Reason and Love in “The Knight of the Cart”

Posted on May 17, 2013 by mythgirl under Grad School, Psychology, Writing

This is the final essay I wrote for my graduate program in Mythological Studies. I had finished all my course work and the comprehensive exams but had one last class I had missed taking during my first year. So I took The Arthurian Romances of the Holy Grail course as an independent study. It was strange not having lectures to attend, but I had a great prof to work with. However, honestly, I wasn’t particularly looking forward to the course. I didn’t really know anything about the Arthur and his knights outside of Disney’s Sword and the Stone. Wow was I in for a surprise! What rich, wonderful, exciting literature I encountered! So, below is my essay about my now beloved Lancelot and his tale by Chrétien de Troyes. Enjoy!

Reason and Love in “The Knight of the Cart”

The love, romance, and adventure depicted in the Arthurian romances have captivated readers for centuries and remain a powerful force in the literary world. Chrétien de Troyes, noted as a “remarkably influential author” (Lacy and Grimbert xi), is one of the most celebrated writers from the twelfth century, renowned for being the first author to pen the affair of Lancelot and Guinevere. Though he is a key figure of Arthurian studies, relatively little is known about him, and there is much speculation about why he did not personally complete one of his most popular stories, “The Knight of the Cart” (hereafter referred to as Lancelot, the title most commonly used in the related scholarship). As varied as the speculation about Chrétien himself is the diverse interpretations of his tale of courtly love and romance. These details in conjunction with the mythological and psychological elements in Lancelot – including but not limited to love, death, the underworld, and the union of opposites – place it as an incredibly rich text worthy of analysis. In one of the finest collections on Chrétien, A Companion to Chrétien de Troyes, the editors note that “[e]ven Chrétien specialists surely find the volume of critical studies on Chrétien daunting, and students, however diligent, will find it virtually impossible to select the most useful scholarship and to read and master even a small volume” (Lacy and Gimbert xi). This task, like Lancelot’s adventures, has been both challenging and rewarding, and while there can be no definitive analysis of Lancelot, the exploration herein will address the romance as a reflection of its times, an examination of courtly love, and a truly mythic adventure into the depths of the underworld, where both love and death await.

One unchallenged fact about Lancelot is that Chrétien wrote it under the service of Marie de Champagne. Known for her appreciation and encouragement of literature, Marie was also an influential figure in Andreas Capellanus’s The Art of Courtly Love. It is unknown exactly when each piece was written, but best estimations place Chrétien’s writing of Lancelot anytime between the 1160s and the 1180s (Lacy and Grimbert xii), and while The Art of Courtly Love was probably written later, it “was almost certainly intended to portray conditions at Queen Eleanor’s court at Poitiers between 1170 and 1174” (21). Regardless of exact dates, each text demonstrates the notion of courtly love prevalent at the end of the twelfth century, a time when “a new art of love, fin ‘amor (true love) . . . which glorified amorous passion” was emerging (Harf-Lancer 29). The unique and defining characteristic of courtly love, however, is that it is “extramarital,” as defined by Ovid, whom Parry attributes as the originator of courtly love (Capellanus 5). So how is it that Chrétien, “viewed as the poet of love in marriage” (Bruckner 141), was the first to bring the affair of Lancelot and Guinevere to life?

Debate in Chrétien scholarship explores why he discontinued his work on Lancelot, though it is a curious fact that Marie even selected Chrétien as the writer of this tale. It is accepted in scholarship that the affair between Lancelot and Guinevere is “against [Chrétien’s] own moral convictions” (McCash 22). Was his patron Marie aware of his personal beliefs when she told him the legend? Did she simply disregard his views, or did he hide them? Or, perhaps, was he not even as opposed to courtly love as scholars now believe? Of course, answers to these questions will never be known, but the speculation creates a stimulating setting for the creation of a story that embodies courtly love – which itself encourages debate in its own right about love and honor. As Bruckner asserts, Chrétien himself “offers not answers but questions” in Lancelot (155).

That Chrétien himself did not pen the ending of Lancelot is clear although the reasons remain unknown. Parry states Chrétien left the work unfinished because of his dislike of the subject (Capellanus 13), but Lacy and Gimbert review other speculations about why Chrétien stopped writing the tale (22). Since the order in which he wrote his romances is unknown, it is possible that his own illness simply prevented him from writing anymore (22). Others speculate that Lancelot was nearly completed when Marie’s own husband died and that Chrétien discontinued writing it because she feared if the work were to be printed in her widowhood that many would suspect she had been unfaithful to her husband (22). Despite speculation about Marie, Chrétien, and his intentions or feelings in writing about this theme, the value of courtly love in the character of Lancelot himself never wavers.

In Lancelot, the leading knight is defined as one of “great goodness” (Chrétien 234) who is “brave” (243) and completes the “boldest deed” (when crossing the Sword bridge) (247). During his adventures to rescue Guinevere, Lancelot stays at one household wherein all of its members agree upon this description of him: “if all the world’s knights were assembled in a single place, you’d not see a fairer or nobler one” (240). As Chrétien’s narration continues in this section, he describes Lancelot as “fair” and “good,” and directly speaks to the readers: “I trust you will believe my description of all this” (240). Chrétien’s limited use of the first person voice throughout the text is clearly his own voice and not that of a fictional narrator. This is set up in the very introduction when he attributes details of the story to Marie de Champagne (207). When Chretien describes Lancelot in passages like this with such praise, it is difficult to believe that Chrétien himself was so strongly opposed to courtly love.

Regardless of the virtues Lancelot is ascribed throughout Chrétien’s text and by many scholars, the fact remains that he is an adulterer – a term which Bruckner points out is never used in the text itself (154). Bruckner concludes that “Lancelot does not [recommend or disapprove] of courtly love, rather it aims at a wider ethical problem, the contradictions of human experience explored within a secular and courtly ideal” (154-155). This is a further reflection of the period Chrétien was writing in – a time when there was a disconnect between “individual consent and parental choice in contracting marriage” (Kelly 59). Because marriage was typically arranged and amor was just developing, courtly love explored “a doctrine of paradoxes, a love at once illicit and morally elevating, passionate and disciplined, humiliating and exalting, human and transcendent” (F.X. Newman qtd. in Lupack 84). This description immediately reflects a paradoxical theme present throughout Chretien’s work.

Pairs of opposites are prevalent throughout Lancelot, which is first depicted in the very title “The Knight and the Cart,” for one would not typically find a knight willing to ride in a cart! The cart encompasses the opposite of everything Lancelot represents as a strong and noble knight. Chrétien clearly describes the shame of the cart throughout the text, and indeed Lancelot himself even briefly hesitates to ride in the cart (which is the catalyst for later heartache and confusion with Guinevere), but the power of the shame of riding in a cart is perhaps most poignantly demonstrated in the following instance: Lancelot defeats an opponent and when the man begs for his mercy, Lancelot tells him he may live if he is willing to ride in a cart (Chrétien 241). The opponent refuses to do so, choosing death over the shame. This scene emphasizes at once the great disgrace of the cart and the power of Lancelot’s love. Despite his initial hesitation, Lancelot unabashedly accepts the stigma that the ride in the cart assigns him, driven deeply by love for his Queen.

Furthermore, not only is Lancelot’s story titled “The Knight of the Cart,” but that is how Chrétien identifies him until the moment Queen Guinevere reveals his name nearly half way through the text (252). Up to this point, Lancelot has refused to give his name to those he has met during his adventure, even those who offer him assistance. This evokes the mythological motif of true names having power over the individual. In some myths, one’s true name is a guarded secret. The concealment of Lancelot’s name is akin to the secretiveness of his love for Guinevere, and for her to be the first to name him to the readers is further representation of her role as the one who truly knows and loves him.

Chrétien’s use of the humiliating cart as a symbol of his brave knight functions like the “oxymoron” as it was used in “Oriental religious texts . . . to point past those pairs of opposites by which all logical thought is limited . . . beyond ‘names and forms’” (Campbell, Masks 188). As Campbell further indicates in The Power of Myth, “every act in life yields pairs of opposites in its results.” Therefore it is fitting that courtly love (the primary force behind Lancelot’s quest) embraces opposites (as identified above by Newman). These opposites are not something to be resolved but something that is symptomatic of the threads of life and our perception. Courtly love is all at once a deep sign of devotion and “hersey . . . punishable by death” (Campbell, Power). This punishment of courtly love further connects love to its “twin,” identified by Smith as death (176). The cart itself also has “mythic overtones . . . linked to death” (Bruckner 140). In this romance, threats of death abound.

Death is an essential theme in Lancelot because his adventure includes a journey into the underworld. As Smith clearly identifies, “the unconscious [is] represented in this tale by the underworld into which Guinevere is abducted, and into which Lancelot descends in order to retrieve her” (Smith 49). Indeed, Lancelot’s descent from Arthur’s court and his return in the end encompass the Nekyia, the underworld motif that is also representative of the unconscious. Since any descent to the underworld and/or the unconscious is representative of death, it is necessary for Lancelot to face death. Two particular events on his journey highlight that he has entered the realm of the underworld.

Early in Lancelot’s adventure, when he is on his path to find Guinevere, there is a moment where he takes his horse to drink from the water and is so distracted by his thoughts of love that he does not hear the guardian that forbids his entrance into the ford. Breaking this barrier signifies not only the adventure of the hero and the crossing of a threshold a la Joseph Campbell’s hero journey motif, but it also illuminates Lancelot’s psychological state. To begin with, he is so consumed by love that he is completely unaware of his surroundings. Such obsession and preoccupation are very characteristic of courtly love, and these moments are essential for a text dealing with this theme. As Capellanus outlines in the rules of love, “A true lover is constantly and without intermission possessed by the thoughts of his beloved” (186). When Lancelot finally hears the guard, he jumps “to his feet like a dreamer from sleep” (Chrétien 217), a description that further conjures images of the unconscious realm of the underworld.

It is also significant that Lancelot does not hear the guard until he shouts for a third time, a number that repeats throughout the text and bears mythological significance as it represents both the “intellectual and spiritual order” and is related to the three stages of being – birth, life, and death (“Three”). I briefly want to identify other important times when Chretien specifically writes the number three, bringing this specific grouping to his readers’ attention: when the dwarf, Gawain and Lancelot arrive in the cart (212); when the three girls cry at the funeral procession Lancelot and Gawain see out the window (214); in a meadow when three knights point out Lancelot as the knight of the cart (228); when Lancelot is accompanied by two riders (235); the “ointment of the three mary’s” (249); and when Gawain orders three men to bring him his armor when he plans to battle Malegnant in Lancelot’s place (290). The significance of each cannot be discussed in the scope of this paper but is worthy of future study.

Water is another important element introduced in the scene with the guard of the ford. Here, Lancelot is crossing a threshold of water, which “[u]sually we interpret . . . as the unconscious” (von Franz 101). The symbol of water is also utilized in one of the key trials of his journey – crossing the sword bridge – which exemplifies both his presence in the underworld and his dedication to Guinevere (“I would rather die than turn back” [Chrétien 245]). Water itself holds the tension of opposites as it can be “either the great healing factor, or poisonous and destructive . . . according to the context” (von Franz 101). In its destructive state, water can drown people “in the unconscious” (101). At hen Chrétien identifies that Lancelot “would rather maim himself than fall from the bridge into the water from which there was no escape” (Chrétien 245), we know the stakes are high and that this water is clearly destructive. Lancelot is risking death at every level.

This epic moment with the sword bridge is so popular and important in literature that Chevalier and Gheerbrant specifically cite the incident in the symbolic definition of “bridge,” declaring that it “symbolizes the passing from one state of being to a higher state” (“Bridge”). This transformation (yet another element of the underworld journey) is the ultimate test of his devotion of courtly love and, despite its associated shame, solidifies his position as the most honorable knight. Bridges, which are commonly recognized as a representation of a “trial,” can also “symbolize the transition between . . . two conflicting sets of desires” (“Bridge”). We constantly see Lancelot’s battle between Honor and Love, as is first exemplified in his hesitation to step into the cart. He is both knight and lover. While Kelly argues that Lancelot is “lover before he is knight” (59), Lupack asserts that “Lancelot as lover is inseparable from Lancelot as knight in service to king and country” (90). It is certainly a fine line to distinguish in this noble knight: surely he would complete this task for the love of his king (as Gawain himself encounters a similar trial at the underwater bridge in his attempt to retrieve Guinevere for the King), but we know he completes it because love compels him to do so. As Ovid’s description of courtly love indicates, the lover will “perform all sorts of absurd actions” (Capellanus 6).

Another threat looming over Lancelot as he crosses the sword bridge are the two lions that await him on the other side. Though they are ultimately mere illusions, Lancelot chooses to cross the bridge while believing they are material foes. The threat of death could not be more prevalent here as an unarmed Lancelot crosses the sword bridge, hovering over waters of a deep abyss, anticipating to be greeted by two ferocious beasts. That Chrétien chose this animal and not any other is significant as well. To begin with, the lions are a reflection of Lancelot himself because “the lion is burdened with . . . virtues and defects [that] are inherent in its status[:] he may be as admirable as he is insupportable, and facets of his symbolism waver between these two extremes” (“Lion”). Like Lancelot, the fearless knight of the cart, the symbol of the lion encompasses opposites. Furthermore, both Christ and the Buddha have been identified with the symbol of the lion (“Lion”). Themes from both Christianity (as detailed by Smith in Sacred Mysteries) and Buddhism (as detailed by Zimmer in The King and the Corpse) are prevalent in Lancelot. This can most readily be identified in Chrétien’s recurring use of the number three, which has significance in both Christianity and Buddhism. The lion itself also has a relationship with the number three in Buddhism: “The arms of Ashoka [a Buddhist king] comprised three lions seated back to back on a pedestal [and may represent] the teachings of the Buddha [Buddha, Dharma, and Sangha] (“Lion”). (Smith also expands on the relationship between Lancelot and “the three temptations of the Buddha” [49]).That Lancelot sees two lions is indicative of the theme of duality that is thread throughout the text. Furthermore, in Ancient Egypt, “lions were often depicted in pairs” and represent the opposites “birth and death . . . yesterday and tomorrow . . . exertion and rest” (“Lion”). Lancelot’s trial over the sword bridge clearly symbolizes his trial in the underworld while touching on the other key themes in the book: courtly love, death, and their duality.

After succeeding in this great feat at the sword bridge, Lancelot faces the man who is holding Guinevere, Meleagant, “son of the king of Gorre” (Chrétien 215). As Kibler’s footnote indicates, Gorre may be a reference to the Celtic underworld (512). On every level, Chrétien has made Lancelot’s position in the underworld clear. The immediate description of Meleagant then shows us that Lancelot has met his shadow figure. The prince is described as “treasonous and disloyal” with a “wooden heart . . . utterly void of kindness and compassion” (Chrétien 246). The shadow figure is also indicative of the unconscious realm of the underworld, and we see in Meleagant everything that Lancelot is not. Meleagant ultimately becomes the one that holds Lancelot captive in the underworld, and he is the figure that Lancelot defeats at Arthur’s court after his escape, touching on another important element the hero motif: “the hero . . . discovers and assimilates his opposite” (Campbell, Hero 108).

An even more important element of the hero motif that Lancelot attains is the meeting with the goddess, also identified as the sacred marriage. Though sex is not Lancelot’s goal in his love for Guinevere, the consummation of their relationship is the purest celebration of it. As highlighted in the great lyrics of the troubadours, who sang of courtly love in the twelfth century, the “aim [of courtly love] was neither marriage nor the dissolution of the world. Nor was it even carnal intercourse . . . The aim, rather, was life directly in the experience of love” (Campbell, Masks 178). This experience of love is most prevalent when Lancelot and Guinevere make love after he breaks through the barriers on the window to enter her chamber. This union, which calls to mind the alchemical coniunctio, also serves as further representation of “the bringing together of the opposites” (von Franz 164). Though their act is adulterous, it could not be more pure. Chrétien describes Guinevere’s anticipation of her tryst with Lancelot: “The queen was most eager for the arrival of her joy, her lover” (Chrétien 261). According to Baumgartner, “Chrétien’s entire work was organized . . . around the quest for ‘joy.’ To affirm and construct oneself as a hero in this universe, ideal yet full of risk” (226). He is a hero in his quest to save her, and he is complete in his union with her. Once the lovers unite, Chrétien explains that their “joy” was unlike that ever known before, but says he will keep the details a secret (265). Indeed, as Smith identifies, “the ineffable joy of the ‘Liebstod,’ of love in the domain of death . . . transcends the categories of reason, and . . . we must remain silent [about this] genuinely sacred mystery” (52).

