Thanks to Elana Fink, Carol Dancy Baptiste, Adam Jacobson, and Katherine Joseph for their generosity in sharing their papers here.  Elana's paper on Lysistrata is first. Carol's paper, on the Iliad, is followed by Adam's paper on Plato's cave allegory; Katherine's paper, on language in Dante's Paradiso, appears last.  These papers may not be reproduced without the writers' permissions. 
--SSR

Elana Fink
March 26, 2002
English 3


                                                    Lysistrata: The Actively Good Wife

Question:  What does Lysistrata want?  Ultimately, is she more like Clytemnestra or Penelope?

        In Aristophanes' play Lysistrata, the reader is presented with a female central character who revolutionizes the power of women in Greek society in her pursuit for peace. At first glance, the actions undertaken by Lysistrata - taking over the Acropolis, distributing the funds in the treasury as she sees fit, challenging the reputation of women as pernicious and foolish, and depriving men of their honor both intellectually and physically by refusing to allow Athenian and Spartan women to sleep with their husbands-- bespeak the same mad power and strength of Clytemnestra. And yet, the purposes of Lysistrata differ so much from those of Clytemnestra that this originator of sexual abstinence resembles the good wife Penelope to a far greater extent.
        From the very start of the play, Lysistrata and her female supporters declare that the motive for their bold behavior results from a desire to issue peace in order to no longer be separated from their husbands. Faithfully, these women have awaited the return of their spouses from the battlefield; faithful the women intend to remain. Like Penelope, Lysistrata stays true and loyal to her husband, insisting, "Each man stand by his wife, each wife by her husband" (724). The fact that - unlike Penelope - Lysistrata grows impatient anticipating the return of her unnamed husband and becomes actively involved in relieving her impatience neither alters her virtue nor imputes the integrity of her purpose. In addition, the rebellion instigated by the women starts only after a long period of proper wifely behavior. "When the war began, like the prudent, dutiful wives that [they] are, [they] tolerated [the] men, and endured" (694) the men's decisions quietly, without presuming to become involved in matters that their husbands believed to be beyond their slight comprehension. Thus, Lysistrata's plot proves not a long-meditated deed of revenge (as is the case with Clytemnestra), but the result of a good wife missing her husband for too long and coming up with a quick solution to be united with him once more.
        Moreover, while Lysistrata shares the cunning, quick-witted abilities of both Clytemnestra and Penelope, Aristophanes' heroine embraces the notion of the quiet life led by Penelope before Odysseus sets off to war, and dispenses with the destructive faculties portrayed by Clytemnestra. Lysistrata's aim is "to work in concert for safety and Peace in Greece", and to "straighten…out and set… right" (695) the men. The intention expressed shares nothing with Clytemnestra's drive to bring shame, ruin, and dishonor to her husband. On the contrary, Lysistrata seeks a means to enlighten, enrich, and make happy all the citizens of Greece (though the men do face dishonor in the process). The mischief Lysistrata causes with her demand for temporary sexual abstinence proves not much different than the slight injury done to the suitors by Penelope unweaving her cloth every night: Some insult to men does occur, but for the sake of remaining faithful and loving to the heroines' husbands.
        A further reference to Penelope and her loom can be observed within the text of Lysistrata itself. When the commissioner of public safety mockingly asks Lysistrata how she intends to execute peace and solve the problems of Greek society, the woman cleverly replies using weaving imagery. Explains Lysistrata: "It's rather like yarn. When a hank's in a tangle, we lift it - so - and work out the snarls by winding it up on spindles, now this way, now that way. That's how we'll wind up the war" (697). Besides the obvious allusion to Penelope's famed device, Lysistrata seems to imitate Penelope herself in using the skills of weaving and unraveling to determine the environment of the kingdom. While Penelope uses her talent in these areas to delay the suitors, Lysistrata metaphorically employs these tactics to halt a war. Both women utilize these methods for a dutiful, proper, "good wife" purpose, and both women succeed in their plans.
        Lysistrata demonstrates all the active and irked determination of Clytemnestra, but her desire for peace and faithful behavior to her husband show her to be far more like Penelope. Even a Spartan warrior declares that he "hain't never seed no higher type of woman" (720) than Lysistrata, for she epitomizes the nature of women at its best as viewed by Greek society: dangerous, cunning, liable to get out of hand, but also loyal, subservient when united with her husband, obedient, and matronly. The "weaving" language of the play itself connotes Lysistrata's connection to Penelope as a good wife. Hence, Lysistrata's goal and reasons assert themselves more important than some of the consequences of her actions and define her, when considering her desire for peace, as a Penelope-like good wife.

