had again sunk into some new question.
B: What question are you pondering now?
A: Why is it that the tyrant (τύραννος = tyrannos) can find pleasure in cruelty and violence?
B: Because that is a tyrant — a tyrant is a tyrant; a tyrant needs no reason for what a tyrant does. It is power supreme and absolute; it is the freedom to do whatever one wills; it is the exultation of holding the life and death of others within a single flicker of one's own thought; it is caprice and gratification in their ultimate form.
A: But is that not profoundly pathological?
B: Does it seem pathological to you? Perhaps in the eyes of some it is deeply pathological — but in the eyes of the tyrant and the ruling clique around the tyrant, perhaps it is exceedingly beautiful.
B could not help but burst into laughter.
B: Haha — perhaps it is your friend who has grasped the truth: the tyrant really is beautiful!
A: I do not understand — why would something pathological be beautiful?
B: My friend, I too wish to know the answer to that question. But consider: in certain cases of domestic violence, the abuser and the abused may at times be harder to part from one another than we imagine.
A: Oh — I think this is a question worthy of exploration.
B: Is it? Do you think that behind these pathological cases lies something deeper?
A: Perhaps there is some obsession within? Perhaps there is some imagination (φαντασία = phantasia = imagination) within? Imaginings which outsiders can scarcely perceive?
B: You actually intend to investigate this question in earnest. But who truly knows the answer? Human nature is ever complex — human nature is exceedingly complex; people often cannot even understand their own thoughts and deeds.
A: Is that so?
B: Of course it is so. Consider: perhaps we are all, to a greater or lesser degree, drawn toward violence; otherwise, why would violent and gory films and shows command such a market? My country is a post-revolutionary democratic order (δημοκρατία = democracy), yet such works lack no market there either. Perhaps this too is a part of human nature? Why should it be so? I do not know — but I dearly wish to know.
A: So violence (βία) is beautiful — and the tyrant, being the ultimate incarnation of violence, is therefore beautiful as well?
B: Wait — I most certainly did not lead you into saying that, my friend. I am, after all, a staunch supporter of the democratic order, and I do not believe the tyrant is beautiful. I was merely saying that works which inflame the dark side of human nature lack no market — that is all.
A: But if certain works of art command a great market, does that not signify that, at least within some group, these imaginings (φαντασία = phantasia = imagination) are deemed beautiful? How could people go to behold works of art that are not beautiful?
B: No, no, no — why would you assume that film and television works must equal works of art? And why would you think that works of art must necessarily be beautiful?
A: Is it not so?
B: Of course not! Many film and television works are merely products of a commercialized industrial assembly line; whereas some directors craft works so lofty that few can follow, left only to admire their own solitary fragrance, ending at last in bankruptcy and liquidation. To expand the market, what you need most of the time is not artistry, but catering to people's demands, their pain-points, their comfort-points; what you must truly master is the latent psychological skyline of the people, not some ethereal artistic revelation. So it is with film and television — and so it is with politics.
A appeared profoundly bewildered.
B: What is so hard to understand about this?
A: I truly cannot understand it. Is art not necessarily beautiful?
B: Works of art are truly not necessarily so-called beautiful. Much avant-garde art is so abstract that you cannot comprehend it at all — what beauty is there to speak of? When I look at such works, I only think "this is very artistic," never "this is very beautiful." And certain religious art does nothing but nauseate me — I would never consider that beautiful.
A: My friend, I am deeply perplexed. How can art (τέχνη = techne = art) and beauty (καλός = kalos = beauty) be separated from one another?
B: Good heavens — did you not ask a similar question the very first time we met? I must have felt I was being driven mad by you then, for I feel I am being driven mad by you now. Could you please refrain from asking questions so basic, so fundamental, so utterly commonsensical?
A: But, my friend, I am truly perplexed, truly lost.
B: There is no "why." Art and beauty simply can be separated — that is how the world operates. Or perhaps the world does not truly operate that way — but at the very least, people are firmly convinced that it does; at the very least, I am firmly convinced of it. How did our topic stray all the way here? Were we not speaking of tyrants? Are your associations not leaping rather too wildly?