Throughout the romance, Chretien has emphasized the tension of opposites that culminate in the love affair of Lancelot and Guinevere. He emphasizes the most important terms with capitalization, not uncommon in the period, and gives true characterization to the terms Reason and Love (212), Generosity and Compassion (242), Nobility and Cowardice and Sloth (246), Love and Hatred (253), Life and Death (260), Cowardice and Courage (278), and Fortune (286). His final emphasis lies on Reason, which prohibits Guinevere from demonstrating public affection for Lancelot (291). As encapsulated by these terms of opposites, whose presence and function could yield yet another project, Chretien’s Lancelot reflects the concerns of twelfth century love while also touching on the timeless mythological motifs of love and death as explored in every hero’s journey.

Works Cited

Baumgartner, Emmanuele. “Chretien’s Medieval Influence: From the Grail Quest to the Joy of the Court.” A Companion to Chrétien De Troyes. Trans. Veronique Zara. Cambridge: D.S. Brewer, 2005. 214-27.

“Bridge.” The Penguin Dictionary of Symbols. 1996.

Bruckner, Matilda Tomaryn. “Le Chevalier De La Charrette: That Obscure Object of Desire, Lancelot.” A Companion to Chrétien De Troyes. Cambridge: D.S. Brewer, 2005. 137-55.

Campbell, Joseph. The Hero with a Thousand Faces. Princeton, NJ: Princeton UP, 1972. Print.

—. The Masks of God. New York: Viking, 1968.

—. The Power of Myth Will Bill Moyers. Prod. Catherine Tatge. Apostrophe S Productions, 2001. DVD.

Capellanus, Andreas. The Art of Courtly Love. Trans. John Jay Parry. New York: Columbia UP, 1990.

Chrétien De Troyes. Arthurian Romances. Ed. William W. Kibler. London, England: Penguin, 1991.

Harf-Lancer, Laurence. “Chreiten’s Literary Background.” A Companion to Chrétien De Troyes. Trans. Amy L. Ingram. Cambridge: D.S. Brewer, 2005. 26-42.

Kelly, Douglas. “Narrative Poetic: Rhetoric, Orality and Performance.” A Companion to Chrétien De Troyes. Cambridge: D.S. Brewer, 2005. 52-63.

Lacy, Norris J., and Joan T. Grimbert. “Introduction.” A Companion to Chrétien De Troyes. Cambridge: D.S. Brewer, 2005. xi-xiv.

“Lion.” The Penguin Dictionary of Symbols. 1996.

Lupack, Alan. The Oxford Guide to Arthurian Literature and Legend. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2007.

Smith, Evans Lansing. Sacred Mysteries: Myths About Couples in Quest. Nevada City: Blue Dolphin, 2003.

“Three.” The Penguin Dictionary of Symbols. 1996.

Von Franz, Marie-Louise. Alchemy: an Introduction to the Symbolism and the Psychology. Toronto: Inner City, 1980. Print.

Zimmer, Heinrich Robert. The King and the Corpse: Tales of the Soul’s Conquest of Evil. Ed. Joseph Campbell. New York: Pantheon, 1975.

Works Consulted

Campbell, Joseph. The Arthurian Tradition, Lecture I.6.3. Joseph Campbell Foundation Publications, 2012. MP3.

—. The Grail Legend, Lecture I.6.4. Joseph Campbell Foundation Publications, 2012. MP3.

Ford, Boris, ed. Medieval Literature: The European Inheritance. London: Penguin, 1990.

Jacobi, Jolande. Complex/archetype/symbol in the Psychology of C.G. Jung. Princeton: Princeton UP, 1959.

“The Knights of Camelot.” History’s Mysteries. Weyand, Daiman, dir. The History Channel. 2006. Netflix. Web.

Lacy, Norris J., ed. The Lancelot-Grail Reader: Selections from the Medieval French ArthurianCycle. New York: Garland Pub., 2000. Print.

McCash, June Hall. “Chretien’s Patrons.” A Companion to Chrétien De Troyes. Cambridge: D.S. Brewer, 2005. 15-25.

Weston, Jessie Laidlay. From Ritual to Romance. Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1957.

Grad School Wordle

Posted on March 25, 2013 by mythgirl under Grad School, Writing

. 4 years. 23 papers. 69,230 words.

Fan Phenomena:Buffy

Posted on February 13, 2013 by mythgirl under Books, Buffy, Buffyverse, Pop Culture, Writing

This morning Intellect Books introduced the covers of their upcoming Fan Phenomena series. The collection on Buffy includes an essay by yours truly! Last year, I interviewed Etsy artists about the Buffy-themed items in their shops and have been most excited to see it hit the shelves! The book will be available in August.

Obsession in Academia, Creativity & Popular Culture

Posted on January 29, 2013 by mythgirl under Buffyverse, Whedonverse, Writing

Once again, Whedon hits the nail on the head! In this video testimonial, Joss Whedon is discussing the film program at Wesleyan, his alum. But within that, he discusses something very important: agenda vs. obsession. And it’s having that obsession, not an agenda, that creates good film, good stories, good students. I know that’s what’s driven my academic career. It was obsession with the works of Whedon (Buffy in particular) that led me to write my English Master’s thesis (The Hero’s Journey Revamped in Buffy the Vampire Slayer) on something really important to me.

And it was finding that thread of what I was obsessed with about myth in the each of the different 18 courses of my Mythological Studies program that compelled me to write each research paper with fervor. It was identifying that thing I had to learn more about, had to say more about, and running with it. I think that obsession was the greatest motivation to accomplishing all the papers, presentations and articles I have completed. It wasn’t just curiosity; it wasn’t just to get the grade; it wasn’t just being an academic. It was that thread of something that pulled on something in me. Obsession.

Thank you, Whedon. For everything.

More on Whedon, Wesleyan, and his upcoming honorary degree here.

“They were fluffy indigenous kittens, till we came along”: Chumash Representation in Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Posted on November 21, 2012 by mythgirl under Buffy, Buffyverse, Grad School, Whedonverse, Words for Wednesday, Writing

I wrote this essay last holiday season for my Native American grad class. Enjoy!

Our modern American mythology and history is intricately connected with the experiences of the Native Americans and their early contact with the Spanish and the Europeans. As Slotkin notes in Regeneration Through Violence, “Their [Native American] concerns, their hopes, their terrors, their violence, and their justifications of themselves, as expressed in literature, are the foundation stones of the mythology that informs our history” (4). Furthermore, “the myth of regeneration through violence became the structuring metaphor of the American experience” (5). Currently, this can be seen operating through the highly popular American myth of the vampire, a creature that faces death through violence and is reborn, or regenerated, to live forever. The vampire itself bares some similarities to the notion of the violent savage Native American that was perpetuated in the New World. Many Europeans depicted that these savages were “nonhuman” and controlled by the “dark forces of the blood” (Rexroth qtd. in Slotin). This description certainly applies to the vampire as well. Immediately, therefore, there is a connection between Buffy and our frontier history.

Unfortunately, native history is often either denigrated to a form of history deemed appropriate only to the grade school classroom, or it is deeply misunderstood. Pearce makes it clear that two contradictory images of natives exist: “subhuman” (like the savage referenced above) and “nobleman” (like the noble savage discussed below) (179). Confusingly, native “virtues and vices” have historically been both “praised and dispraised” (200). A sense of this disjointedness is delivered in season four of the popular television series Buffy the Vampire Slayer. “Pangs,” the only Thanksgiving episode from the seven seasons of Buffy, seeks to address our history and touches greatly on our American myth of the natives “as a noble savage, above and beyond the vices of civilized men” (Pearce 169). This depiction is not unique to Buffy as natives are often “described and portrayed in thousands of movies, television programs, books, articles, and government studies” as this noble savage (Gibson 8).

The primary plot thread in “Pangs” is simple: when the local college starts digging to build the new Cultural Center, an old Spanish Mission that had collapsed in the 1800s is discovered underground. When this area is disturbed, the Chumash Vengeance Spirit Hus is released. He begins committing murders in Sunnydale, the fictional Southern California city the series is set in, and Buffy and her friends (typically referred to as “The Scoobies”) face a new type of problem. While no one wants to see anyone else murdered or injured by Hus, Buffy and her friend Willow also do not want to harm the Spirit because they recognize his plight. Willow is especially vocal about her concern, claiming that they should be “helping him redress his wrongs [and] bring the atrocities to light” (“Pangs”). The debate about how to manage Hus is prevalent throughout the episode, mirroring our own conflicting understanding of native tribes and history.

Initially seen as a “primitive man” (Slotin 55), the Native American was dismissed during Early Contact as unsophisticated and underdeveloped. Many Americans maintain the primitive image of original Native Americans, but also see them as victims, as seen in the popular image of the noble savage. Under this view, the native is seen as an outsider and typically one worthy of pity. Indeed, As McCall and Perry note, Native Americans became “outcasts in their own land” (16). This notion has helped to develop the sense of guilt that Americans, as depicted on Buffy, hold for what occurred at early contact. In the episode “Pangs,” similarity is further depicted between Native Americans and two particular vampires in Buffy’s life, Spike and Angel. While most of the vampires Buffy encounters are merely demons driven by bloodlust, Spike and Angel are exceptions. Angel is the only vampire with a soul, and Spike, by this point, has had a chip implanted in his brain that prevents him from attacking humans. He is essentially a neutered and harmless vampire. Therefore, Spike and Angel are both outsiders in their own community of vampires. Rhonda Wilcox, considered the founder and mother of Buffy studies, discussed this episode in the online Slayage journal and indicated that “the two major subjects [of “Pangs”] are Buffy’s attitude towards the Indigenous and Angel” (3). Wilcox also elaborates on the similarities between Spike, Angel and Hus in the episode, referring to the original shooting script that describes Spike as “a picture of misery and longing” (Espenson qtd. in Wilcox 6). Wilcox elaborates on the topic in great detail, clearly depicting the outsider position of the Natives and these two particular vampires.

I see another important comparison in the episode that has not been addressed in any of the Buffy literature (most of which is overviewed in Wilcox’s article): Buffy herself is an outsider like Hus. The series overall constantly reminds viewers that Buffy just wants to be a normal girl. Though she develops a group of close-knit friends that help her slay, in this season Buffy and her friends drift apart. In fact, the Thanksgiving dinner at the end of the episode is the last time we will see the Scoobies peacefully assembled until the end of the season. Buffy has always been an outsider, and this season of the series in particular demonstrates how she can function as an outsider even within her own close group. I think this is another important reason, beyond her claim to collective national native guilt, Buffy sympathizes with Hus in the episode.

As I argued in my master’s thesis on Buffy, the series operates as a modern mythology and holds deep resonance for the viewers involved with the program since it originally aired fifteen years ago. The series’ devoted fan base and the presence of continually expanding academic scholarship certainly speaks to the important place Buffy holds in popular culture. One role mythologies hold is to point to relevant problems, though not to offer solutions (this is an idea commonly discussed in mythological studies). In “Pangs,” Buffy poignantly demonstrates its role as a mythology by speaking to our collective history and examining a collective issue. Like a true mythology though, Buffy does not offer us a solution. As Wilcox notes, “‘Pangs’ is a problem play, not a solution play” (12). The episode brings up important elements to be discussed, evaluated, and understood. It is important that the episode does not offer a solution because “issues and conflicts involving American Indians today . . . are not easily understood [and cannot] be readily resolved” (Gibson 11). To offer a quick solution in a forty-two minute television episode would undermine the seriousness of the situation.

Overall, “Pangs” brings to life the myth that heavily maintained in North America of the noble savage and our desire to look at natives kindly. This image has been popular since the nineteenth century when Longfellow and other “writers of fiction . . . sometimes expressed American guilt feelings by celebrating the noble savage” (Pearce 196). Some of the misrepresentation in the episode is critical as it depicts long-term, common national misunderstanding. At the beginning of the episode, there is a dedication to a new Cultural Center, and Professor Gerhardt declares the importance of this center being built as Thanksgiving approaches: “Because that’s what the melting pot is about – contributions from all cultures, making our culture stronger” (“Pangs”). While Buffy stands at the back of the ceremony with her friends, Willow criticizes the professor’s comments, expressing that Thanksgiving is actually “about one culture wiping out another” (“Pangs”). Willow shares that her mom does not celebrate Thanksgiving or Columbus Day because those days are about “the destruction of the indigenous peoples” (“Pangs”). Buffy notes that she never thought of it like that before. Indeed, Buffy’s perspective here is representative of average modern American. Willow’s disapproval of our “animated specials . . . with the maize and the big, big belt buckles” certainly points to our standard treatment of this national holiday.

Shortly after this rousing conversation between Buffy and Willow, the spirit Hus is released from the hidden mission. When Buffy later learns of his violent presence in Sunnydale, the Scoobies begin to research Chumash history. The episode continues to depict the modern American misunderstandings of history and reimaginings of natives. Willow claims that the Chumash “were fluffy, indigenous kittens, till we came along” (“Pangs”). A brief review of Chumash history indicates that this was not the case: “We know from archaeological, ethnohistoric, and ethnographic data that Chumash internal conflict existed and at times intensified” (Gamble 248). Furthermore, diaries from early encounters with the Chumash indicate that they were “involved in battles prior to their first contact with Europeans” (Gamble 250). Works from Ferguson, Blick, and Ferguson and Whitehead reviewed by Gamble do indicate that “European colonization [increased] the level of violence among traditional groups” (Gamble 254). Of course, when facing repression and abuse, the natives tried to strike back. Importantly, though, this was not their first exposure to violence. To see the natives as only peaceful fails to recognize their full historical existence, customs, and traits. A deeper investigation of history clearly depicts that, despite Willow’s assertion (which is akin to other Americans), the Chumash were a violent people before colonization. In part, this begins to undermine the image of the noble savage.

When Buffy first personally meets Hus, he has just killed a priest at a Church. Buffy responds with her Slayer instincts and begins to engage in hand-to-hand combat with the violent Chumash Spirit. When Buffy ultimately gains the upper hand in the fight, Hus claims, “You slaughtered my people. Now you kill their spirit. This is a great day for you” (“Pangs”). This rattles Buffy as she remembers he is not like the evil demons she usually slays. She shoves him away from her and allows him to flee. This scene first operates to demonstrate Buffy’s confused attitude toward Hus: as a Slayer, she needs to stop his violence; as a Modern American, she feels guilt and pity towards him. Also, though she herself may not immediately recognize it, she relates to him as both an outsider and a fighter. After her encounter, Buffy complains to the Scoobies about her discomfort with the situation: “I like my evil . . . straight up, black hat, ‘Tied to the train tracks, soon my electro-ray will destroy metropolis’ bad. Not all mixed up with guilt and the destruction of an indigenous culture” (“Pangs”). Importantly, Buffy’s sense of confusion is also representative of our past with Native Americans.

Furthermore, the scene between Buffy and Hus offers viewers a more detailed look a Hus. His visual depiction is akin to the stereotypical image of Native Americans that comes from “film and visual culture [that has] provided the primary representational field on which Native American images have been displayed to dominant culture audiences in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries” (Raheja 29). In other words, it is not entirely accurate. Hus is dressed head to toe in presumably “traditional” Indian garb, and his hair dangles down toward his shoulders. However, historical documentation indicates that Chumash men “usually went naked but painted their bodies, wore their long hair up wrapped with cords and attached shell beads” (Gamble 2). (The same description can also be found in Paez qtd. in McCall and Perry 23). There is very little about Hus’s visual appearance that represents the traditional Chumash. He simply looks like the clichéd American “Indian.” Unfortunately, the episode seems to have made the error of grouping all Native Americans together. Even in their approach of Chumash history, the Scoobies demonstrate the common of error of believing that the term “Chumash” properly encompasses a large group of natives. This is not the case, however. While they “shared many cultural traits, ‘the Chumash were neither a cultural nor a linguistic entity per se’” (Blackburn qtd. in Gamle 8). Simply put, “The Chumash were not a unified group” (Anderson 7). The Scoobieshave made the common error of assuming similarities of Native American tribes.