Carol Baptiste
English 3
August 31, 2000

Question: What do Achilles and Agamemnon reveal about themselves in Book 1?

    In Book 1, Achilles and Agamemnon reveal that their main allegiance is not to Greece, but to their own ego gratification and their ill-conceived notion of honor. While Agamemnon is more flagrant with his egocentric behavior, by the end of Book 1, we realize that Achilles also puts his own sense of personal honor before any duty to his fellow soldiers, or his country.

    There are several instances of Agamemnon's self-centeredness throughout Book 1. Whenever there is a choice between Agamemnon's own self-aggrandizement, and the good of his army or his country, Agamemnon's need to assuage the perceived slights to his ego wins out. From the beginning, when Apollo's priest, Chryses, begged Agamemnon to return his daughter (who Agamemnon held in captivity as his bounty from a previous battle), Agamemnon did not consider his request for a minute. In fact, he added insult to injury by telling the priest, ". . . I won't give up the girl. Long before that, old age will overtake her in my house, in Argos, far from her fatherland, slaving back and forth at the loom, forced to share my bed." Not only does Agamemnon's behavior suggest a blatant disregard for the priest's feelings, but also a surprising lack of foresight. Considering that Agamemnon is the leader of the Greek army, it's revealing that he doesn't consider the consequences of disrespecting Apollo's priest. Throughout Book 1, Agamemnon is so intent on not being "dishonored" that he doesn't consider that his actions are not even in his own selfish interest. Immediate gratification of his ego seems to be paramount to Agamemnon, to the exclusion of reason.

    Later, when Achilles suggests to Agamemnon that he return the priest's daughter, Chryseis, to end the plague that Apollo has visited on the Achaean army, Agamemnon's immediate reaction is to feel personally insulted by Achilles' request. Agamemnon doesn't seem to grasp that his actions are responsible for the plagues. Instead, he blames the messenger, the seer, for stating what Agamemnon knows to be the truth. There is no regret on his part for causing his army pain; he behaves like a child who feels that he is being picked on unfairly. There is no attempt on Agamemnon's part to come up with a solution to end the plague. And, after he finally does realize that he must give up Chryseis, he demands that Achilles give up his bounty, Briseis. It is all about Agamemnon. Not the soldiers who are dead from the plague. Not the soldiers who are still alive, who beg him to give back Chryseis. Not Achilles, his best warrior. Again, Agamemnon does not consider the long haul, what is best for Greece and his army. He is concerned that he must first save face; therefore he must get something in return for Chryseis, regardless of the consequences.

    Agamemnon is also fond of holding a grudge. After he and Achilles have argued at length about who should have what woman, or bounty, Agamemnon goes back to his ship and complains some more to anyone within earshot. He also falls prey to self-pity, aggrieved at how disrespectfully he is being treated.

    Achilles reveals himself more slowly. At the beginning of Book 1, he seems to be genuinely concerned about his army, and their destruction by Apollo's plague. He argues with Agamemnon to return Chryseis so the plague will stop. He tells Agamemnon that all Agamemnon cares about are the riches that he can acquire, and not the army. While all of this seems to be true, later in Book 1, it is revealed that Achilles' arguments may not be altogether altruistic.

    By the end of Book 1, Achilles' argument with Agamemnon begins to take on a different interpretation. After Agamemnon takes Achilles' bounty, Briseis, Achilles takes his quarrel to his mother, Thetis. Achilles begs her to convince Zeus to help the Trojans, Achilles' enemy, so his soldiers, the Achaeans, will suffer in a battle. The Achaeans will then turn to Achilles and away from Agamemnon, and he will be vindicated.

    Agamemnon's selfishness is rivaled by Achilles' treachery. While Agamemnon does things with no regard to the consequences, Achilles deliberately hatches a plan to avenge himself. Achilles' earlier rhetoric regarding what is best for the Achaeans rings hollow in the context of this scheme to deliberately force his army to suffer and lose in a battle.  

    Warriors and soldiers have generally been revered for their selflessness, for their willingness to sacrifice their own lives for their fellow comrades, for their country. In Book 1 of the Iliad, this does not seem to be expected of leaders and warriors. Achilles and Agamemnon seem to be guided by their selfishness, and their misguided notions of honor. For them, honor depends on how they will personally appear to their men, not on how they guide their men to victory in battle for their country.