A: My deepest apologies — no doubt asking you to aid me in this disputation shall prove a most difficult affair.
B felt a helpless resignation, and instinctively moved to take another sip of wine, only to discover that at some unnoticed moment the glass had already been drained.
B: With this character of yours — wandering daily through wild and errant musings — it is indeed hard for me to be of help. How about this: you buy me a drink, and I shall assist you all the more earnestly toward victory.
A: No problem at all — I truly do need your earnest assistance.
B: Then this drink you ordered — the one of many colors — is it truly good?
A: Not bad at all; I think you might give it a try.
B: No thank you — I shall order the same one as before.
A: Very well, my friend.
Mythos & Kallos · Part 11 · Tyrant δ
B pondered for a moment, then ordered another glass of the same wine as before.
Just at that moment, B heard a sound issuing from A's friend, who lay sunken in drunken slumber.
X: No… liar… I refuse to drink the cup that you drink… beautiful… false… all is drifting shadow… all is dream and phantasm… I simply will not drink the cup you ordered… nothing real at all… not good to drink… good to drink… not good to drink… the good-to-drink that is not good to drink… drinking the not-good-to-drink that is good to drink… anchor… wine… the anchor that is good to drink… the anchor that is not good to drink… put an anchor in the wine… I am not drunk… it is the anchor that is drunk… the sea is drunk too… the anchor got drunk… the anchor drank the anchor…
B had assumed that this friend of A's was finally about to awaken, only to find that X, having uttered these fragmentary, incoherent drunken words, lapsed once more into oblivion, sinking again into quiet sleep.
B: I did not expect that your friend would not only be fair of face, but possess so pleasing a voice as well.
A: Oh, indeed — X is a person of exceeding charm.
B: X? What a peculiar name — I have never heard anyone called by such a name. Its pronunciation is most curious, and pleasing to the ear.
A: That is not X's original name, but X's stage name. According to X, it is a name belonging to the drama (δρᾶμα = drama), and X dislikes being addressed by the original, true name.
B: Your friend has quite the character. Then do you know X's true name?
A: X did once tell me the true name — yet that recollection reminds me of a most perplexing experience.
B: What experience?
A: X always delights in casting forth conundrums I cannot resolve, plunging me into bewilderment and helplessness.
B: Oh?
A: My friend, after X spoke the true name to me, X hurled at me a question which to this very day I cannot answer. X asked me: though I had now come to know a "true name," how could I be certain I had not been deceived? Perhaps this so-called "true name" was merely another "stage name" — another name belonging to the stage, another name fashioned for artistic creation.
B: Surely that was a jest between friends? It seems you two are on good terms.
A: Oh, though X is indeed my friend, when X spoke those words to me, X was considerably angry — with not the slightest trace of jesting.
B: How could that be? You enraged your friend?
A: Ah, my friend, why would you think so? I have no intention of enraging anyone.
B: Haha — perhaps those who are fair of face and sweet of voice are naturally more apt to be trusted? I cannot help feeling that your friend was the offended party. And judging by my own experience, those strange questions of yours truly do provoke impatience.
A: By the Gods above, these are questions whose answers I earnestly seek — never with the least intention of giving offense.
B: Then why was X angered at the time?
A: Oh, my friend, I too dearly wish to know the answer to that question. I remember only that after I recounted a certain myth, X's reaction grew fierce, and then X delivered unto me a long speech.
B: What did X say?
A: X said to me: X is a stage name; and since a person may possess a stage name, might not the stage name likewise possess a stage name of its own? They are, after all, merely names — all arbitrarily bestowed by humans. How, then, is a person ever to discern which one is the true name?
B: Wait — I am somewhat confused. What does it mean that "a stage name may possess its own stage name"?
A: Oh, I too asked X this very question. Facing it, X answered me: X is a stage name; X is a name (ὄνομα = name), and this name was arbitrarily bestowed by X's own self.
B: Hmm, this much I understand — and then?
A: X said that a stage name may endlessly repeat this process of arbitrary naming; a stage name may have its own stage name — this is to perform an "arbitrary naming" upon the "arbitrary naming of the stage name" once again. The name X may likewise have a name of its own: this is the name of a name, the X of X; the X of X may be Y, and the X of X may equally be Z.