A final noteworthy element in the scene between Hus and Buffy is Hus’s speech, which has been accurately described as “clipped, simple English” (Sally Emmons qtd. in Wilcox 59). According to Gibson, while Spanish was usually the first language of the Chumash, as colonization continued, “many [spoke] English as well” (89). It is reasonable that Hus would be able to speak English, but the way he speaks it is so basic that it nearly seems insulting. Wilcox accurately assesses that “Hus seems to be less of a person and more of a symbol” (5). However, the intricacies – or lack thereof – in his representation do not accurately depict the rich, developed nature of Chumash. The episode continues to play to the notion of the noble savage that emphasizes the assumed simplicity of “peaceful and benign” natives with “every amiable virtue” (Pearce 140; Freneau qtd in Pearce 145).

As the episode continues, it is revealed that Buffy’s friend Xander, who initially disrupted the sacred site at the groundbreaking ceremony for the Cultural Center, has been mystically cursed with diseases by Hus. He is plagued with the same “European-introduced diseases [that] continued to kill Indians by the thousands” (Gibson 84). This “heavy loss of life from the dreaded European diseases” is also noted by McCall and Perry (15). Additionally, Anderson notes that some Chumash sucked illnesses from patients and/or sent magical poisons to enemies” (7). Xander’s curse accurately represents the diseases that killed many natives at the point of European contact and further demonstrates the Chumash’s affinity for vengeance. According to Gamble’s research, “revenge was viewed as a primary motive” for conflict with the Chumash (271). If a Chumash Spirit could indeed rise in modern America, it is not a stretch to imagine that he would seek revenge.

Xander’s situation also brings forth a brief but significant discussion of vengeance. To begin with, Xander’s girlfriend Anya, another significant character in the series, is herself an ex-vengeance demon. When it becomes clear that Willow and Buffy are interested in verbally resolving the conflict with Hus, Xander angrily declares, “He’s a vengeance demon. You don’t talk to vengeance demons. You kill them” (“Pangs”). Anya is of course disturbed by this and argues: “Sometimes vengeance is justified” (“Pangs”). (Concepts of vengeance and justice continue to surface in the series, but that discussion is beyond the scope of this paper). Buffy quickly interrupts the group’s dialogue to focus on cooking Thanksgiving dinner (something she is greatly pre-occupied with throughout the episode). Anya and Xander have both made important statements. Xander has been personally injured by Hus and wants him stopped. Anya understands the importance of vengeance, a key concept that underlies the entire episode. A historical source from Fr. Jose Seflan indicates that the Chumash “had some sort of knowledge of warfare but almost always they would kill their adversaries [and] “take vengeance on them” (qtd. in Gamble 257). This conversation between the Scoobies accurately depicts the presence of vengeance in the Chumash culture and continues to fuel the debate that occurs within the group of how to approach the problem with Hus.

Though the episode accurately integrates concepts of vengeance related to the Chumash, it inaccurately assesses Hus’s motivation in attacking certain individuals. Xander was attacked simply because he was the first to disrupt Hus, but the other victims are authority figures. According to Angel, this is because Hus is “a warrior [and] to a warrior, the leader means the strongest fighter” (“Pangs”). While it is understandable that the series wanted to portray the vengeful Hus a warrior, his character is not representative of the hunter/gatherer role of the Chumash tribes. The depiction of warriorhood in Hus is representative of another common problem in American film: “seemingly respectful and balanced representations [of Native Americans] are often rooted in uncritical, problematic racial ideologies that reflect unexamined notions of Native American culture on the part of the director and on the part of North American society as a whole” (Raheja 47). Historically, “Warriors were not a topic of great interest in the oral traditions of the Chumash” (Gamble 260). By focusing on the warrior image in “Pangs,” Buffy continues toplay to the notion of Native Americans as savage and simple-minded. As mentioned, this is not an uncommon misperception; even at early contact it Europeans believed that natives “ha[d] not yet acquired civilized vices” (Pearce 18). However, Gamble’s detailed research makes it clear that Chumash tribes were “more complex than previously thought” (271). They had a sophisticated economic system, and it was actually “control over wealth [that] create[d] a basis for political power” in Chumash society (279).

On their quest to discover how to approach Hus, the characters have tried visiting a priest and have consulted historical documents. Their discussion of Chumash seems to indicate they are discussing a dead culture. However, there are currently 5,000 Chumash in California (Gibson 97). The plight of the natives is not something purely historical as it appears in this episode. The Chumash are an active culture currently operating as “prominent spokespeople for many environmental issues facing the people of California and the rest of the world” (93). Yet the episode never makes mention of their continual survival. To be fair, though, not every aspect of the Chumash can be addressed in one forty-two minute television episode.

As Hus continues on his path of vengeance, he beckons other spirits to help him take the fight to Buffy. He calls forth: “First people who dwell in Mishupashup, hear me and descend. Walk with me upon Itiashup again. Hear me also, Nunashush, spirits from below, creatures of the night. Take human form and join the battle. Bring me my revenge” (“Pangs”). Though viewers are not likely to focus on the details included in this quick line, accurate reference is made here to the Chumash mythology, referring to the “world we live in” Itiashup (Garces-Foley 17), and the upper world, Mishupashup (Fuchs). The creatures he calls on, Nunashush, are “dangerous creatures” according to Chumash myth (Gibson 13). This line colorfully represents Chumash mythology, though it is brief. Again though, there are constraints to how much can be presented in television one episode. However, this is enough to point to the importance of the beliefs the Chumash held, which Hus uses to gain assistance.

After gathering other spirits to help him, Hus takes the fight to Buffy, attacking her and the Scoobies as they are preparing Thanksgiving dinner. The Chumash attack Buffy with arrows, offering viewers another accurate representation of Chumash life. Anderson explains the bow and arrow was a common weapon for the Chumash (11), and Gamble elaborates that it was often the weapon of choice “used to threaten or carry out force” (269). Ultimately, during the climax of the battle, Hus transforms himself into a bear. While this is, of course, effective in creating more fear in Buffy, it also points to other important elements of Chumash culture. To begin with, some shamans could purportedly “change themselves into bears, the fiercest and most powerful land animals known to the Chumash.” (Anderson 7). Furthermore, bears also functioned as “supernatural helpers in dreams” and they “confer[red] great strength and courage” (McCall and Perry 42). It is significant that Hus chooses this defense as his last attempt to defeat the Slayer. However, at this point, Buffy discovers how to kill Hus (by using his own knife) and destroys the Chumash spirit, along with his followers.

In order to survive, Buffy and her friends had no choice in fighting back against the vengeance spirit. Despite her attempt for a “nice, non-judgmental way to, you know, kill him,” Buffy ultimately relied on her standard Slayer skills to defeat him (“Pangs”). Buffy is not proud of defeating Hus. Indeed, the entire episode has demonstrated her contention with the issue. After surviving the battle, Willow again is the one to voice concern about the treatment of natives: “Did you see me? Two seconds of conflict with an indigenous person, and I turned into General Custer” (“Pangs”). The character Giles defends the Scoobies’ winning defense of Hus’s attack on them: “Violence does that. Instinct takes over” (“Pangs”). His statement holds truth. The Scoobies were threatened, and they successfully defended themselves. Everyone is pleased to have survived, though Buffy and Willow especially dis pleased with their means.

Though not all of the details in the episode are historically accurate, overall “Pangs” presents a rich, “controversial” (Wilcox 1), thought-provoking and exceptionally significant episode that stirs the viewers’ curiosity and imagination. The Scoobies cannot solve our national confusion of native tribes or are violent history with them, but the episode offers an accurate account of modern American myth. As Raheja discusses of film, the presence of natives in popular culture has the “ability to function as a placeholder: as a representational practice it does not mirror reality but can enact important cultural work as an art form with ties to the world of everyday practices and the imaginative sphere of the possible” (77). The episode cannot offer us a solution because “[t]ry hard as he might, the American primitivist who chose to image the Indian as noble savage [cannot] fully escape the confusion and vitiation his choice” (Pearce 147).

While “Pangs” holds importance for the United States collectively, it has a heightened importance in Southern California where, as noted in the episode, the Chumash resided. Though Buffy’s fictional town Sunnydale does not exist, the town is representative of its geographical location. Therefore, this episode and its historical background are of an even deeper interest and importance to those of us living in this area. As a life-long resident of Southern California and a student residing at Pacifica Graduate Institute, which is near many original Chumash sites, this episode points to an area of history that resides under the very ground I walk on.

Works Cited

Anderson, Eugene N. The Chumash Indians of Southern California. Banning: Malki Museum,

1981. Print.

“Pangs.” Writ. Jane Espenson. Buffy the Vampire Slayer. The WB. 23 Nov. 1999. Television.

Fuchs, Harald. “Alapay Mishupashup.” Encyclopedia Mythica. 5 Feb. 2005. Web. 26 Mar. 2012.

Gamble, Lynn H. The Chumash World at European Contact: Power, Trade, and Feasting among

Complex Hunter-gatherers. Berkeley: University of California, 2008. Kindle.

Garces-Foley, Kathleen. Death and Religion in a Changing World. Armonk, N.Y: M.E. Sharpe,

2006. Print.

Gibson, Robert O. Indians of North America: The Chumash. Ed. Frank W. Porter III. New York:

Chelsea House, 1991. Print.

McCall, Lynne, and Rosalind Perry. California’s Chumash Indians: A Project of the Santa

Barbara Museum of Natural History Education Center. San Luis Obispo, CA: EZ Nature, 1988. Print.

Pearce, Roy H. Savagism and Civilization: A Study of the Indian and the American Mind.

Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988. Print.

Raheja, Michelle H. Reservation Reelism: Redfacing, Visual Sovereignty, and Representations of

Native Americans in Film. Lincoln and London: Univ of Nebraska, 2010. Kindle.

Slotkin, Richard. Regeneration Through Violence: The Mythology of the American Frontier,

1600-1860. New York, NY: HarperPerennial, 1996. Print.

Wilcox, Rhonda V. “”Let It Simmer”: Tone in “Pangs”" Slayage: The Journal of the Whedon

Studies Association 33 (2011): 1-14. Web. 26 Feb. 2012.

Embracing the Shadow: An Exploration of A Wizard of Earthsea

Posted on November 14, 2012 by mythgirl under Grad School, Psychology, Words for Wednesday, Writing

“The shadow personifies everything that the subject refuses to acknowledge about himself and yet is always thrusting itself upon him directly or indirectly” (Jung 221). The shadow, an important concept Carl Jung explored throughout his career, exists individually as well as collectively (Bly 26). Societies used to confront and work through the shadow with rituals (Slater CL1). Now that those fundamental ceremonies for confronting it have all but vanished, the shadow has a stronger presence. According to Glen Slater, “Modern existence is inherently shadow making” (Slater CL3). Collectively and individually, the shadow needs to be recognized “so it doesn’t take over or jump out” (Slater CL2). When the shadow is ignored, then its “energies become destructive” (Bly 59).

One place where the shadow is acted out is in literature: “All literature, both of the primitive and the modern peoples, can be thought of as creations by the ‘dark side’ to enable it to rise up from earth and join the sunlit conscious again” (Bly 63). Dark shadow-figures, often in the form of a person’s double, are commonly depicted in film, literature, and television. In Ursula Le Guin’s novel A Wizard of Earthsea, the protagonist, the young wizard Ged, performs a spell that unleashes a literal shadow. Le Guin’s use of the shadow specifically as a physical shadow works stronger than metaphors in other works of fiction because she is using the language needed (by always calling it a “shadow”), and she is showing the psychological process of confronting the shadow. Ged’s interactions with his shadow resonate for readers as his movements parallel Robert Bly’s five stages in “exiling, hunting, and retrieving the shadow” (Bly 27). Through the novel, Le Guin develops Ged as a character that has generally good intentions, but still has that darker side, a duality that is present in all individuals. The novel demonstrates that the shadow side must be reconciled with, and Le Guin does this by implementing not just a shadow metaphor, but an actual physical shadow that is truly a part of the main character.

The shadow imagery begins in the very first chapter of A Wizard of Earthsea. When young Ged casts his first major spell to protect his home town, he does so with “a mess of shadows” (Le Guin 13). Shortly thereafter, when Ged leaves town with his first teacher, Ogion, he steps “through the leaves and shadows of bright autumn” (Le Guin 15, italics mine). The problem Ged is developing with his shadow is immediately apparent as he is primarily focused on learning “to gain power” and dismissing the importance of balance in the use of magic (18). In fact, it is his desire to demonstrate his power that leads him to the spell that will come to physically unleash his shadow. After a young girl in the woods challenges Ged’s ability to perform any useful spell, Ged looks at a forbidden spell book of Ogion’s. The first spell that catches his attention is one that summons the dead. As he reads this text, the appearance of his shadow is foreshadowed: “he saw that something was crouching beside the closed door, a shapeless lot of shadow darker than the darkness” (22). Ogion then enters, dispelling what he later calls only “the shadow of a shadow” (127). With concern, the master wizard questions young Ged: “Have you never thought how danger must surround power as shadow does light?” (23). Unfortunately, this does not resonate with the headstrong Ged. Recognizing Ged’s frustration in not learning more spells from him, Ogion gives Ged the choice between staying with him or advancing more quickly by attending Roke, a school for wizards. Ged chooses the latter.

The shadow imagery continues as Ged travels to Roke on a ship aptly named Shadow. Le Guin is not overusing the imagery, but building towards the inevitable confrontation Ged will have with his shadow. Ged’s shadow is present, as it is for all individuals, but he is refusing to see it. The readers need to see this growth of the shadow figure within Ged because, as Jung warns, “the less [the shadow] is embodied in the individual’s conscious life, the blacker and denser it is” (88). Ged’s shadow is going to erupt, and because he has so heartily ignored it, it is going to be vicious. When Ged enters his new school, “it seem[s] to him though the light was behind him, a shadow followed him in at his heels” (Le Guin 34). While readers are starkly aware of the shadow imagery and sense the impending doom, Ged remains arrogant, eager to learn and impress others.

Ged’s new instructor, The Master Hand, immediately explains to Ged that “[t]he world is in balance, in Equilibrium . . . To light a candle is to cast a shadow” (44). Nevertheless, this warning, like that from Ogion, falls on deaf ears: Ged believes that “surely a wizard . . . was powerful enough to do what he pleased, and balance the world as seemed best to him, and drive back darkness with his own light” (44). Like all youngsters, Ged must learn through experience. Jacobi indicates that “[i]n psychology, one possesses nothing unless one has experienced it in reality” (14). Essentially, Ged must face his own shadow, as everyone must. If he had heeded any of the warnings from his instructors, perhaps his shadow would not have become so dark, powerful and threatening. However, of course, “[W]e have to learn to discipline ourselves. And discipline rests on the ability to act in a manner that is contrary to our feelings when necessary. This is an eminently human prerogative as well as a necessity” (Whitmont 167). Self-discipline and shadow-work is vital for development, and because Ged has so deeply ignored his shadow, the work is going to be especially difficult for him.

One of the first subjects Ged studies at Roke is Summoning, which leads him to “certain phrases . . . that he did not like to say [that] made him think, for an instant, of shadows in a dark room, of a shut door and shadows reaching out to him from the corner by the door” (Le Guin 54). He reluctantly remembers the darkness when he was looking at the spell book at Ogion’s, but he tells himself these are “shadows merely of his ignorance” (54). Not only has he ignored the warnings from his masters, but now he is even ignoring his own intuition. As Bernardo and Murphy emphasize in their study on the novel, “Ged sees himself as an individual who should be able to act simply because he wishes to. He does not see connections between his actions and a widening circle of events.” By not seeing his shadow or acknowledging it, Ged is essentially possessed by it. His drive for power continues as he refuses to recognize the importance of balance. This continues to build his shadow.

