Different world, different voice
THIS WEEK’S WINNER
MANILA, Philippines - Mariano F. Carpio, 65, is a retired teacher in English and theology at UST. He has published essays and fiction in national magazines. Enjoying his retirement, he plays billiards and chess on the computer. He is a widower and has two children.
In the l960s, like other teenagers, I aped the Beatles like crazy. I grew my hair long and wore a long, loose shirt, its tapered hem flapping behind my butt like a tail. My bell-bottom pants swished their tattered edges over my feet, hiding a pair of flat-nosed, thick-heeled leather shoes. I stood barely five feet four inches tall, a typical Pinoy, and I must have looked like a diminished figure of John Lennon. But back then, the times were a-changin’, and ‘twas fun looking primitive and unwashed and absurd.
I was pursuing a course in education, majoring in English and theology, at a downtown Catholic university. It was a time of change, and our literature professor, whose shoulders stooped with age, required us to read the works of Homer, Dante and Shakespeare. She said they were the greatest writers in the world.
We were first assigned The Iliad by Homer, and my initial reaction was that of a skeptic, influenced by the modern thinkers who viewed antiquity as the age of ignorance and superstition. “The gods of the past have died long ago,” said Nietszche. So why bother to read about the Greeks who lived circa 500 BC?
But our professor was overzealous and insisted that we had much to learn from the ancient men. The Greeks showed great passion for truth and beauty. The historians all agreed that they were the most wonderful race of people who have lived on earth.
When I turned the pages of The Iliad, I was immediately drawn to the fleet-footed hero, Achilles, who sulks in his tent like a crybaby while the battle rages. Agamemnon, the commanding general of the Greek army, has cheated him of his war booty, and, his ego pricked, refuses to join the attack on Troy. When the news reaches him that his best friend, Patroclus, who used his uniquely honed shield and sword, has fallen in combat, he flies into a rage, and, like a wounded lion, roars into the din of battle, devouring the bravest warrior of Troy. It’s a gruesome scene described in sharp realistic details by the blind poet. I admire Achilles, who is highly favored by the gods, for his extraordinary prowess and especially for swallowing his pride for his dear friend.
After The Iliad and The Odyssey by Homer came The Divine Comedy by Dante. Again I approached the work of Dante with agnostic caution, knowing that the modern thinkers like Karl Marx dismissed heaven and hell as mere products of speculation. Heaven and hell are not down there or up there but here and now. Besides, didn’t Dante write The Divine Comedy to exact vengeance on those who made his life miserable, and how he succeeded?
But our professor stirred our admiration for the great Italian poet. Our professor related that Dante suffered a life of severe loneliness and frustration. He was caught in the political turmoil of his time. When the faction to which he belonged was crushed by the rival rulers, he was deprived of his possessions and banished forever from Florence. The Divine Comedy is the fruit of a terrifying exile.
When I read The Divine Comedy, I could not help feeling amused upon seeing the people Dante met in hell. His description of their horrible punishment is a delight.
But I was enthralled, most of all, by Shakespeare. Shakespeare is a modern writer who suits my modern pragmatic taste and temper. Although a virtual nobody in English theater at the time, it’s a marvel he wrote a lot of plays portraying practically all types of men: emperors, kings, princes, dukes, warriors, merchants, lovers, dreamers. His characters are not figments of his imagination; they are real, they lived in history.
Our class devoted one whole semester to his four great tragedies: Julius Caesar, King Lear Hamlet, and Macbeth. It was an exciting semester when my classmates and I encountered men who wrestle with themselves and their fortunes to meet their tragic death. As the tragic heroes of Shakespeare try to run away from their troubles, they get more entangled with them. There are mysterious forces in life that man cannot fully understand.
The ‘60s was a decade of uncertainty. The bitter lessons of WWII still fresh in their minds, the great leaders of the world, John F. Kennedy of USA and Nikita Kruschev of USSR, would glare at each other, like mad dogs threatening to devour each other. They let the balance of power hang precariously over the world. As I ambled to the university, I would imagine the bomb, the size of a Volkswagen, exploding over Manila and creating a wasteland of terror and desolation. I would proceed to the university library where I would read the works of Homer, Dante and Shakespeare. From them I saw a different world. I heard a different voice.
The Iliad is not so much a story of war as it is a story of human compassion and tenderness. It offers a fascinating array of flesh-and-blood characters like Agamemnon, Achilles, Hector, and Priam, who are caught in the brutality of war designed to test their bravery and courage as they sought honor and glory for themselves and their country. As I read through the epic, I was soon moved by Priam, the aged father of Hector, who, after the defeat of the Trojans, sneaks in the dark night to the Greek camp to seek from Achilles the slain body of his son. The dead body of his son must be buried in a fitting ceremony observed by the tribe. This love of a father for his son, so pure and intense, breaks the heart of Achilles, who yields to the plea of his enemy. The story of The Iliad reveals there is something precious that war, for all its savagery and absurdity, cannot efface from the human heart.
The Odyssey by Homer is another story about humanity. It tells about Odysseus, the Greek warrior who survives the Trojan war. It relates the dangers he has to encounter on his way home from Troy to Ithaca. The journey is long and perilous. But his deep longing for home sharpens his determination to overcome the dangers of a long journey. When Penelope, his wife, recognizes him, after 20 years, I empathize with them, recalling his terrible fight with the sea monster and the long years she waited for him. In the epilogue Homer says that in this world only Odysseus and Penelope know in their heart of hearts what home and happiness mean.
The Divine Comedy by Dante is obviously a reflection of his time. But whether I happen to share his religious belief or not, I follow with great pleasure “the banner running fast and whirling ceaselessly, chased by a train of people naked and stung by gadflies and wasps, their faces streaked with blood that mingles with their tears.” The Divine Comedy by Dante convinces me that if there is no perfect justice here on earth there must perfect justice somewhere else. Dante sought his vengeance, and he got it. His description of heaven, the “river of light,” catches the picture of my dream.
The characters of Shakespeare include a roman emperor, an English monarch, a Danish prince and a Scottish general of the army. It may be that the circumstances of their birth and upbringing are different, but the shape of their ambition and dream, their grief and fear, is the same as yours and mine. Their tragedy, the common fate that befalls great and noble men, is the perplexing tragedy of every man.
Homer, Dante and Shakespeare are acknowledged to be the greatest triumvirate in world literature. They wrote about man, about his deepest longings and highest aspirations. Today, as I hear the rumblings of terror over the world, as I see splattered on the front page of the daily newspapers the stories of human hatred and pride and greed and I tremble at the cries of innocent children fleeing from the barks of guns, I recall The Iliad and The Odyssey by Homer, The Divine Comedy by Dante and The Four Great Tragedies of Shakespeare. Their immortal works express the voice of suffering, struggling humanity. In the context of a particular geography and time, they define, for the world, the universal element that prompts all men of whatever skin or creed to feel the same grief and fear and the same fundamental longing for peace and happiness.