ADAM JACOBSON
English 3
October 3, 2000

QUESTION: According to Plato, what is knowledge?

    Gazes fixed upon the TV screen, they see pictures of things and hear voices and think they know the world, they think they know the truth, they think they know what’s good, they think they’re knowledgeable. They talk among themselves about what they see. Reflections from the blue light, media shadows, are all they know. And then one day, a lucky few will venture forth from the TV room into a blindingly bright, real world with real things and they might very well be shocked, but eventually they will learn the truth and know what is good. Eventually, they’ll come back to their friends in the TV room, for it is their duty. Part of the process of attaining knowledge is to return. Today, the television room is the mythic cave of Plato’s time. As he demonstrated in "The Allegory of the Cave," knowledge is the process of enlightenment, understanding, self-discovery, and being, that leads to an ultimate truth and to inherent responsibilities.

    The process of knowledge begins and ends at the bottom, in the cave. "To them… the truth be literally nothing but the shadows of the images"(535). The cave is a black and white world consisting only of two dimensional generalizations depicted on the cave wall. Here, men meet their minimal potential for attaining true knowledge. All that they know lacks depth and they are deprived of reality. In the cave, men are prisoners to ignorance, inactive in their quest for knowledge, left to discourse on the shadows that make up their dark reality.

    Next begins man’s painful ascent towards enlightenment. This emergence from the cave causes a sensory overload. Initially, the light, the sun, and/or reality is too bright, too much. The eyes need time to adjust, for knowledge is a delicate and gradual process. Man must "learn by degrees to endure the sight of being"(537). Eventually, everything slowly begins to become clear and man can see the world for what it is, with nature’s vibrant colors and with true depth. Man finds that the things easy to define when they were shadows on the wall of the cave are more complex, abstract, and ultimately more beautiful when seen in the context of greater reality.

    The final step in this process of enlightenment is seeing the sun, that which makes life possible and sheds light upon the world, making it visible, making it exist. Now man can contemplate the meaning of life in the face of that which gives life. This contemplation is much a part of the route to attaining knowledge. His former life in the cave, he now realizes, was trivial, filled with conjecture over things of no importance and of no real meaning. In the upper world, on the other hand, man realizes the "idea of good"(536), and this is important because this is the result of his newfound enlightenment. This idea of good guides his actions and provides him with a rationale with which to live his life. He, in essence, gains a sense of moral responsibility and reason. This ability to realize what is good through learning and experience, Plato suggests, is potentially within anyone’s reach, for "the power and capacity of learning exists in the soul already"(537). To unleash this potential, man must have a thirst for truths and be willing to endure the painful and humbling process of becoming to being.

    The cave is the world of becoming and the bright world above is the world of being. These two worlds are intrinsically connected because of the proposed responsibility of the world of being to look after the affairs of the world of becoming. This responsibility is essential to true knowledge. Men should not spend their years in the upper world of being. They should avoid being "dazzled by the light"(537), for the people of the cave, those who are unknowing, require the guidance of those who have seen the light of day and who know what is good. It seems that knowledge is useless if men keep it to themselves. If, though, they implement what they know to be true in the realm of government, they will be doing the State and the people of the State a great service. Socrates says that those reluctant to govern are the best suited to do so. This is the completion of the process that is knowledge. Though he is understandably unenthusiastic about returning to the cave, he does not come empty handed. He bears the fruits of his journey of acquisition and truth. He possesses a sense of what’s good, right, and beautiful. A man’s return to where he came from, his descent back into the darkness from the light, completes a circle of experience that encompasses what knowledge is.

    From the dark cave of shadows on the wall, to the blinding sun and back:  a man must take this course to attain knowledge. Knowledge is this cycle. This knowledge is pivotal to the ruling of Plato’s utopian Republic. With it, peace and fairness will supposedly prevail. Today, attention spans shorten while the landscape teems with TV rooms and quests for knowledge have been replaced by quests for degrees and jobs. The cataract of complacency thickens as knowledge, substance, and color appear to be receding.