In his book A Little Book on the Human Shadow, Robert Bly discusses how people continually fill their “bag” with shadow figures. In Part 3 of his text, Bly thoroughly breaks down the five stages of facing one’s shadow. He does stress that “[w]e don’t live wholly at any moment in . . . any stage; we are in all five stages simultaneously” (Bly 38). There is a development, though, that is apparent in the stages demonstrating how one can lead to the next. Of course, confronting the shadow is not easy work, so the individual does slip around the stages as he continues through this struggle, likely through his lifetime. In A Wizard of Earthsea, after Ged’s shadow physically manifests itself, his journey lies in learning to embrace it as a part of himself; this serves as a great example of moving through Bly’s five stages of facing the shadow.

One night, Ged’s pride is pushed so far that he uses the spell he read at Ogion’s and summons a spirit from the dead. Jungian Analyst Robert A. Johnson explains that when the shadow “accumulates more energy than our ego, it erupts . . . The shadow gone autonomous is a terrible monster in our psychic house” (5). Ged’s action unleashes an actual physical shadow, described by Le Guin as a shadow “the size of a young child [with] no head or face” (61). This is the moment when Ged encounters Bly’s first stage, wherein the shadow “comes to rest outside the owner’s psyche, and seems likely to remain out there somewhere” (31). At this moment, neither Ged nor the readers understand this shadow figure to actually be a part of Ged. It appears to be something that erupted from a dark spell. Because the shadow comes from Ged’s unconscious, he is unaware of its origins. As Jung notes, “[I]t is not the conscious subject but the unconscious which does the projecting” (92). The shadow, which has now been so long repressed, erupts aggressively and physically attacks Ged. According to Jung, “No one can overlook either the dynamism or the imagery of the instincts [including the shadow, which arises from the unconscious] without the gravest injury to himself” (Jung 389). In this confrontation, the shadow physically maims Ged, and when the Arch Mage saves the young wizard at the cost of his own life, the shadow flees.

Everyone at Roke, especially Ged, believes the shadow is something nameless and evil. Jung asserts that the shadow is not something evil: “If . . . the shadow . . . were obviously evil, there would be no problem whatever. But the shadow is merely somewhat inferior, primitive, unadapted, and awkward; not wholly bad. It even contains childish or primitive qualities which would in a way vitalize and embellish human existence” (90). The size of Ged’s shadow is a physical representation of its childish quality, while its violent instinct demonstrates its primitive quality. If Ged had recognized the shadow as himself in that moment, he could have prevented what becomes an arduous journey. However, that journey is necessary. Jung reveals the difficulties of facing the shadow:

To become conscious of [the shadow] involves recognizing the dark aspects of the personality as present and real. This act is the essential condition for any kind of self-knowledge, and it therefore, as a rule, meets with considerable resistance. Indeed, self-knowledge as a psychotherapeutic measure frequently requires much painstaking work extending over a long period. (91)

Appropriately, it takes years after this incident for Ged to successfully confront and join himself with his shadow. It is a difficult path met with a lot of resistance, but also with the great reward, in the end, of psychological wholeness.

After this dark confrontation, which has left Ged physically maimed and psychologically weakened, he stays at Roke to study quietly and “undo…the evil” (Le Guin 65). The new archmage identifies the monstrosity Ged released as an “evil shadow” and knows it will “possess” Ged if he leaves Roke immediately (65). The characters refer to the entity as a shadow because of its dark, characterless appearance. Le Guin is using the term aptly, as the psychological shadow is precisely what Ged is fighting against. The archmage appropriately describes it to Ged as “the shadow of [his] arrogance [and] ignorance,” though no one can really identify what it is (66). These comments bare more truth than Ged, his masters, or the reader can yet recognize.

Ged stays to study in silence, essentially ostracizing himself from the other students. According to Bly, Jung’s reports illustrate that “when the shadow is successfully repressed, the person doing it finds it very difficult to talk to other people about feelings” (Bly 50-51). Though the shadow is out in the world now, it is still something repressed because Ged cannot recognize it as a part of himself and does not even wish to discuss the incident with anyone. In Bly’s second stage, there is some type of rattle or disturbance wherein “something doesn’t quite fit anymore” (31). Though Ged is safe from the shadow at Roke, after completing his studies he is ready to go out into the world. On a subconscious level, Ged is aware that “to be cured it is necessary to find a way in which his conscious personality and his shadow can live together” (Jung 89). He knows the shadow is waiting for him, but becomes unsettled and uneasy at Roke. His focused training after the unleashing of the shadow has inspired him to help people instead of impress them, and Ged moves to the small town Pendor to protect the citizens from dragons.

Ged befriends Pechvarry, and when his new friend’s son is dying, Ged tries to save him with a spell. When he enters the liminal space between life and death, he sees the shadow for the first time since the night it was unleashed. Ged will later understand the relevance of meeting the shadow in the realm of death, for it is in fact the shadow of his own death that he unleashed. Through this spell, Ged barely survives, and the child is lost. At this time, Ged moves into Bly’s third stage “in which the distressed person calls on the moral intelligence to repair the rattle” (34). Ged wants to flee from the shadow, but he first wants to complete the task that brought him to Pendor.

Rather than waiting for the dragons to attack Pendor, Ged takes the fight to them. The eldest dragon tries to bargain with Ged, offering to name the shadow that hunts him. True names have a great power in Earthsea, and by knowing the shadow’s name, Ged would know it as himself. Of course, the psychological process cannot be achieved if one does not personally recognize the dark part as self. Importantly, Ged refuses the dragon’s offer and kills him and his offspring. At this point, Ged is more determined to save the Pendor people than himself. The wizard who was initially driven by power and glory has undergone great development.

With Pendor safe, Ged flees to both escape the shadow, which he fears facing again, and to spare Pendor from the shadow creature. While Ged retreats from the shadow, another confrontation drives him back to his true master, Ogion. He is now prepared to hear and heed his master’s advice: “Now turn clear round, and seek the very source . . . There lies your hope of strength” (Le Guin 128). Encouraged by his master, Ged bravely switches from the role of the hunted to that of the hunter, perhaps another indication the two are the same. Once Ged begins to hunt the shadow, it assumes Ged’s physical appearance. As Johnson indicates, “whether we know it or not our psychic twin follows us like a mirror image” (Johnson 16). Though there are reports from others of a man looking just like him, Ged still does not recognize himself in the shadow.

In the next meeting with the shadow, Ged tries to grab the shadow by force and fails. In The Symbolic Quest, psychotherapist Edward C. Whitmont explains that the “energy [of the shadow] cannot simply be stopped by an act of will. What is needed is rechanneling or transformation. However, this task requires both an awareness and an acceptance of the shadow as something which cannot simply be gotten rid of” (Whitmont 166). Ged thinks he needs to overcome the shadow, to kill it. Of course, this is not possible since the shadow is a part of his “unconscious personality” (Jung 87). Ultimately, after Ged tries to attack the shadow, it flees. Until he can recognize the shadow as himself, he cannot unite with it or achieve wholeness. Ged does begin to recognize that his “acts have their echo in it; it is [his] creature” (Le Guin 160). He is starting to accept ownership, but still sees the shadow as something monstrous he created, not as something that is a part of him.

Ged does not know how to defeat his shadow monster. In Bly’s fourth stage, “one gives up for a moment. . . we suddenly look into ourselves and see our own diminishment” (Bly 36). In hunting it and failing to so much as grasp it, Ged feels a momentary defeat. He continues to hunt the shadow, but does not know what he will do when he finds it. In a fortuitous moment, Ged runs into his old friend Estarriol from Roke. This is a key step in moving towards his final confrontation with the shadow because even though one must personally recognize his own shadow, the task does not require solitude: “Our friends play crucial roles in what we call the fourth stage” (37). The friend’s role is not to offer empty platitudes and insist things will be okay. In fact, Bly indicates such congeniality is useless. Instead, the true friend brings steady, moral support on the quest.

As a concerned friend, Estarriol insists upon accompanying Ged as he sets out across the ocean to search for his shadow. During this time, Ged comes closer to understanding that the shadow is an aspect of himself. He acknowledges to Estarriol, without yet understanding the full meaning of his words, “If I lose it, I am lost” (Le Guin 173). Earthsea, which is composed mostly of islands, is mapped only to a certain distance. Where the land disappears and the ocean becomes expansive, it is believed the world drops off. Ged is now willing to move into these uncharted waters, which are representative of the unconscious, the home of the shadow. This is the place Ged must go. Furthermore, not only is the ocean representative of the unconscious, but “[w]ater has often been used as a symbol for the deepest spiritual nourishment of humanity” (Johnson ix). This nourishment is exactly what Ged needs to complete his psychological wholeness and achieve the quest of the novel.

This hunt brings Ged into Bly’s fifth and final stage of “eating the shadow” (Bly 38). As Ged travels silently with his companion, he begins to recognize the shadow for what it truly is. He finally understands that the shadow is not something he created or unleashed, but that it is an unrecognized part of himself. His original way of thinking, to confront or overcome the shadow, was incorrect. He needs to identify and accept it, and he will do this by calling the shadow its true name: Ged. Not only do true names hold an important power in Earthsea, but “[u]sing language consciously seems to be the most fruitful method of retrieving shadow substance scattered out in the world. Energy we have sent out is floating around beyond the psyche; and one way to pull it back into the psyche is the rope of language” (42-43). This language, this naming of the shadow, of the self, is the final step for Ged in owning his shadow.

In the final confrontation, before Ged vocally names his shadow, it appears to him as shapeless. Then it goes through a series of transformations, taking on the following successive appearances: Ged’s father (who Ged left behind to study wizardy), Jasper (the wizard Ged was showing off to when he unleashed the shadow), Pechvarry (the friend whose son Ged failed to save), and Skiorh (a man who the shadow temporarily took hold of when chasing Ged). All these individuals represent different parts of Ged’s journey against his shadow: respectively, his inability to see the shadow, his arrogance in unleashing it, his fear of it, and his inability to see it for what it is. After this display, the shadow turns back “into black emptiness” (Le Guin 178). Once the shadow drops its guises, Ged recognizes the shadow as himself. Ged “took hold of his shadow, of the black self that reached out to him. Light and darkness met, and joined, and were one” (179). The wizard now holds a balance within himself. He has learned responsibility the responsibility of wizardry and reconciled the good and the bad within himself.

In naming his shadow, Ged recognizes what comprises his shadow. Le Guin describes, “Ged had neither lost nor won but, naming the shadow of his death with his own name, had made himself whole” (180). The spell to summon the dead and his own confrontation with death at the hands of his own shadow demonstrates what Ged had really poured into his shadow: his own mortality. In his arrogant youth, Ged felt invincible. Because he saw no harm falling upon himself because of his ability to alter the world through his powers of magic, he buried his own vulnerability deep in his shadow. Ged could not have contributed much to the world with his original attitude. In fact, if he had continued in his reckless ways, he surely would have done more harm than good. His progress here represents Johnson’s important recognition: “To own one’s shadow is to reach a holy place – an inner center – not attainable in any other way. To fail this is to fail one’s own sainthood and to miss the purpose of life” (Johnson 17). The following Earthsea books reveal the purpose of Ged’s life as a great and masterful wizard.

After his final confrontation with the shadow, Ged explains to Estarriol that his wound is “healed” and he is now “whole” and “free” (Le Guin 180). Ged has incorporated his shadow self and achieved what Jung identified as individuation, which Glen Slater describes as both “growing more into your uniqueness and character [and] feeling more connected to the human story as a whole” (CL1). By achieving individuation and incorporating his shadow, Ged can venture into the world as a psychological whole prepared to aid others on their journeys. This shadow hunt has been a great psychological journey for Ged, and it was necessary in his formation as a powerful and responsible wizard. As Jung indicates, “anyone who has insight into his own actions, and has thus found access to the unconscious, involuntarily exercises an influence on his environment” (Jung 401). With his magical abilities united with a sense of balance, Ged now has much to contribute to the world.

Through this novel, Le Guin has successfully demonstrated Bly’s steps of working with, confronting, and eating the shadow. The details and actions she writes demonstrate that this is not an easy process, but definitely a necessary one. By calling the shadow what it is, a shadow, the metaphor of the unleashed creature is strong and resonant for readers. Le Guin makes the process of the facing the shadow, one that must be recognized individually and collectively, identifiable and opens the ground for discussions amongst readers and scholars. The novel, written for children, is accessible to all ages and has a profound resonance even if one is not familiar with Jung’s terms and definitions.

Works Cited

Bernardo, Susan M. and Graham J. Murphy. Ursula K. Le Guin: A Critical Companion. Westport: Greenwood, 2006. N. pag. Kindle Edition.

Bly, Robert. A Little Book on the Human Shadow. San Francisco: Harper and Row, 1988. Print.

Jacobi, Jolande S. Complex/Archetype/Symbol in the Psychology of C.G. Jung. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1959. Print.

Johnson, Robert A. Owning Your Own Shadow: Understanding the Dark Side of the Psyche. New York: Harper and Row, 1991. Print.

Jung, C. G. and Anthony Storr. The Essential Jung. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1983. Print.

Le Guin, Ursula. A Wizard of Earthsea. New York: Bantam Books, 1968. Print.

Slater, Glen. “Class Lecture 1.” Jungian Depth Psychology. Pacifica Graduate Institute, Carpinteria. 13 Apr. 2011. Lecture.

– “Class Lecture 2.” Jungian Depth Psychology. Pacifica Graduate Institute, Carpinteria. 19 May 2009. Lecture.

– Class Lecture 3.” Jungian Depth Psychology. Pacifica Graduate Institute, Carpinteria. 23 June 2011. Lecture.

Whitmont, Edward C. The Symbolic Quest. New York: H Wolf Book Manufacturing Company, 1969. Print.

Death and Sacrifice: Season 5 of Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Posted on October 31, 2012 by mythgirl under Buffy, Buffyverse, Grad School, PCA, Pop Culture, Whedonverse, Words for Wednesday, Writing

Welcome to Words for Wednesday! Below is a paper I presented at the Popular Culture Association conference in San Antonio, Texas in April of 2011. I’ve included the images used in my original power point presentation. I originally wrote it the paper for graduate school in 2009 and revamped it for presentation to a Whedon-y audience. Enjoy!

Joss Whedon created a contemporary mythology for a modern audience through Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Within the storylines of this mythology lie powerful characters and endless parallels to issues individuals face in society today. Throughout the seven seasons of Buffy, Whedon offers metaphors that speak to the trials and tribulations of life. These include everything from the teen angst of high school to the loss of loved ones. As a series that involves vampires and other demons, Buffy constantly depicts the metaphor of life eating on life (an idea frequently discussed by mythologist Joseph Campbell), and symbols of death abound. In the fifth season of the series, death becomes an exceptionally poignant element as Buffy suffers the loss of her mother and later the Slayer sacrifices her own life. Ultimately, Joss Whedon utilizes season five to depict the pain of such loss and show viewers how to embrace death. Like all useful mythologies, Buffy reflects the current societal state, giving viewers something to relate to, while also offering another approach to dealing with concerns of life and death, an important concern also addressed through ritual.

In our modern American society, our funerary rituals do not grant us the time needed to effectively manage the loss of loved ones. Americans do not have the opportunity to embrace the experience of death and loss for months or years. The process of the funeral and the return to “normal” daily life is rushed. The experience of the shock and grief involved with losing a loved one is powerful, and the fifth season of Buffy aptly and necessarily demonstrates this experience.
According to religious historian Mircea Eliade, “the supreme function of the myth is to ‘fix’ the paradigmatic models for all rites and significant human activities” (98). While a television series does not offer viewers new rituals, it opens a space for individuals to consider and contemplate events they have experienced and reflect on how they respond to those experiences. Whedon speaks to the American way of encountering death and ultimately embraces ideas from traditions outside of America, accepting “[t]he challenge death poses for the cultural community” and working “to integrate it into cosmological schema” (Grillo 22).

Before sacrificing her own life, Buffy faces the loss of her mother, Joyce. Whedon masterfully captures the horrors of this event. Though Buffy has faced death and tragedy throughout the first five years of the series, nothing compares to this loss. “The Body,” which includes no musical score, is arguably the most powerful episode of the fifth season of Buffy because of its chilling realism. As the title reveals, the episode sharply focuses on the image of the dead body. The episode begins with the moment Buffy finds Joyce dead on the couch and ends when she again sees her mother’s body in the morgue.