B: This is far too confounding.
A: X explained that this is the naming of naming — or, one step further, the naming of the naming of naming; and such a process can be carried on in infinite regress.
B: I still do not understand. I can comprehend that "a name is an arbitrary human designation" — but why would anyone perform a naming upon a name? Is there any substantive meaning in doing so? To me this carries no practical significance whatsoever! Is it nothing but a pure game of thought?
A: My friend, I can understand how you feel.
B: We call an "apple" an "apple" — that is our naming of the "apple"; but we have no need to bestow a further name upon "the name apple," nor would we ever do so — and thus there exists in this world no such thing as "the name of the name of the apple."
B noticed that A had drifted off slightly.
B: What are you pondering now?
A: Oh — some strange images just flashed across my mind.
B: What images?
A: I seemed to behold a golden apple smiling at me. It spoke to me gently: "My dear good companion, you have always called me the golden apple — but that is merely the stage name I took for your sake; my real name you are unable to translate. Now, do you wish to ask what my name truly is? My friend — is that not the very question I have been asking you all along? What is your name?"
B: Good heavens — I do believe you are drunk as well. You are not about to collapse upon the table too, are you?
A: My apologies, my friend — I am not certain whether I am drunk. Perhaps I am already drunk. I seem unable now to escape the golden apple's question; I keep turning over these questions — "what is your name," "what is my name."
B looked pained with exasperation.
B: Stop thinking about it! You cannot let your thoughts leap about like this! Wait — you are driving me mad as well. What were we speaking of before?
A: It was this: if an apple has a name, does the name of that apple possess a name of its own?
B: It does not! The name of the apple has no name. If you ask an apple what its name is, the apple will tell you it is called an apple; but if you ask an apple "what name does its name bear," it will likely stare at you as one stares at a fool, deeming you an exceptionally stupid piece of fruit!
A: But, my friend, I am no fruit!
B burst into laughter.
B: It is a relief that you can still remember you are not a fruit. Might we now return to some more ordinary topic?
A: Oh, my friend — I seem to have found the clue as to why the image of the golden apple came into my mind.
B: I hope this time your associations lead to nothing more outlandish.
A: I promise they shall not. I have at last remembered by what myth my friend X was so enraged; in that myth there is indeed a golden fruit.
B: What myth?
And so A began recalling for B that myth concerning the golden fruit.
Long, long ago, upon a beautiful little island, there lived a loving husband and wife, and unto them a child was born.
They gave thanks to the Gods for granting them new life, and gave thanks to the Gods for watching over their love.
Yet this loving couple could not, for the longest time, decide what their newborn child should be called.
They thought of many names — thinking and thinking, and thinking again.
They had assumed that once the child was born, the name would settle itself; yet a whole month had passed since the birth, and still the child's name remained undecided.
One day, as they played with the newborn babe, they said to the infant who knew only how to cry: "Our child, what would you wish to be called? What would you wish to become in days to come? By what would you wish to be known among people? Our little darling — you know only how to cry; shall we simply call you the Little Crybaby?"
The couple's idle words of teasing, beyond all expectation, became reality; from that day forth the newborn child never ceased from weeping, crying for fully three days and three nights.
Though the little babe still appeared perfectly healthy, this unnatural phenomenon plunged the couple into panic. And so they resolved to seek the aid of the Gods, hoping the Gods might cause their child to cease its weeping.
They prepared offerings for the Gods (θυσία = thysia = offering, sacrifice), and bearing the child, they sailed by boat to the little island where the temple stood. Having moored their vessel, they prayed within the temple with sincere hearts.
It seemed the Gods had hearkened unto the couple's prayer — for that very night, they dreamed a dream (ὄνειρος = dream).
In the dream, a flying fruit (καρπός = fruit / result) radiant with golden light asked them, smiling: "Since you two love one another, surely you must know my real name. What is my name?"
The husband and wife guessed many answers, yet none was correct.
Among these answers were "the Golden Apple," "the Shining Apple," "the Precious Apple," "the Golden Shining Apple," "the Precious Shining Apple," and so on.