    How does one express in words the experience of a direct connection with the divine? Is it even possible to do so? Dante, in his Paradiso, does not believe he can succeed in his attempt to describe to his readers the intensely personal revelation he experiences during his visit to Paradise. He writes, "What then I saw is more than tongue can say./ Our human speech is dark before the vision" (Dante 1094). Even while shackled by the darkness of human speech, Dante gives his reader clues to the feelings he has as he experiences the presence of God. It is not only through reason, words, and intellect, but also through purely emotional and intuitive pathways that Dante finally comes to understand the nature of God.

    Words and their meanings are defined by forces outside of oneself. Language is a system of symbols imposed upon a person’s mind by their family and the society around them. It is defined by a society very much split off from the spiritual realm, and because of this, is not a tool that Dante can use to describe the brilliance of God when he comes face-to-face with It. He compares his attempt to describe his spiritual experience with the attempt of a dreamer to describe a dream upon waking: "As one who sees in dreams and wakes to find/ the emotional impression of his vision/ still powerful while its parts fade from his mind--/ just such am I, having lost nearly all/ the vision itself, while in my heart I feel/ the sweetness of it yet distill and fall" (Dante 1094). When he makes this comparison, Dante is connecting the emotionally rendered images and intuition of dream life with God: God is found in the place where dreams are made. He is not found through systems of language or reason; truth cannot be realized through thought alone. At one point, St. Bernard refers to God as "Primal Love" (Dante 1092), suggesting that one’s apprehension of God’s Truth must be a deeply instinctual process; God is primal and essential, existing before and outside of the strictures of language.

    In this sense, Dante’s wordlessness in the face of Divine Love and God is very much like the wordless experience of a loved and cared for infant, who exults in the softness and gentleness of her parents, and who experiences in essence, "Primal Love." He writes, "I have less power to speak than any infant/ wetting its tongue yet at its mother’s breast" (Dante 1095). It’s interesting that he compares himself to an infant as he is growing close to his complete realization of God.

    As an infant is connected to its mother, its creator, in wordless joy, so Dante is beginning to be connected to his creator, and it almost seems as though part of him must regress to an infantile state before he can do so completely. To be, at least partially, in an infant’s state of mind is to be in a "Primal" state, free of reason, language, or any structure of thought that would serve to close one’s mind to the experience of God. Dante’s intellect-- symbolized by Virgil, his guide through Purgatory and Hell--has taken him very far; its structure has helped him to understand and gain wisdom from the horror he has witnessed, and it’s helped him to recognize and repent for his own sins. But when he enters the Kingdom of Heaven it is no longer his intellect that will help him to understand his surroundings.

    Dante explicitly tells his reader of the rational mind’s inability to comprehend God. Just before he finally comes to realize the brilliance of God’s nature, he tells us: "Like a geometer wholly dedicated/ to squaring the circle, but who cannot find,/ think as he may, the principle indicated--/ so did I study the supernal face" (Dante 1096). Thus, rational thought is not powerful enough to be able to fully comprehend the supreme beauty of "the supernal face." His actual enlightenment is the product of pure desire to know, and comes to him "in a great flash of light" (Dante 1096). But once he has this understanding, Dante doesn’t even attempt to convey it to the reader in the written word. I think that by this point he recognizes language’s relationship to rationality: words, like rational thought, have a set order and pattern, and they cannot be understood if they break away from that pattern. God’s law is the force that overrides all of the systems that man uses to try to explain the world; rationality and language are both insubstantial in the face of the "infinite order" (Dante 1090) that rules over heaven. St. Bernard gently reprimands Dante when he begins to doubt the placement of infants in Heaven, "to set you free I shall untie/ the cords in which your subtle thoughts have bound you" (Dante 1090). Dante’s "subtle thoughts" are thoughts structured by reason, and they keep him away from the realization of God’s flawless plan.

    The end result of Dante’s communion with the Light of God is a perfect balance between his primal self and his intellect, but still he cannot find words to describe it. I believe that’s because the truth of his experience is outside the realm of human language to describe. Is it really possible to accurately use words to relate the experience of perfection? Dante wants to, wants desperately to convey to his reader something of God’s presence, but as he tells us, " Oh how much my words miss my conception,/ which is itself so far from what I saw/ that to call it feeble would be rank deception" (Dante 1096). Dante’s experience is so intense, so complex and multi-faceted that it is only expressible through something like a dream, where layers of emotion and physical sensation combine with language and "primal" instincts to completely envelop the dreamer in the experience. If dreams could be sent from sleeping mind to sleeping mind, then perhaps Dante would have a suitable medium for expressing what is inexpressible.

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