When Buffy finds her mother’s body, she promptly calls 911. She explains to the dispatcher that, “She’s cold.” When the dispatcher questions if, “the body is cold,” an offended Buffy declares, “No, my mom!” Before the paramedics enter, Giles arrives and rushes towards Joyce. Buffy exclaims, “We’re not supposed to move the body!” (“Body”) She raises her hand to her face in shock of what she just said. That shift in her language signifies that ghastly moment of realization – her mother is not coming back. This episode is painful to watch; however, it demonstrates reactions experienced with loss, reactions we sometimes try to hide.

When the episodes show the Scoobies reaction to the loss of Joyce, Anya poignantly articulates the pain and confusion of death. Though she often fashioned death and destruction during her thousand years as a vengeance demon, it never personally affected her. Anya expresses frustration with the mystery of death:

But I don’t understand! I don’t understand how this all happens. How we go through this. I mean, I knew her, and then she’s, there’s just a body, and I don’t understand why she just can’t get back in it and not be dead anymore. It’s stupid. It’s mortal and stupid. And, and Xander’s crying and not talking, and, and I was having fruit punch, and I thought, well, Joyce will never have any more fruit punch ever, and she’ll never have eggs, or yawn or brush her hair, not ever, and no one will explain to me why. (“Body”)

This discussion impeccably echoes Joseph Campbell’s discussion on death: “The question is, What has happened to this body? It was walking around, it was warm, it lied down, it was cold. Where has it gone? This idea of where it has gone is the first clue we have to a mythological thought” (Hero’s 70). Through Anya’s questions, Whedon is discussing prominent mythological concerns.

Why are people supposed to avoid asking the questions Anya presents? “Are we going to see the body? . . . Are we going to be in the room with the dead body? . . . Are they going to cut the body open?” (“Body”). Willow declares, “It’s not okay to ask these things.” This is the American approach. However, “Death, a fundamental, inevitable, physiological fact, seems to point to the most objective aspect of human existence – that we are material creatures subject to the physical conditions of the physical world” (Grillo 21). We should not be afraid to talk about it openly and directly. In addition to addressing mythological thought, Anya’s questions open the door to questions we are not “supposed” to discuss. Whedon intentionally makes viewers uncomfortable throughout “The Body.” In America, we do not have an appropriate manner of coping with death. By making us uncomfortable, Whedon demonstrates the need for change in our culture.

In her essay on “Funerary Rituals,” Laura Grillo explains, “the Toradja ‘cult of the dead,’ far from being a horrifying or morbid preoccupation with death, can be understood to affirm the continuity between the animated world of the living and the spiritual world beyond which it depends” (5). The Day of the Dead and the Cult of the Dead are examples of communities embracing death and allowing the processes of acceptance and transformation to take place over time. The Day of the Dead allows members to “memorialize [the dead and give] ritualized attention . . . to the deceased” (Turner and Jasper 139). The Texas-Mexicans are able to “use the tools of tradition to externalize their encounter with death and loss” (Turner and Jasper 149). They allow the time needed for coping. The Toradja keep their dead for up to a year, allowing for the process of moving from one realm to the next. This also allows for an unrushed grieving process: “Death must be apprehended, its chaotic and terrifying potential arrested and regulated by culture. The Toradja funeral rituals recognize death as a consumption but regulate it with prescribed steps circumscribed by the determinative meaning that culture ascribes” (Grillo 16-17). While the Toradja way will not likely become the American way, we are in need of a longer progression for our death rituals.

In the episode after “The Body,” Buffy has to make the arrangements for her mother’s funeral. Afterwards, Buffy explains to Angel, “The funeral was . . . brutal, but it’s tomorrow that I’m worried about . . . Tomorrow the stuff of everyday living resumes” (“Forever”). In America, the rituals and traditions typically end after the funeral. There may be a gathering after the funeral to share memories and a meal, but then life must go on. In “Intervention” Buffy explains to Giles that she is considering taking a break from slaying because she doesn’t like what it’s doing to her. “To slay, to kill, it means being hard on the inside. Maybe being the perfect Slayer means being too hard to love at all” (“Intervention”). Giles informs Buffy that previous Slayers went to “a sacred place in the desert” for “regaining their focus, learning more about their role.” Buffy accepts Giles’ offer to take her to this sacred place. Of course, as Eliade explains, “men are not free to choose the sacred site . . . they only seek for it and find it by the help of mysterious signs” (Eliade 28).

Giles takes Buffy into the desert and performs a ritual to invoke Buffy’s guide. He cannot take her any further. A mountain lion soon appears to lead Buffy to the sacred site. According to the philosopher Macrobius, “lions are emblematic of the earth” (qtd. in Cooper 98). Since the Earth “is the universal archetype of . . . sustenance,” the symbol of her guide indicates that this spiritual quest is going to provide her the nourishment she needs to move forward with her life and cope with her loss” (Cooper 59). Whedon and his team of writers masterfully utilize these symbols to affect a resonating image for viewers. Whether Whedon or the readers are consciously aware of the meanings can be argued; regardless, the collective unconscious, to use Carl Jung’s term, recognizes them.

After the lion leads Buffy to the sacred location, she awaits the arrival of her spirit guide. This guide appears in the form of The First Slayer. She speaks to Buffy’s fears and informs her, “You are full of love. You love with all of your soul. It’s brighter than the fire, blinding . . . Love is pain, and the Slayer forges strength from pain. Love, give, forgive. Risk the pain. It is your nature. Love will bring you to your gift.” While this sentiment initially comforts Buffy, the First Slayer then reveals to Buffy that death is her gift. Buffy argues, “Death is not a gift. My mother just died. I know this. If I have to kill demons because it makes the world a better place, then I kill demons, but it’s not a gift to anybody” (“Intervention”). According to Joseph Campbell, “We live by killing, which is what you do even when you are eating grapes. You are still killing something. Life just lives on life. And it’s the one life in all of these different heads of mouths eating itself. It’s a fantastic mystery” (Hero’s 12). Buffy must reconcile herself to the role she has a Slayer. The acceptance of death as a function of life is imperative for Buffy. Whedon utilizes this episode to set up the climactic conclusion of the season, but also to demonstrate the time of reflection we need to take for ourselves after facing death. Buffy’s spiritual quest presents the difficulty of accepting death and represents the post-funerary rituals that America is missing.

After the presentation in season five of various mythological and ritualistic elements, Whedon speaks directly to the significance of sacrifice and ritual in the season finale “The Gift.” To begin with, Glory prepares to sacrifice Dawn and, consequently, unleash hellish dimensions. In Read’s discussion, she indicates that “people must calculate their actions so that they do not upset their family’s, city’s, or sun’s spiraling motion” (152). Buffy must work to spare not only her remaining family and her city, but her world and many others, from spiraling into a destructive atmosphere.

Concerning the ritual, Glory forces Dawn to change into a ceremonial dress, honoring the sacredness of ritual sacrifice. When Read discusses “ritual costume” in “The Cosmic Meal,” she indicates that every “costume . . . embodie[s] a particular force” (147). There is an “exchange” made to create “a new force” (147). Although Dawn was not born human, she is a completely innocent creature, another element typical of ritual sacrifice. As Joseph de Maistre explains, “sacrificial animals [are] the gentlest, most innocent creatures, whose habits and instincts [bring] them most closely to [being] human in nature” (qtd. in Girard 241). Dawn characterizes the notion that “the ritual victim is an ‘innocent’ creature who pays a debt for the guilty party” (241). It is important for Whedon to demonstrate such elements of ritual here because he has been speaking to the ritual processes involved with death throughout season five.

When the ritual has begun and Dawn’s blood is being drained, Buffy realizes what she must do, how “death” is her “gift.” She will sacrifice herself to stop the ritual, rescue her sister, and save the world from great destruction. Buffy gracefully jumps off the tower, sacrificing her blood and body to the mystical portal. After Buffy dies, a series of shots show the grief of her friends while a voice-over indicates what Buffy said to her sister before she jumped: “Dawn, listen to me . . . I will always love you. But this is the work that I have to do. Tell Giles . . . I figured it out . . . and I’m okay . . . You have to be strong. Dawn, the hardest thing in this world is to live in it. Be brave. Live. For me” (“Gift”). In this moment of clarity, Buffy reconciles the pain of life and passes her wisdom on to her younger sister. Buffy’s death reflects Campbell’s view that “death . . . is understood as a fulfillment of our life’s direction and purpose” (Thou Art That 34). Whedon uses the mythological and ritualistic elements of death and sacrifice to show viewers ways of accepting the painful and unpredictable nature of life alongside the certainty of death. Like the Toradja’s “conception of death [it is] not as an end but . . . a metamorphosis that leads to life” (Grillo 11). After Buffy struggles with the loss of her mother, she embraces her own death and the unknown that lies ahead of her.

“Who someone or something is, then, is a matter of the kind of powers that one’s mahceua has. And while in the course of a person’s life she is given a great deal of merit that helps determine her nature, she also can determine to some degree her own merit through her actions and the rituals performed at appropriate times and places” (Read 152). Buffy has no choice about having Slayer powers. She is automatically elevated to the role of hero. However, in her continual choices to embrace that role, she demonstrates her own merit. We too can make these choices. It is inevitable to discuss the importance of the hero when discussing death. As Campbell indicated, “one part of the mythological motif of the hero’s journey is acquiescence. For instance, I am moving toward death, as we all are. That’s also yielding. And the hero is the one who knows when to surrender and what to surrender to. The main theme is to yield your position to the dynamic. And the dynamic of life is now this form eats that form. Yield” (Hero’s 12). Of course, we are not all to sacrifice ourselves for the greater good, but to consider the metaphor that Buffy offers us, which is akin to the Mexica sacrifice: “Sacrifice was a way of re-forming things in order to create an appropriate order again” (Read 153). Literal sacrifices are metaphors for the emotional sacrifices we all make in life to bring forth balance and harmony.

According to Campbell, “the fourth function of mythology is psychological. The myth must carry the individual through the stages of his life, from birth through maturity through senility to death. The mythology must do so in accord with the social order of his group, the cosmos as understood by his group, and the monstrous energy” (Campbell, Pathways 9). Buffy functions so powerfully as a mythology because it fulfills this function, demonstrating Buffy’s life as a Slayer and her death, specifically in modern America. Surely one of the greatest mysteries we cope with is facing death.

Finally, we should remember that “Death is a paradox – it can be understood as both a changeless state and transforming process, as a definitive end or harbinger of new beginnings and rebirth” (Grillo 20). Buffy demonstrates both aspects of death. Although Joyce loses her life, her death functions to transform Buffy. While Buffy herself then sacrifices her own life, she provides new beginnings for those she loves. The sixth season of Buffy, then, deals with another prominent issue – rebirth and resurrection. Buffy faces what Campbell refers to as “the rescue from without” when her friends resurrect her from the dead (Hero 170). Future projects will explore the significance of Buffy’s unwanted resurrection and the implications it has on the cosmology of Buffy and the minds of the viewers. That discussion will also include an analysis of the afterlife as presented by Whedon and its relationship to the various depictions of heaven.

Works Cited

Campbell, Joseph. The Hero’s Journey. Novato: New World, 1990.

— The Hero with a Thousand Faces. Novato: New World Library, 2008.

— Pathways to Bliss. Novato: New World Library, 2004.

— Thou Art That. Novato: New World Library, 2001.

Cooper, J.C. “Earth.” An Illustrated Encyclopaedia of Traditional Symbols. London: Thames & Hudson, 1978.

Cooper, J.C. “Lion.” An Illustrated Encyclopaedia of Traditional Symbols. London: Thames & Hudson, 1978.

Eliade, Mircea. The Sacred and the Profane: The Nature of Religion. Florida: Harcourt, 1967.

Girard, Rene. “Violence and the Sacred: Sacrifice.” Readings in Ritual Studies. Ed. Ronald L. Grimes. New Jersey: Prentice Hall, 1996. 239-256.

Grillo, Laura S. “‘Rambu Solo’: the Toradja Cult of the Dead and Embodied Imagination.”

Read, Kay. “The Cosmic Meal,” Time and Sacrifice in the Aztec Cosmos. Bloomington: Indiana UP 1998. 123-137; 144-155.

Turner, Kay, and Pat Jasper. “Day of the Dead, the Tex-Mex Tradition.” Halloween and Other Festivals of Death and Life. Ed. Jack Santino. Knoxville: U of Tennesse P, 1994. 133-151.

Van Gennep, Arnold. The Rites of Passage. Chicago: The U of Chicago P, 1960.

The Mythology of A River Sutra

Posted on October 24, 2012 by mythgirl under Grad School, Mindfulness, Words for Wednesday, Writing

Today’s Words for Wednesday is a blast from the past: I wrote this in 2008 for my Hindu Traditions course. Enjoy! I highly recommend the book I discuss here, The River Sutra. I also recommend the readings by Joseph Campbell. So rich!

Of the many stories and themes that flow through A River Sutra, one stands out above all: passion. The individual stories that are told alongside this river are both awe-inspiring and heartbreaking. Altogether, these stories of passion, the story of A River Sutra, function to demonstrate the four functions of mythology as set by Joseph Campbell. While these functions appear throughout myths, it is important to remember that, “We shall have only to follow… a multitude of heroic figures… in order to see again what has always been revealed. This will help us to understand not only the meaning of those images for contemporary life, but also the singleness of the human spirit in its aspirations, powers, vicissitudes, and wisdom” (Campbell, Hero Thousand 36). The narrator of A River Sutra meets such figures along the Narmada River. As he gets these powerful glimpses at life, so do the readers. His journey is our journey.

Along this journey, the human spirit Campbell speaks of is encountered again and again. Defining this sense of humanity is far different from defining what we are as Homo sapiens. Our bone structure and DNA makeup are not the elements that unite us. What makes us human is our abilities to reason, empathize, connect, relate and emote. Within these abilities lie responsibilities and, often times, pain. However, Campbell teaches that it is this pain that makes us human: “The impact of this horror on a sensitive consciousness is terrific – this monster which is life. Life is a horrendous presence, and you wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for that” (Campbell, Pathways 3). This concept of pain relates to the four functions that Campbell asserts must be present in a traditional mythology and which are present in A River Sutra.

The pain that is seen throughout A River Sutra points to the first, metaphysical function of mythology. Life’s “horrendous presence” is most clearly demonstrated through “The Teacher’s Story” and “The Musician’s Story.” It is first worth noting and discussing that both of these stories are about musicians. Among its many themes, the novel strongly asserts the importance of music as the sound of life. This presence of music is reminiscent of the dancing Shiva: “The dance, like life itself, is a mixture of the terrific and the auspicious, a juxtaposition and unification of destruction, death, and vital triumph, the volcanic bursting-forth of the lavas of life. [This expression] of the Divine . . . comprises all the goods and evils, beauties and horrors, joys and agonies, of our phenomenal life” (Zimmer 174). These words echo Campbell’s.

Zimmer and Campbell emphasize the importance of art and opposites as part of the mysteries of life; A River Sutra brings these ideas to life through the wide array of experiences the characters reveal. Campbell also instructs that “ . . . the function of the artist is to present these eternal mysteries in terms of a contemporary context of life” (Campbell, Hero’s Journey 211). Gita Mehta has composed a story that poignantly uses the power of music, essentially the power of art, and the power of the individual story in contemporary life to create a relatable mythology that unfolds with the four functions of mythology. As the readers experience the narrator’s response and exposure to the various stories of A River Sutra, they come to not only recognize but appreciate the functions of mythology that Campbell has put forth.

According to Campbell, “ . . . the first function of mythology [is] not merely a reconciliation of consciousness to the preconditions of its own existence, but reconciliation with gratitude, with love, with recognition of the sweetness. Through the bitterness and pain, the primary experience at the core of life is a sweet, wonderful thing” (Campbell, Pathways 4). In order to appreciate the beauty of life, we must first reconcile ourselves with the pain of life. Therefore, one of Mehta’s first stories is one of the most dismal. The story of Master Mohan is arguably the most heart breaking story in the novel. The beginning of this particular story is beautiful: Mohan finds his young protégé and works desperately to provide him opportunities and, ultimately, happiness and safety. It is a touching story of passion between teacher and student. As much as Master Mohan was helping the boy, the boy was also helping him. With Mohan’s unappreciated status in his family, the boy was a shining light. We initially see the beauty of life and relationships in this story. However, the harshness of reality steps in and, in one terrifying moment, everything changes: Master Mohan watches the gruesome and horrendous murder of his protégé. While it is typical for individuals to struggle with the death of a loved one, the death of children is often all the more distressing. The loss of a promising life unlived is simply devastating to those left behind. It is so devastating to Mohan that he eventually takes his own life. This story’s primary function is to reveal the horrors of life. This first function of mythology runs throughout the story, revealing a variety of other horrors. By the end of the novel, however, the wonderfulness of life is revealed and, as the conclusion of this paper will reveal, the first function is resolved.

