Written by Anthony O’Hear
For two and a half millennia, from Homer’s Iliad to Goethe’s Faust, the foundation of Western literature was the epic, and built upon it, the tragic and the poetic. The whole edifice was enveloped in a world of myth, by turns classical and Christian, in which the divine and the human met, in which the gods became as men and men as gods. These forms and these myths permitted the portrayal of greatness in a way which is hardly possible today.
When working on his opera Les Troyens (The Trojans), Berlioz wrote of the ‘intoxication’ he gained from swimming in the lake of antique poetry: ‘What gratitude we owe to these great spirits, these mighty hearts, who gave us such noble emotions as they speak to us over the centuries’. Berlioz was speaking here of Virgil and his Aeneid, a triumphant but by no means triumphalist attempt to create the national epic of Rome, where Homer had, with the Iliad and the Odyssey, done the same for Greece. In Homer’s shadow, as shavings from his block and as part of the fall-out from the Trojan War, we have The Oresteia of Aeschylus, to this day unsurpassed as a portrayal of the crux of bloody revenge: ‘Guilt both ways, and who can call it justice?’ Then there are Sophocles’ Theban plays, with the towering figures of Oedipus and Antigone and their even more intractable dilemmas, and, in the hands of Euripides, the terrible punishment wreaked on Thebes for its repudiation of Dionysus, the god of intoxication and of tragedy itself.
Troy and Mycenae, Thebes and Carthage, Athens and Rome, all cities of mythic significance, populated as Berlioz said by mighty hearts, speaking to us over the centuries: Achilles, Agamemnon, Odysseus, Hector, Priam, Helen, Oedipus, Antigone, Aeneas, Dido. Their names alone are enough to evoke a frisson of wonder and excitement, so deeply are they embedded in our collective psyche even as we forget their deeds.
On into the Christian era, via the spiritual Odyssey of St Augustine, a mighty spirit if ever there was one and perhaps the first to engage in such scrupulous autobiography as he wrestles with God and with grace, we come to Dante’s Divine Comedy, astonishing in detail and architecture alike, and astonishing too in the transitions, from Hell to Purgatory, and then on into Paradise where there is an evocation of the beatific vision more convincing than one would have thought possible. In Shakespeare, too, there are mighty hearts and deeds of greatness: Henry V, England’s (and Wales’) hero, Hamlet, a renaissance prince alone in a court of vipers, and the magus Prospero, seeing his enemies off with the same magical power and the same poetic incantation as Ovid’s Medea.
Milton, on his own estimation, tried ‘things yet unattempted in prose or rhyme’, an epic not of nation, but of salvation itself, justifying the ways of God to men. In his presumption he may have failed, but the language is resplendent and his Satan fascinates even his critics. At least, it might be said, he strove, as did Goethe’s Faust, arguably the last great epic hero of our literature, at least as he summons up the Earth Spirit and meditates in the mountains, as he drives his utopian projects, and as he – and Goethe – introduces Helen of Troy into scenes of medieval knighthood.
What underpins the works we have mentioned is that in them the heroes work out their destinies, and in many cases those of their peoples too, against an unquestioned sacred order, and within a cosmos in which what men and women do has a significance beyond their biological existence. The same is also true of the anti-heroes we meet in the period, such as Falstaff, Don Quixote and characters from the Canterbury Tales: what they do makes sense only against the same background. Further, in the best of our authors, from Homer onwards, we find an unflinching sense of the cost and fragility of peace and civilization, of the crimes on which cities and empires are founded, of the implacability of fate, and, in the Christian writers, also of the price of salvation and of the need for grace.
The order we lost, and how to regain it.
The backdrop of sacred order allows our writers a simplicity, a strength and a grandeur which is inevitably lost in the detail of descriptive naturalism and psychological realism, and also in the fascination with the mediocre and the mundane which begins to take over in the literature of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Compare, for example, Emma Bovary with Racine’s Phedre, Joyce’s Bloom with Homer’s Odysseus, Proust’s Marcel with Sophocles’ Oedipus or with Shakespeare’s Hamlet. The themes, the dilemmas, the characters are of a different order.
The clue to the transition from literary greatness to modernity emerges in Faust himself. As he dies, the Earth Spirit notwithstanding, he cries out that he stands before nature as a man, alone. If we are men, alone, then there is nothing to imbue our lives with meaning, other than what emerges from our own psychology – the very domain explored so brilliantly and exhaustively in the nineteenth and twentieth century novel. As the Spirits sang to Faust earlier ‘you have destroyed our beautiful world’, the world, that is of Homer, of Virgil, of Dante, of our great books generally.
Maybe that world has been destroyed, and our condition is one of inevitable disillusion. This is one reason why the great books of the past are on many levels foreign to us and inaccessible. But that is also the reason why we should access them, on their own terms. Only then will we come to experience what we have lost. In doing this we will certainly discover something about ourselves, for bits of that lost world still resonate today. And, as in all renaissances, we might also discover that some of the lost greatness can, with patience and humility, be recovered.