The golden fruit said to them: "Those, perhaps, are my names within the drama (δρᾶμα = drama). I am very fond of these names (ὄνομα = onoma = name, reputation) — but what is my real name? What fruit (καρπός = fruit / result) am I, in truth?"
Within the dream the couple guessed many times more, yet never once did they guess aright.
And so, even within the dream, anxiety seized them.
And in their anxiousness, they awoke.
Perhaps the Gods had truly intervened in their plight — for upon waking they found the child had ceased to cry. They beheld the little babe embracing a golden fruit, sleeping soundly and in peace.
And thus their child was given the name "the Golden Apple".
B: That is all? What a short myth. Now this I cannot understand, my friend.
A: My friend, what is it you do not understand?
B: I do not understand why X would be enraged by this myth of yours.
A: I too have been pondering this very question.
B: Think again — did you say nothing else?
A: Oh — now I remember. This myth has a latter half.
B wore an expression of considerable resignation, took a sip of wine, and gestured for A to continue.
Many, many more years passed, and the child who had been named "the Golden Apple" grew to adulthood.
One day, upon another small island near home, this child met an old man.
The elder and the younger fell into conversation.
Old Man: Child, what is your name?
Child: I am called the Golden Apple.
The old man seemed greatly surprised that the child bore such a name, and asked after its origin; the child thereupon recounted to the old man the story that the parents had lived through.
To the child's surprise, upon hearing it the old man could not stop laughing.
Child: Old sir, I do not understand — is my name truly so laughable?
Old Man: Forgive me, child, truly I did not mean to laugh — I simply could not restrain myself.
Child: I do not understand.
Old Man: The fault is mine. In my homeland, the people all love to cultivate fruit; the growing of fruit has even become a formal contest, and each year the sweetest fruit is offered up to the Gods.
Child: Oh.
Old Man: This cultural custom of my homeland has even shaped the naming of children. Just as my own parents named me "the Sweetness of Heaven". But I do not like this name in the least. Good heavens, child — you can scarcely imagine how much mockery this name has brought upon me from childhood to this very day.
Child: Oh.
Old Man: In my homeland, the name of the sweetest fruit is "apple" — and that is the origin of your name.
Child: So that is how it was?
The old man seemed filled with remorse.
Old Man: Yes. And yet, child — in truth, your homeland possesses no real apples at all.
Child: What?
Old Man: In my youth, during one tedious voyage, I conceived a prank. I brought the least sweet, the most bland and flavorless fruit of my homeland to these small islands, and planted it here. When the people of these isles asked me what fruit this was, I told them: this is a golden fruit called the apple, and it is exceedingly sweet. The people here believed it, and came to call this unsweet, near-flavorless fruit the apple.
Child: What?
Old Man: Yet in this world there is no golden apple — and that fruit was never sweet at all.
Child: What? So — the fruit I have eaten all my life is not called the apple?
Old Man: I am deeply sorry; I never imagined it would touch your life. In my youth I meant only to play a jest.
Child: But these fruits truly are very sweet.
Old Man: Child, that is precisely the crux of it. Never in all my reckoning did I imagine that this fruit, once planted in your homeland, would turn sweet. I believe this is truly a prank (δόλος = dolos = prank, mischief) played upon me by the Goddesses of Fate (Μοῖραι) — the Fates' mockery of me. You can scarcely imagine how astounded I was when the people here told me the fruit was truly sweet.
Child: Old sir, then I wish to know — what is the real name of this golden fruit?
Old Man: Why do you wish to know?
The child looked at the old man most earnestly, and said with utter sincerity: Because I wish to know my real name — what I am truly called.
The old man pondered, and knew not how to answer the child's question.
The old man did not wish the child to change names on account of this.
Old Man: Child, in your homeland, this sweet golden fruit is called the apple — the Golden Apple does exist.
The child sank into bewilderment.
B saw that A had halted once more, falling silent.
B: So what, in the end, is that golden fruit called?
A: I have forgotten — I have forgotten the content of the myth that follows.
B: I believe I am about to grow as angry as X. You cannot tell half a story and then forget the rest!
A: My deepest apologies, my friend.