“The second function of mythology, then, is to present an image of the cosmos that will maintain your sense of mystical awe and explain everything that you come into contact with in the universe around you” (Campbell, Pathways 8). Two of the most powerful stories of awe in A River Sutra are “The Executives Story” and “The Courtesans” story. As Campbell describes, “We have two main attitudes toward the central horrific mystery [of life], this thing beyond good and evil: affirmation and negation” (Pathways 105). For both the executive and the courtesan, it is actually their initial path of negation that leads them to the path of affirmation. They learn that, essentially, the world will seek out each individual; there is no escape from it.

The journey of Bose, the executive, demonstrates how this man renounces his rowdy sexual life and comes to find peace in the mythology books he has inherited from his father. Within the myth of The River Sutra, the characters themselves are constantly encountering myths and creating them. However, as Bose remains both renounced and engaged in myth, he feels a sense of restlessness. This suggests the idea that one cannot stay on the path of negation. The world will call; the world was calling Bose. When he turns to the lover he cannot commit to,she comes to possess him. After this possession, it is no coincidence that Bose’s initial, temporary cure comes from the form of a snake and that his final cure occurs at the Narmada River. After all, “in Hindu mythology the symbol of water is the serpent” and water is “a tangible manifestation of the divine essence” (Zimmer 37, 34). In order to overcome his possession, to move past his negation to affirmation, Bose must reconnect with divine essence – with God. The snake also speaks to this idea as it is a reminder of Vishnu, whose “favorite symbolic animal” is the snake (Zimmer 37). Zimmer also explains that “ .. . in the symbolism of the Myths, to dive into water means to delve into the mystery of Maya, to quest after the ultimate secret of life” (34). Through this process, Bose comes to understand tribal rights and writes an essay that gets published – he has moved negation to affirmation and demonstrated the “mystical awe” Campbell discusses.

“The third function of a mythological order is to validate and maintain a certain sociological system: a shared set of rights and wrongs, proprieties or improprieties, on which your particular social unit depends for its own existence” (Campbell, Pathways 8). All the stories told along the Narmada demonstrate this on some level. There is a general notion of right and wrong, beautiful and horrendous. While the characters that the narrator meets across the river vary in background, age, and experience they all share the same senses: the murder, suicide, shock and awe is universal. However, “The Courtesans Story” offers the strongest demonstration of the “sociological system” at play in Campbell’s third mythological function. This story also asserts the “horror” of the first function and the “awe”of the second function, moving readers ever closer to the ultimate fourth function.

The courtesan worked very hard to protect her daughter from the evils of the world. Like the story of the musician and the teacher, this story also emphasizes the importance of art. It is interesting that that courtesan’s daughter is kidnapped when they have gone out to a performance for the daughter to sing. This idea of music as the sound of life is working here to move the daughter towards life. The daughter has been on a path of negation. The world comes to her in a strange form to lead her to a sense of affirmation: she is kidnapped by a bandit. While this initially appears to be the horror of the story, it is quite the opposite. The daughter finds the love of her life. Through the life they live, the sociological system begins to reveal itself in a frightening way. The courtesan’s daughter lives with a man outcast from society. He is deemed a horrific bandit, a man to be feared and captured. However, he has maintained a logical set of rights and wrongs and did “what any man of honor would do” (Mehta 182). This man killed those who killed his family, but harmed no others. He was incredibly respectful of the courtesan’s daughter, earning her honorably.

The story of the courtesan’s daughter shows society in all its reality: though it attempts to maintain a proper sociological system, it fails the courtesan’s daughter and her husband. Societies depend on order, and the third function of mythology is intended to demonstrate this order. What is shown in A River Sutra is that this system is not yet perfected, and this is arguably true for all societies. Universally, groups of individuals typically strive for peace and harmony, for a line of right and wrong that functions to respectively reward and punish. This system is fallible though, as it is governed by man. In this, we are reminded of the horrors and sorrows of the world. The system fails, the good bandit is murdered, and his beautiful wife commits suicide. Campbell reminds us that, “Society lapses into mistake and disaster” (Hero Thousand 308). Nevertheless, in seeing these mistakes and disasters, societies have hope in getting it right.

The first three functions of myth flow throughout the various stories presented in A River Sutra. The readers, as well as the narrator, must continuously face life’s “horrendous presence” in order to reach the pedagogical and psychological fourth function of mythology. “The Musician’s Story” is the final demonstration of the “bitterness and pain . . . of life” (Campbell, Pathways 4). As the musician begins telling the narrator her story, it is clear it not going to have a happy ending. Nevertheless, a glimmer of hope shines as she shares how she developed a musical relationship with her father’s student. Mehta has again returned to the ideas shared amongst life, passion, and music. As the musician felt she had connected to this man who became her bridegroom, her passion for music began to soar. Her dreams are shattered though when the young man is freed from the commitment to her father and he chooses not to marry her. Though it is not as heartbreaking as the murder of the young boy in “The Teacher’s Story,” the narrator and readers are left wondering – Why do we have to face this pain? How are we supposed to reconcile it?

The novel truly answers these questions through “The Minstrel’s Story.” As the final story of the novel begins, the fourth function of mythology is approached: “All societies are evil, sorrowful, inequitable; and so they will always be. So if you want to help this world, what you will have to teach is how to live in it. And that no one can do who has not himself learned how to live in it in the joyful sorrow and sorrowful joy of the knowledge of life as it is” (Campbell, Myths 104). “The Minstrel’s Story” again reveals to readers that one cannot hide from life, but must face it head on in order to actually be alive. As the narrator listens to the story of the minstrel, he has already faced the suicides of Mohan and Courtesan’s daughter. He saw the hopelessness in the story of the Musician. While the Executive’s story demonstrated the idea of going back into the world, the narrator, as well as the readers, still needs a more powerful example to fulfill this fourth and final function of the myth.

The very first story told in A River Sutra is “The Monk’s Story.” Born of a rich family, this young man has renounced the world. He has just enough time to tell the narrator about the glorious spectacle that was his initiation into the sect of mendicants. The narrator is left with unanswered questions as the monk rushes to return to his brother monks. If he does not return to this group, he will have to find another. In his last words to the narrator, he explains, “I am too poor to renounce the world twice” (Mehta 41). While the horror here is not as pointed as it is in the stories of the teacher, the courtesan, or the musician, it foreshadows what must be told by the end of the story: the progression from renunciation to affirmation. We must reenter the world.

In “The Minstrel’s Story,” Naga Baba first appears as a peaceful ascetic. He has taken on the role of savior and teacher to Uma. Chapter Fifteen is heartwarming and presents little conflict or horror. It is rather shocking in Chapter Sixteen when the narrator discovers that Naga Baba has become Professor Shankar, an archaeologist removed from spirituality. And, while this may be a rather dramatic example, it acutely demonstrates how individuals must “reenter the world” (Mehta 281). The narrator had envisioned that Naga Baba was “ . . . in a cave somewhere, seeking higher enlightenment” (Mehta 281). However, we cannot dwell in our sorrows nor hide from the world in a cave. We must be in the world to experience it, to live in it, and to help others to live in it.

Campbell indicates that the “happy ending [of the myth] is to be read . . . as a transcendence of the universal tragedy of man” (Hero Thousand 28). The happy ending is not a “contradiction” to the tragedy contained within the myth, yet an accompaniment utilized to represent “the down-going and the up-coming” nature of life (28). The ending of A River Sutra is ultimately a happy one. As Professor Shankar drives away, the narrator “wonder[s] for the first time what [he] would do if [he] ever left the bungalow” (Mehta 282). The final image is of him staring into the powerful river.

It is easy to imagine that the narrator does indeed leave the bungalow. What he does after the professor leaves is not of concern to readers, as long as he reenters the world. If he does not, the stories he has heard meant nothing to him. However, the novel can end without the revealing what happened next because as much as it was the narrator’s journey, it was the readers’ journey. Time and time again, the various characters showed us that “ . . . all life stinks, and you must embrace that with compassion” (Campbell, Pathways 77). Heartache, suicide, murder and death pervade the story, but the final image does not emphasize those horrors. The final image is peaceful, leaving readers in the river, reminding them of the notion of “Vishnu’s heavenly world” (Zimmer 111). Yes, the horror is here – but beauty surrounds it.

Life eats on life. (Campbell, Myths 169). Campbell has told us this. A River Sutra has demonstrated it. Life can be horrific. However, it does not end there. It is horrific because we care, because we have both passion and compassion. Passion fuels us. Without desire, pain, and struggle, the glory of the world would mean nothing. The pain that we feel in our life of passion is a sign that we are alive. If we moved through safely, unharmed, untouched, unmoved, what would be the point?

Works Cited

Campbell, Joseph. The Hero’s Journey. Novato: New World, 1990.

— The Hero with a Thousand Faces. New Jersey: Princeton UP, 1972.

— Myths to Live By. New York: Penguin, 1972.

— Pathways to Bliss. Novato: New World, 2004.

Mehta, Gita. A River Sutra. New York: Vintage International, 1994.

Zimmer, Heinrich. Myths and Symbols in Indian Art and Civilization. New Jersey: Princeton

UP, 1992.

“Did I Fall Sleep?” Self-Awareness and Technology in Joss Whedon’s Dollhouse

Posted on October 17, 2012 by mythgirl under Grad School, Mythology, Pop Culture, Psychology, Whedonverse, Words for Wednesday, Writing

For this week’s Words for Wednesday, I have an essay on Dollhouse to share with you. I wrote the essay this summer for the graduate course “Psyche and Nature.” It’s written for a reader who is not familiar with the show. In addition to discussing ideas from the course, the assignment required a brief personal reflection. Limited to ten to twelve pages, I didn’t have a chance to delve deeper into ideas regarding Topher or to touch on Senator Perrin at all. Perhaps I’ll expand on it in the future. Enjoy!

“The more successful we become in science and technology, the more diabolical are the uses to which we put our inventions and discoveries” (Carl Jung II).

During 2009 and 2010, two short seasons of Dollhouse aired on FOX. The DVD and Blu-ray sets comprise a total of a mere twenty seven episodes (including two that were unaired). While this television series did not attract the network’s desired ratings, it has been greatly received by many popular culture fans, including the dedicated cult fans of Joss Whedon’s work (including Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, Firefly and Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog). The series blurs lines of morality and asks tough questions about science, technology, and soul. Set in present day, the series focuses on the Los Angeles branch of the Dollhouse, a clandestine business run by the corporation Rossum – a name chosen by the co-founders because of the 1920s play R.U.R. about Rossum’s Universal Robots (“Hollow”). The employers, scientists, and employees of Rossum typically view the mind as a machine and treat it as such. The mindset here is identical to the modern first-world notion identified by Glen Slater in his essay “Cyborgian Drift”: “We have already lost an awareness of ourselves as animals, as a species belonging to an ecosystem, and we are fast developing psychologies that reduce our experience to robotic and computational processes, conceiving of ourselves as analogues of complex machines” (Slater 173). This approach pulls humanity away from its nature, away from the environment of nature, and into a technological world that seems to promise more destruction than hope.

The stage for Dollhouse is initially set by its location in Los Angeles, which provides an interesting backdrop for the series. This crowded, fast-paced, highly industrialized city is often utilized as a setting in film and television to let viewers know they are descending into some type of underground or underworld experience. Despite the glamour often associated with Hollywood, it is not uncommon for people to maintain negative thoughts and assumptions about Los Angeles. This is demonstrated, for example, when one character claims to be in hell and is corrected: “You’re in Los Angeles, though I can see the confusion” (“Belonging”). In a later episode, a character comments, “He’ll be an empty headed robot wandering around Hollywood. He’ll be fine” (“Belle Chose”). This comment, even without its context, clearly identifies assumptions about individuals, technology, and Los Angeles that operate in our world and in the series.

In the fictional Los Angeles of Dollhouse, a technology has been developed where an individual’s personality can be removed and replaced with a technologically constructed personality. This is the service offered through the Dollhouse’s “dolls,” people that have “volunteered” to work for the Dollhouse for a five-year contract. These dolls are transformed into whoever the high-paying client desires for an “engagement” that often only lasts one day. Therefore, each doll undergoes many different engagements and personality implants throughout their service to the Dollhouse. During that time, the original personality of the doll is removed and stored on a wedge (a type of hard-drive). The notion of the wedge has traces back to the 1980s when the “possibility . . . began to surface on the AI grapevine [of] the idea of ‘downloading’ the mind into a machine (Noble 161). Throughout the series, the fictionalized technology demonstrates roots in our modern technological developments.

The dolls are in type sort of blank-slate state when they are at the Dollhouse and not being used for an engagement. When a client requests a doll for a job, the parameters for the desired personality are built by the on-site programmer Topher Brink. The desired personality is then, through a new wedge, technologically imprinted into the doll. The term “imprinted” has a history linking back to Plato and Freud who “liken[ed] memory to imprinting (whether this be on a wax tablet or within specifically psychical neurons in the brain)” (Casey 16). In the Dollhouse, imprinting includes the creation of a false identity with false memories that are transferred into the brain. Therefore, when a doll is imprinted he or she not pretending to be a different person with a different personality – that doll becomes that personality completely and wholly. For example, if a client pays for a doll to steal a piece of art, the doll absolutely believes he or she is a thief. Furthermore, if a client wishes to have a doll for a romantic engagement, that doll is programmed to absolutely love the client. The doll believes their identity just as well as any of us do. The basic assumption in creating and implementing this technology is that the body and the mind are completely separable. As a result, this is an abuse of technology that goes against human nature. Unfortunately, this science fiction thriller offers a glimpse of the threats posed by our own modern technology and desires to improve upon or perfect the human being.

Such ideas about the separation of mind and body and technological advancement stretch back through our history. Descartes insisted that the mind is separate from the body and the self; by the mid-twentieth century, AI scientist Marvin Lee Minksy “described the human mind as nothing more than a ‘meat machine’ . . . and regarded the body as ‘teleoperator for the brain’” (Noble 156). Minksy, therefore, insisted that we can be replaced by machines (Noble 156). Developments in AI, robotics, and cyborgology have stemmed from this historical perspective and, for many, have called to question the understanding of the mind and the body. What Dollhouse ultimately shows viewers is that, despite advances in technology, there is an inherent mind-body connection. When some of the dolls begin to show “grouping” patterns, Topher notes that what is happening runs “deeper than memory.” Their habit of sharing meals and activities together in the doll state, despite all the wipes and various implants, demonstrates “instinctual survivor patterns” (“Grey Hour”). Furthermore, it demonstrates the inherent connection between mind, body, and experience. To honor humanity and the laws of nature, this connection should not be tampered with. As Jung noted decades ago, “Through scientific understanding, our world has become dehumanized” (Jung 79). Dollhouse is a constant reminder of this break from nature that we need to mend.

The main character in Dollhouse is the doll Echo. Through flashbacks across the two seasons, viewers learn that she was originally Caroline Farrell, a young woman trying to destroy the Dollhouse for its abuses of technology and persons. In her honorable though misguided attempts, she commits terrorist acts. When Rossum Corporation catches her trying to blow up one of their buildings, she is offered a contract with the Dollhouse in exchange for her inevitable prison time. The series begins with several formulaic episodes that depict her various engagements as a doll, such as being someone’s girlfriend, a bodyguard, and a midwife. However, it becomes apparent to Topher that, unlike other dolls, Echo is “evolving” (“Spy”). When the dolls are in the Dollhouse in their doll state, they have no memories or personality. After each engagement with clients, the dolls are wiped – supposedly returned to a blank slate. As early as the second episode, however, Echo is seen, after an engagement that has been wiped, making a “shoulder-to-the-wheel” gesture that the client had taught her. She starts to become more than what they program her to be.

Echo’s name and lack of identity (at the beginning of the series) call to mind the myth of Echo and Narcissus. However, there is more to Echo – in the myth and in the Dollhouse – than meets the eye. The mythic figure is condemned to repeat what is said around her, as Echo in the Dollhouse must behave as she is programmed – but it does not end there. In the myth, Echo is attracted to Narcissus, someone that Patrica Berry identifies as being similar to Echo (121). Berry concludes that through the relationship between Echo and Narcissus, the myth reveals that “what one echoes is very like oneself, and that within one’s echoing is a kind of self” (121). Though Echo’s voice is a mere repetition of what Narcissus says, she has chosen Narcissus as the one to echo. Furthermore, Berry indicates that Echo is “shaped by what’s around her” (121). The same applies to Echo in the Dollhouse. Though Echo does not chose the personalities she is imprinted with, the traits that begin to form her evolving character in doll state are similar to her original personality as Caroline. In fact, as she evolves into a whole person in the second season, Echo adopts the same mission Caroline had to overthrow the Dollhouse. In echoing the person she used to be, she is demonstrating her true self. Her character arch demonstrates that, ultimately, the self cannot be eradicated.

In season one, viewers learn that Echo is not the first doll to exhibit a likeness to her original personality. Flashbacks introduce the doll Alpha (a violent criminal the Dollhouse recruited in exchange for his prison term) who brutally attacks another doll while in his doll state. The Dollhouse was mistaken in believing they could completely eradicate an individual’s natural tendency with technology. After Alpha’s first attack, he is taken for a “treatment” where his mind should be wiped. However, he struggles against being wiped by the tech and a “composite event” occurs: all the personalities that Alpha was ever imprinted with for engagements are dumped into his mind. After this event, Alpha escapes, killing and injuring others on his way out. It is not only the overload of the many imprinted personalities in his head or their temperaments but his own natural propensity to violence that brings out the ferocity of the many “voices” that now struggle in his mind.

Ultimately, the employees of the Dollhouse do not take Alpha’s case seriously enough. The superior of the L.A. Dollhouse, Adelle Dewitt, explains that Alpha was an “unfortunate technical anomaly” (“Omega”). If they really heeded the warning presented by Alpha’s actions, they would see that the real problem was not merely the poor choice to imprint a violent criminal nor was it an anomaly. His violent outburst is representative of the mind/body connection that the Dollhouse has at best misunderstood, but more than likely chosen to ignore. By removing and imprinting personalities, the Dollhouse is interfering with human nature, and the consequences will be much more disastrous than the frightful event with Alpha.

At the end of season one, Alpha returns to kidnap Echo. He then dumps all of her past imprints into her mind to make her like him (harkening images of Frankenstein’s creature desiring the creation of another monster). However, since her nature is different from his, she rejects him. After surviving Alpha’s kidnapping, Echo is returned to the Dollhouse in the first season’s penultimate episode. She undergoes a wipe that is supposed to remove all the personalities that Alpha dumped into her. After this, she appears to be in the traditional doll state, but the early episodes of season two reveal that she remembers pieces of all her engagements. Eventually, imprinting is not even necessary. She can access any personality she chooses. She does not pose a threat in the way Alpha did because she is not naturally violent. She does pose a threat to the Dollhouse because she wants to destroy Rossum. However, over the course of season two, employees of the Los Angeles branch of the Dollhouse also begin to recognize that what Rossum is truly trying to achieve is far from respectable or acceptable. Ultimately, they work with Echo to try and prevent an apocalyptic future that their technological “advances” threaten to generate.

The various events that transpire throughout Dollhouse because of the technology implemented point to one key element: memory. To begin with, most of the individuals that volunteer to be dolls have memories they are wishing to escape or subdue. For example, one doll, Victor, is suffering from severe post-traumatic stress after serving in the army. In return for his time to the Dollhouse, he will be compensated with a great amount of money and the removal of his PTSD. Another doll, November, has signed her contract because she cannot deal with the death of her child. However, as Dennis Slattery has identified, “Body and autobiography, one’s individual life story, are seamless” (210). Likewise, Edward S. Casey in his book Remembering: A Phenomenological Study emphasizes again and again that the body and the mind are inseparable. Memories are not housed in just the mind; they are a part of the body as well. This explains why Alpha’s formal criminal nature surfaces in his doll state and why Echo continues her fight against Rossum. Something in them is aware of who they used to be.

The unconscious is another important element explored in Dollhouse. The physical placement of the Dollhouse (besides its Los Angeles locale) points to the unconscious. It is housed underground, hidden underneath a business building at street level. The dolls literally descend into the Dollhouse. To drive the metaphor even deeper, when the dolls sleep, they go into sleep pods that are inlayed in the floor. They physically go down into bed for the dreamless sleep they are given. It would be dangerous, from the perspective of the Dollhouse, for the dolls to dream. The removal of dreams, of that access to the unconscious, leaves the dolls even further cut off from their psyches, their selves, and their very human nature.

In pushing the limitations of human nature, Topher “advances” the technological possibilities in the Dollhouse, altering not only the minds of the dolls but their bodies as well. His most extravagant attempt is with Echo in the episode “Instinct.” Nate, the client Echo is sent to, lost his wife during the birth of their son. Unable to bond with his son and care for him, Nate pays the Dollhouse to program Echo to be the boy’s mother. To make this as real as possible for Echo, Topher makes “a code for the brain that change[s] the physical body . . . on a glandular level”: he programs Echo’s body to lactate (“Instinct”). The bond she experiences with the child is as strong as the bond between a birth mother and her child. After the engagement ends and the imprint is supposedly wiped from Echo, she fights off Topher and flees the Dollhouse to return to her baby. When another employee notes, “Maybe her body was stronger than her brain,” Topher recognizes that “the maternal instinct is the purest” (“Instinct”). This is the first time that Topher realizes that he took something too far. Though Topher is only one cog in the machine of the global Dollhouses, his character provides a fascinating look at the scientific mind.

In 1929, scientist John Desmond Beral noted, “Scientists would emerge as a new species and leave humanity behind” (qtd. in Noble 196). This is echoed in the fictional company Rossum, whose plans are certainly for the elite; their application of science and technology will not only leave behind but abuse the rest of humanity. What is really perplexing about this idea is that while some see it Beral’s claim as a threat, others see it as a promise. Individuals such as Reinhardt readily recognize the “threat to our survival” posed by technology (qtd. in Noble 208), while those like Moravec see it as a salvation, with the ability of machines to provide “personal immortality by mind transplant” (qtd. in Noble 162). Many former and current scientists would be greatly impressed and thrilled by the developments of the Rossum Corporation.

In the fictional world of Dollhouse, scientists have gone even further than AI, robotics, and cyborg technology. Here, the mind is not replaced by a machine but enhanced by the use of technology. Modification to the original human mind is a great leap forward, from this scientific perspective, because the mind has a far greater computational power than any designed computer or machine. The ability to program the human mind as one can program a computer seems like a great concept to many of the scientists and employees of Rossum. Through their technological capacity to copy, remove, and replace an individual’s mind, Rossum eventually plans to offer “upgrades,” wherein clients can move their mind from one body to the next. The technology is already being used by some employees of the company. Historically, this echoes the vision of AI specialist Hans Moravec and his prediction of “‘postbiological’ computer based immortality” (Noble 161). He foretold that with this technology and “enough widely dispersed copies, your permanent death would be highly unlikely” (Moravec qtd. in Noble 162). Though this sounds exciting to many in our world and in the Dollhouse, one of the co-creators of Rossum, Clyde Randolph, recognized a problem.

Whenever dolls or employees of Rossum become damaged or pose a threat to the Dollhouse or Rossum, they are sent to the Attic. In the Attic, the individual is placed into a permanent comatose state. The body is completely restricted and the individual is left in a nightmare state, trapped in an endless loop. It is in the Attic (on a secret undercover mission) that Echo meets Clyde, who was placed in the Attic by his partner when he tried to detect possible problems with the use of their technology. Clyde reveals his nightmare loop to Echo: over the fifteen years that he has been in the Attic, he has “run statistical probability scenarios for where the technology [of Rossum] might lead. All but three percent of them include the end of civilization” (“Attic”). As the episodes “Epitaph 1″ and “Epitaph 2″ (the respective season one and season two finales) ultimately reveal, he is not wrong.

Like many that work for the Dollhouse, Topher is completely embedded in the promises of Rossum’s technology. Season 2 reveals that he sleeps on a mattress surrounded by machines in a room connected to his office in the Dollhouse, which he rarely leaves. Ecologist and philosopher David Abram identifies that we currently “participate almost exclusively with other humans and with our own human-made machines” (ix). This is most aptly demonstrated in Topher’s character as he primarily interacts with other employees, dolls, and technology. In the season one episode “Haunted,” Topher even programs a doll to celebrate his birthday with him. He is completely cut off from the outside world and, therefore, from nature. Abram recognizes that our trending technological, human-based modality is “threatening to obliterate the world-of-life entirely” (41). Indeed, that becomes the greatest threat of the Dollhouse, as predicted by Clyde.

Rossum’s technology, which continually develops, falls into the wrong hands, and by the year 2019, wiping and imprinting has happened on a mass scale. The world has fallen into chaos and many people have lost their minds – literally. Echo and her comrades attempted to prevent this fall out, and they are ultimately able to save the world in the heart wrenching finale, but the path is dangerous and destructive. The destructive and frightening ability of the technology clearly supersedes any benefits it may have once presented.

Scientists like the AI guru Earl Cox see technology as a promise that will allow people to “escape the human condition” (qtd. in Noble 164), failing to recognize the greatness of our flawed condition. It is the human condition that allows us to experience the wonder of the world and to treat the world and each other with any sort of kindness. It is not an easy world, but allowing technology to run or replace our race is not the solution. As Joseph Campbell indicates in Pathways to Bliss, “Life is a horrendous presence, and you wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for that. The first function of a mythological order has been to reconcile consciousness to this fact” (3). This is clearly something that our modern technological myths lack.

A lack of nature – the physical outdoor world – is apparent throughout Dollhouse. In one poignant moment in season one, this is brought to attention in a brief conversation. When Echo is remotely wiped while on an engagement, and before she has developed any autonomy, she is suddenly in her doll state in the real world. As a result, she becomes clueless and helpless on the heist she was supposed to manage. Noting that they are now going to get caught, a fellow thief comments that they will be sent to prison. Echo innocently asks what prison is, and he replies, “A place with no sky.” This is great commentary on the Dollhouse itself. Embedded in technology in the depths of the ground without windows, sunshine, or fresh air, the characters in Dollhouse face the same trauma that Glendinning identifies in her essay “Technology, Trauma, and the Wild”: “The trauma endured by technological people like ourselves is the systemic and systematic removal of our lives from the natural world: from the tendrils of earthy textures, from the rhythms of sun and moon, from the spirits of the bears and trees, from the life force itself” (Glendinning 51). The Dollhouse shows us what happens when technology essentially possesses the mind and attempts to delete the natural, needed exposure to nature.

In my life, I have found nature to the most grounding element in my life. At times of stress or worry, the best thing that I can do is spend time outside, especially at the beach. As far back as I can remember, I have felt at peace and in balance when I am staring into the open ocean. Sitting on the sand and watching the tide flow in and out awakens my rhythm with nature. It reminds me of everything essential, natural, and important. I love that the ocean (not the beach front around it) is not run by mankind. We do not move the shore line or orchestrate the ocean waves. This is nature at its finest. When I cannot get to the beach, and I feel stress, I will literally stop what I am doing, go outside, and simply get some fresh air. Stopping, breathing, feeling the nature of the air, examining the sky, and hearing the birds is deeply refreshing. I really got a feel for how important this connection with nature is when I worked in an office building that had no windows. Some days I would literally run down the stairs to get outside on my breaks or at the end of my shift. Even four hours of complete indoor isolation is damaging to the psyche. The absence of nature in Dollhouse reminds me of that windowless office.

Dollhouse addresses many concerns about technology and humanity, including many secondary storylines that extend beyond the scope of this paper. Essentially, the series serves as a great warning, signaling what catastrophic possibilities may indeed lay before us if we continue on our speedy, developmental path with technology. As Slater indicates in his “Cyborgian Drift” essay, “resistance is not futile.” Our path does not have to end in destruction, and our way to salvation is not the negation of technology. However, as Dollhouse emphasizes, the important questions must be asked sooner rather than later. In her essay, Glendinning asks us to ask all the right questions: “What is the essence of modern technology? How does it structure our lives? Our perceptions? Our politics? How does it shape our psyches? What does it say about our relationship to our humanness and to the Earth?” (42). It is our responsibility to explore and answer these questions in a manner that honestly honors our nature and our psyches, as well as the earth and its nature. If we ignore these questions now, we just may pass the point of no return.

Works Cited

Abram, David. The Spell of the Sensuous: Perception and Language in a More-than-human World. New York: Pantheon, 1996. Print.

“The Attic.” Dollhouse. Maurissa Tancharoen and Jed Whedon. Fox. 18 Dec. 2009. Twentieth Century Fox, 2010. DVD.

Berry, Patricia. Echo’s Subtle Body: Contributions to an Archetypal Psychology. Dallas: Spring Publications. 1982. Print.

Campbell, Joseph. Pathways to Bliss. Novato: New World, 2004.

Casey, Edward S. Remembering: A Phenomenological Study. Bloomington: Indiana UP, 2000. Print.

“Epitaph 1.” Dollhouse. Joss Whedon. Fox. Unaired. Twentieth Century Fox, 2009. DVD.

Glendinning, Chellis. “Technology, Trauma, and the Wild.” Ecopsychology: Restoring the Earth, Healing the Mind. Ed. Theodore Roszak, Mary E. Gomes, and Allen D. Kanner. San Francisco: Sierra Club, 1995. 41-54. Print.

“Gray Hour.” Dollhouse. Writ. Sarah Faine and Elizabeth Craft. Fox. 6 Mar. 2009. Twentieth Century Fox, 2009. DVD.

“The Hollow Men” Dollhouse. Writ. Michele Fazekas, Tara Butters, and Tracy Bellomo. Fox. 15 Jan. 2010. Twentieth Century Fox, 2010. DVD.

“Instinct.” Dollhouse. Writ. Michele Fazekas and Tara Butters. Fox. 2 Oct. 2009. Twentieth Century Fox, 2010. DVD.

Jung, C. G. The Earth Has a Soul: The Nature Writings of C.G. Jung. Ed. Meredith Sabini. Berkeley, CA: North Atlantic, 2002. Print.

Noble, David F. The Religion of Technology: The Divinity of Man and the Spirit of Invention. New York: A.A. Knopf, 1997. Print.

“Omega.” Dollhouse. Writ. Tim Minear. Fox. 8 May 2009. Twentieth Century Fox, 2009. DVD.

Roszak, Theodore. The Voice of the Earth. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1992. Print.

Slater, Glen. “CYBORGIAN DRIFT: RESISTANCE IS NOT FUTILE.” Psyche & Nature. Vol. 75. New Orleans, LA: Spring: A Journal of Archetype and Culture, 2006. 171-95. Print.

Slattery, Dennis. The Wounded Body: Remembering the Markings of Flesh. Albany: State University of New York, 2000. Print.

“A Spy in the House of Love.” Dollhouse. Writ. Andrew Chambliss. Fox. 10 Apr. 2009. Twentieth Century Fox, 2009. DVD.

Whedon, Joss. Writ. “Man on the Streets.” Dollhouse. Audio Commentary. Twentieth Century Fox, 2009. DVD

Facing the Apocalypse

Posted on September 26, 2012 by mythgirl under Buffyverse, Grad School, Mythology, Pop Culture, Whedonverse, Words for Wednesday, Writing

In my Words for Wednesday post last week, I shared a paper about Angel the TV series. Continuing with that theme, here is a paper I wrote about Angel and DH Lawrence’s Apocalypse in 2009 for the graduate course “Approaches to the Study of Myth.” As is often the case in my academic writing, this was written for an audience unfamiliar with the Whedon-verse. This paper was accepted for presentation at the Slayage 5 conference, but I was unable to attend. Had I had the opportunity, I would have revamped it for the Whedon-y audience. Nevertheless, here’s the original paper.

In the television series Buffy the Vampire Slayer and the spin-off series Angel, Joss Whedon created what scholars and fans commonly refer to as the “Buffyverse.” In this verse, Whedon presents a compelling mythology filled with heroic quests and powerful metaphors for modern society. One of the metaphors present throughout the Buffyverse is the Apocalypse. This threat appears so often that Buffy’s boyfriend in season four finds himself needing to know “the plural of Apocalypse” (“New”). Buffy constantly thwarts the coming of the Apocalypse. She does whatever it takes, even sacrificing her own life, as a variety of foes try to bring forth the end of the world. In the final season of Angel, however, the Apocalypse is more than a threat. An old foe explains to Angel, “You’re soaking in it. Not an apocalypse. The Apocalypse” (“Underneath”). Despite his best attempts, Angel will not avert the Apocalypse. His hero’s journey does not end with a triumphant dissemination of the boon and the mastery of the two worlds, as Joseph Campbell proposes for all heroes. The final scene of Angel depicts frightful demons and beasts arriving in Los Angeles. The Apocalypse is here and Whedon is showing viewers how to face it.

As D.H. Lawrence indicates, the notion of the Apocalypse has been around since at least “second century B.C.” and it continues to speak to the human consciousness (79). Campbell asserts that the Apocalypse remains a modern concern. He also explains, “We must not understand apocalypse literally, not as some physical destruction and judgment on the world, or as something that is going to occur in the future. The kingdom is here; it does not come through expectation” (Campbell, Thou 106). As the kingdom is here, so too is the Apocalypse. We breathe life into it through our concern about it. Lawrence explains the simple definition of Apocalypse as “Revelation” (59). What truth, then, does the Apocalypse reveal? In Campbell’s discussion, he indicates that the Apocalypse is the end of “our ignorance and our complacency” (107). Quite simply, the Apocalypse can be read as the end of things as we know them. It is, therefore, the quintessential metaphor of change and transformation.

How are we to live with the metaphorical Apocalypse, the ever-looming threat of change and destruction? Whedon and Lawrence provide us with the same answer through their respective metaphors and criticism. While Lawrence focuses specifically on the Apocalypse as depicted in the Bible and discusses it in relation to reality, Whedon utilizes his fictional realm to reveal elements of the Apocalypse. Both approaches are constructive and valuable. Comparing these two texts achieves two purposes: an attitude of how to approach the metaphorical Apocalypse, and a demonstration that our television screens have the potential to present us with great mythic images.

In the first season of Angel, the heroic vampire with a soul has left Buffy behind in Sunnydale and moved to the dark, demon-infested city of Los Angeles. Angel eventually forms the team “Angel Investigations” to “help the helpless” against the supernatural horrors that occur. His early team consists of two humans, Cordelia Chase and Wesley Wyndham-Price. At the end of the first season, Wesley discovers the Shanshu-Prophecy, which reveals that one day the vampire with a soul will become human. The prophecy clearly indicates that many battles lie ahead of Angel and his team. He must, “survive the coming darkness, the apocalyptic battles, a few plagues and [several] fiends that will be unleashed” (“Shanshu”). Nevertheless, the promise of that tantalizing reward lingers throughout the entire series

D.H. Lawrence explains, “What man most passionately wants is his living wholeness and his living unison . . . For man . . . the supreme triumph is to be most vividly, most perfectly alive. Whatever the unborn and the dead may know, they cannot know the beauty, the marvel of being alive in the flesh” (149). Throughout the five seasons of Angel, viewers see his desire to return to a human body. He longs for the beating of his heart, the ability to walk out of the shadows, and the opportunity to pass from this life naturally. His immortality is a burden. However, he accepts that burden to atone for the evils he committed during his century as a vampire without a soul. Angel knows he must first “fulfill his destiny,” as the prophecy indicates (“Shanshu”).

Through the many battles that Angel encounters, the largest foe he faces is the law firm Wolfram and Hart. The clientele of the firm are demons, and the firm works across a multitude of demon-filled dimensions. In fact, they are brokering the Apocalypse. The firm represents Lawrence’s notion: “The [modern] community is inhuman, and less than human” (71). Wolfram and Hart serve as the perfect metaphor as they present a pitiless community awaiting the Apocalypse. The Shanshu prophecy indicates that Angel will be a major player in the Apocalypse, though it does not dictate if he will be on the side of good or evil. For this reason, Wolfram and Hart are in a constant struggle to maneuver Angel to their side so that he will help bring forth the Apocalypse.

For the first four seasons of the series, Wolfram and Hart put Angel to the test, constantly interfering with his heroic aims. At the close of season four, Wolfram and Hart offer Angel a deal he cannot refuse. When Angel’s son Connor is on the verge of suicide and destruction, the firm offers to grant him a truly fresh start. They will mystically replace Connor’s memories and place him in a happy and nurturing home, away from Angel and away from any danger. In return, Angel must work for the firm. Angel accepts this offer without hesitation, believing he will both save his son and be able to fight against evil from within the belly of the beast. His team accepts the offer as well, for varying personal reasons. At this point, his team consists of the humans Wesley Wyndham-Price, Winifred “Fred” Burkle, Charles Gunn, and the empath demon Lorne. Each ultimately pays a price for this deal.

In season five, Angel gains two powerful allies. One is the resurrected Spike, who himself died averting an apocalypse in Sunnydale in the final season of Buffy. Wolfram and Hart resurrect Spike, the only other vampire with a soul. Though the history of Spike and Angel’s two century relationship is rocky at best, they learn to collaborate in their fight against evil. Angel’s other ally is the god-king Illyria. Unfortunately, her resurrection causes the death of the beloved Fred, whose body she uses as a shell. While Illyria is mostly unpredictable and highly self-seeking, she chooses to fight on Angel’s side in the final battle. Spike and Illyria are the strongest members in Angel’s camp, key to his fight against Wolfram and Hart.

Angel ultimately works to earn a seat with the Black Thorn, a group associated with the Senior Partners of Wolfram and Hart, working toward the Apocalypse. Once Angel joins the Circle, there is one catch –they ask him to sign away the Shanshu Prophecy. Angel does so without hesitation, giving up any chance of ever becoming human and receiving his hard-earned redemption. After five years of fighting the evil in Los Angeles and working towards atonement, Angel gives up his only opportunity to return to his human state.

Angel represents the hero that Lawrence thought was gone. In his time, Lawrence perceived “society [as] a mass of weak individuals trying to protect themselves [and therefore] bringing the evil into being” (72). He saw men “turn[ing] against the heroic appeal” (72). Lawrence discusses a consistent weakening of humanity across democracies. While some may disagree in the continual demise of the greater human society over time, it stands true that today society continues to struggle and needs heroes. Lawrence concludes Apocalypse with the assertion that we are not individuals but “part of the great human soul” (149). Angel represents this notion as he takes responsibility for humanity, surrendering himself for the greater good.

After joining the Black Thorn and signing away his personal boon of becoming human, Angel explains to his team, “We are weak. The powerful control everything except our will to choose . . . heroes don’t accept the world the way it is. The Senior Partners may be eternal, but we can make their existence painful . . . We’re in a machine. The Black Thorn runs it. We can bring their gears to a grinding halt, even if it’s just for a moment” (“Power”). His plan is to kill every member of the Black Thorn, knowing that he and his team will probably not survive. Angel is willing to surrender everything in order to avert the Apocalypse, or at least inhibit its harbingers.

Lawrence explains, “Power is there, and always will be. As soon as two or three men come together, especially to do something, then power comes into being, and one man is a leader, a master. It is inevitable” (68). Wolfram and Hart, in addition to the Black Thorn, hold a great power. They are a seemingly indestructible force. Even though Angel can wipe out the Black Thorn, Wolfram and Hart are far reaching. Nevertheless, Angel is the master of his group, and they all unequivocally agree to fight the Black Thorn with him. He is using his position of power to destroy a greater position of power that is destructive against humanity. Lawrence discusses the idea that “nowadays, the will to destroy power is paramount” (69). While Wolfram and Hart have the power to orchestrate the Apocalypse, Angel possesses the strong will to fight against this iniquitous power.

In the series’ finale “Not Fade Away,” Angel and his small cohort successfully attack the members of the Black Thorn. In this penultimate fight, one member kills Wesley and others mortally wound Gunn. In the final scene, Angel gathers in an alley with Illyria, Spike, and a dying Gunn. Though the team successfully eliminated every member of the Black Thorn, Wolfram and Hart will not tolerate this defiance: they open the gates of hell and bring forth the Apocalypse. An assortment of demons descends upon the alley. It does not seem likely that Angel and his remaining allies will survive. Angel indicates the plan simply: “We fight.” Spike requests something a “bit more specific.” With a look of triumph, Angel asserts, “Well, personally, I kind of want to slay the dragon.” At this moment, the horde closes in on them and Angel commands, “Let’s go to work!” (“Not”). As Angel makes the first swing of his sword, the screen fades abruptly to black.

Angel’s desire to go after the dragon speaks to Lawrence’s analysis of the “evil potency” demonstrated in the “red dragon” (125). Lawrence asserts that today “it must once more be slain by the heroes” (125). As Jung always demonstrates and Lawrence stresses, “Man thought and still thinks in images” (93). While the dragon is a “complex and universal symbol,” the “killing [of] the dragon is the conflict between light and darkness, the slaying of the destructive forces of evil” (Cooper 55 and 56). Angel’s choice here speaks symbolically to his position as the hero, his epic fight against evil, and the arrival of the Apocalypse.

Unlike the Apocalypse of Revelation, the Apocalypse in Angel is never seen. The audience does not know what happens next. Upon the initial airing of this finale, many viewers were shocked and disappointed. As Lawrence explains, “We always want a ‘conclusion,’ an end¸ we always
want to come, in our mental processes, to a decision, a finality, a full-stop. This gives us a sense of satisfaction” (93). Whedon’s decision to fade to black before the battle begins is, for this very reason, brilliant. He did not give the viewers a Hollywood ending; he did not even give them the satisfaction of knowing the outcome. He made viewers uncomfortable and, most importantly, contemplative. We do not see the epic battle, but Angel’s words “Let’s go to work” will resonate forever.

Throughout the Angel series, one undertone that stands out is simply to fight the good fight. Angel lost many great soldiers on the road to season five, including Cordelia, and loses even more in the belly of the beast. This, however, is the nature of war and the nature of life. Lawrence’s point is that this life is our life, the collective life. Angel is aware of this. Whatever the outcome may be, the life of humanity is worth the fight. His decisions echo Lawrence’s ideas in his famous conclusion to Apocalypse:

My soul knows that I am part of the human race, my soul is an organic part of the great human soul, as my spirit is part of my nation. In my own very self, I am part of my family. There is nothing of me that is alone and absolute except my mind, and we shall find that the mind has no existence by itself, it is only the glitter of the sun on the surface of the waters. (149)

Lawrence accentuates the interconnectedness of humans, emphasizing that we ultimately share one great soul. Angel is one example of the hero that fights for that universal soul.

After an in-depth discussion of the Apocalypse, an analysis of Revelation, and a tirade against Christianity, Lawrence has one thing to offer: hope. Likewise, after five seasons of fighting evil, and in the face of the greatest battle, Angel offers this same optimism. The love for humanity and the willingness to sacrifice everything is the essence of Angel’s soul. While he may not have regained his human form, he certainly earns his redemption. He has proved himself as a hero filled with humanity and he has inspired those by his side to fight the good fight, whatever the cost.

Essentially, D.H. Lawrence’s Apocalypse is a cry for the hero to re-emerge in the community. In his conclusion, Lawrence is teaching others how to live, thereby himself fulfilling the role of the hero. Campbell instructs, “All societies are evil, sorrowful, inequitable; and so they will always be. So if you want to help this world, what you will have to teach is how to live in it. And that no one can do who has not himself learned how to live in it in the joyful sorrow and sorrowful joy of the knowledge of life as it is” (Campbell, Myths to Live By 104). Lawrence demonstrates this achievement. He acknowledges the bitterness of life, the descent of community, and the bleakness of Revelation. Yet it has not marred him. He sees the beauty in the sun, in the cosmos, and directs individuals to start there. He is calling other heroes to action.

In our time, as in Lawrence’s time, there is a need for heroes. In our modern society, we are blessed with real heroes and fictional heroes. The story of the hero is the story of each of us. It is, as Campbell so beautifully articulates, the monomyth. This monomyth will continuously transform to the demands and the reality of the present time. This is why we continually seek it; the monomyth instructs us on how to live. In our present time, pop-culture is arguably the most dominate and influential modern storytelling source. There is an up rise and constant retelling of the hero myth in pop-culture, as demonstrated in Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel. Such stories, whether they are in the form of television, film, or text, are tapping into the great symbols and metaphors of myths. They are opening a gateway to discussions of community, heroics, morality, and existence.

Angel brings to focus the journey of the hero and the threat of the Apocalypse. As Lawrence and Campbell discuss, this is not a literal threat of the world ending, yet the threat of change to the world as we know it. Through Angel, Whedon takes the symbol of the Apocalypse and uses it to show humanity how to exist in this beautiful and frightening life, in the same manner that Lawrence does in his Apocalypse. Together, these texts offer a modern conversation on a timeless concern.

Works Cited

Campbell, Joseph. Myths to Live By. New York: Penguin, 1972.

— Thou Art That. Novato: New World Library, 2001.

Cooper, J.C. “Dragon.” An Illustrated Encyclopaedia of Traditional Symbols. London: Thames & Hudson, 1978.

Lawrence, D.H. Apocalypse. New York: Penguin, 1931.

“A New Man.” Writ. Jane Espenson. Buffy the Vampire Slayer. WB. 25 Jan. 2000.

“Not Fade Away.” Writ. Joss Whedon and Jeffrey Bell. Angel WB. 19 May 2004.

“Power Play.” Writ. David Fury. Angel WB. 12 May 2004.

“To Shanshu in L.A.” Writ. David Greenwalt. Angel. WB. 23 May 2000.

“Underneath.” Writ. Sarah Fain and Elizabeth Craft. Angel. WB. 14 April 2004.

Works Consulted

Abott, Stacey. Reading Angel: The TV Spin-Off with a Soul. New York: I.B. Tauris, 2005.

Boxall, Ian. “The Reality of Apocalypse: Rhetoric and Politics in the Book of Revelation.” Journal for the Study of the New Testament 29.5 (July 2007): 116-117. Religion and Philosophy Collection. EBSCO. Pacifica’s Graduate Library. Carpinteria, CA. 22 Mar. 2009 http://search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&db=rlh&AN=25786290&site= ehost-live

Callahan, Allen Dwight. “The language of Apocalypse.” Harvard Theological Review 88.4 (Oct. 1995): 453. Humanities International Complete. EBSCO. Pacifica’s Graduate Library. Carpinteria, CA. 22 Mar. 2009 http://search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&db =hlh&AN=9606030624&site=ehost-live

Moore, Harry T. “Apocalypse and the Writings on Revelation/ D.H. Lawrence.” Modern Language Review 77.2 (Apr. 1982): 433-435. Humanities International Complete. EBSCO. Pacifica’s Graduate Library. Carpinteria, CA. 21 Mar. 2009 http://search.ebsco host.com/login.aspx?direct=true&db=hlh&AN=17537987&site=ehost-live

Scherr, Barry J. “CHAPTER TWO: Lawrence’s Quarrel with the Jews.” 97-170. Peter Lang Publishing, Inc., 2004. Humanities International Complete. EBSCO. Pacifica’s Graduate Library. Carpinteria, CA. 22 Mar. 2009 http://search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct= true&db=hlh&AN=19587975&site=ehost-live

Stafford, Nikki. Once Bitten: An Unofficial Guide to the World of Angel. Toronto: ECW Press, 2004.

Myth Girl

"Follow Your Bliss."

Category Archives: Writing

Reason and Love in “The Knight of the Cart”

Grad School Wordle

Fan Phenomena:Buffy

Obsession in Academia, Creativity & Popular Culture

“They were fluffy indigenous kittens, till we came along”: Chumash Representation in Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Embracing the Shadow: An Exploration of A Wizard of Earthsea

Death and Sacrifice: Season 5 of Buffy the Vampire Slayer

The Mythology of A River Sutra

“Did I Fall Sleep?” Self-Awareness and Technology in Joss Whedon’s Dollhouse

Facing the Apocalypse

Follow “Myth Girl”