Stephen Gerringer
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Satcitananda,
As I’m putting together a post on where to begin when it comes to reading Joseph Campbell, I came across this thread. Now, a little over 16 months later, I’m curious if you are any farther along in the Masks of God series – or have you detoured into other works by Campbell?
Both The Hero with a Thousand Faces and the volumes of The Masks of God are ambitious reads in this soundbite and internet era (where short attention spans seem to rule). Have you had a chance to take a look at some of Campbell’s essay collections, or his posthumous works?
So many do start with The Power of Myth television interviews – and then today there are so many other options as well (particularly the well over 70 hours in the Joseph Campbell audio collection) . . . and – for those looking for “free” Campbell – there are the previously unreleased talks in the Joseph Campbell: Pathways podcasts (which, with bonus episodes, add up to about 15 hours so far), so theoretically it’s possible to develop a relatively broad grasp of Campbell’s themes without ever opening a book.
Nevertheless, much as I love hearing his voice, I really appreciate the written word – especially his deep, mind boggling dives in Hero and Masks . . .
Spot on, jbonaduce! Your observations certainly strike a chord with my experience, John – though, truth be told, near the end of the sixties my interest in Supergirl, Batgirl, and Wonder Woman was less hero-driven and more a function of erotic cusp-of-adolescence fantasies (one of the few sources, apart from indigenous peoples highlighted in National Geographic and lingerie entries in the Sears & Roebuck catalog, of the female form, with visible, relatively clearly defined breasts, accessible to a lad from a strict religious background).
When I was a really young child, in the primary grades, that absence of shadow elements you note in childhood heroes may not have been a bad thing: whether in comic books or on television in the 1960s, that might have been appropriate to my age (even the characters in the darkest of fairy tales compiled by the Brothers Grimm seem to lack emotional complexity).
I am reminded of this exchange from the Power of Myth:
CAMPBELL: A fairy tale is the child’s myth. There are proper myths for proper times of life. As you grow older, you need a sturdier mythology . . .
MOYERS: So there are truths for older age and truths for children.
CAMPBELL: Oh, yes. I remember the time Heinrich Zimmer was lecturing at Columbia on the Hindu idea that all life is as a dream or a bubble; that all is maya, illusion. After his lecture a young woman came up to him and said, ‘Dr. Zimmer, that was a wonderful lecture on Indian philosophy! But maya—I don’t get it—it doesn’t speak to me.’
‘Oh,’ he said, ‘don’t be impatient! That’s not for you yet, darling.’ And so it is: when you get older, and everyone you’ve known and originally lived for has passed away, and the world itself is passing, the maya myth comes in. But, for young people, the world is something yet to be met and dealt with and loved and learned from and fought with—and so, another mythology.” (from the chapter in the Power of Myth book on “The Hero’s Adventure”)
Though I may not have been ready for it as a child, I really appreciate how the Marvel franchise knocks it out of the ballpark in this area – every superhero is either struggling or has come to terms with their own shadow energies – and the film version of DC Comics follows suit (indeed, one might even say DC started this trend on the big screen with Batman, as far back as the Michael Keaton version).
And the sense that there are myths appropriate to different ages and stages of life certainly ring true for me. Here is Joe again, from the Power of Myth, speaking of his own experience of this dynamic:
Slaying monsters is slaying the dark things. Myths grab you somewhere down inside. As a boy, you go at it one way, as I did reading my Indian stories. Later on, myths tell you more, and more, and still more. I think that anyone who has ever dealt seriously with religious or mythic ideas will tell you that we learn them as a child on one level, but then many different levels are revealed. Myths are infinite in their revelation.”
Hi Sunbug,
Interesting that you mention the television series “Beauty and the Beast,” a title meant to call to mind the fairy tale of the same name (never got into it – can’t recall ever watching a full episode – but I do seem to remember that his character, Vincent, inhabited a subterranean world, beneath the city, which Jung and others equate with the depths of the unconscious psyche). Good to see Ron Perlman is still out there, currently appearing in “Don’t Look Up” (an end-of-the-world satire with a sizable cast of talented actors currently streaming on Netflix) in bit part as a traditional macho hero.
And I, too, enjoyed John Denver’s music – and I appreciate how you point out that, even though he filled that role for you, as a child you didn’t think of him as a “hero,” but rather a friend, only recognizing him as a hero in retrospect.
Today I can recall so many people in my life that I looked up to and admired – but, at the time, I would never have thought of either of my parents, nor neighbors, relatives, or family friends, as “heroes.” My view as a child was more black-and-white: heroes are good guys – the main good guy (with special emphasis on “guy” – a female hero was an exotic concept, something that maybe applied to Batgirl or Wonder Woman in the comics).
Heroes were extraordinary, and could not lose – and, as a child, I had trouble separating a fictional hero from the actor playing him on the screen. I grew up watching back-and-white episodes of Superman in syndication; I remember intense confusion and misunderstanding when I eventually learned that George Reeves, start of that series, had blown his brains out (how could that be – Superman was bulletproof!).
And, of course, it the subtleties of the antihero would have been lost on the young me.
Fortunately, we grow up – and as we mature, so does our understanding of what a hero is (if we’re lucky).
Thanks, James, for that lovely meditation prompted by my post.
I notice, though, you didn’t get around to answering the questions I posed, so I’ll toss that back out to you:
How do you mark the New Year? Do you have a tradition, a ritual, from resolutions to maybe a specific celebration – some place you always go, something you always do – to celebrate this collective recognition of the passage of Time?”
Do you have a New Year’s ritual?
I know mine have changed over time. There was a time when the Grateful Dead’s New Year’s Eve show was my tradition. And then, after getting together with my wife, we would go out; over time that switched to staying in and toasting the New Year with champagne.
Now we’re more inclined to fade off before midnight, instead celebrating the New Year by rising early to watch the Tournament of Roses Parade.
But I still take the time to form and review my Intentions for the coming year.
Well done, Alex!
Sucked into the holiday vortex, I didn’t get around to reading your piece until this morning, just before dawn (a favorite time of day for thinking and reflecting, before the rest of the world starts making demands).
I know very little about Leo Strauss, so appreciated this brief introduction – and even more so, your skillful application of the hero’s journey to the Philosopher’s quest.
And, of course, the meaning of “meaning” is difficult to nail down:
What is the ‘meaning’ of a tree? Of a flower? Of a butterfly? Of the birth of a child? Or of the universe? What is the ‘meaning’ of a rushing stream? Such wonders simply are. They are antecedent to meaning, though ‘meanings’ may be read into them. . . .” (Joseph Campbell, Flight of the Wild Gander, p. xii)
Meaning would seem a function of the mind (indeed, the etymology of the term can be traced back to the Indo-European base *men – “think” – source of memory, mention, mind, etc.). We bring the meaning to life (or rather, project meaning into it).
Your two-pronged approach, looking at meaning as a feeling-based experience (meaningfulness), and as a big-picture worldview, and then drawing a correlation between these two takes, works well.
I’m curious – have you received any feedback from readers?
ld;wkfw;
Hi Veronicawood!
Thank you for joining us here in Conversations of a Higher Order (COHO). I love your observations about the similarities and differences between the Popul Vuh and other traditions. (I especially appreciate your point that the order of appearance of the elements of creation stories – land, flora, fauna, humans – mirrors the same sequence in the primary creation story that contemporary culture still seems to subscribe to, in terms of evolutionary theory).
This observation really struck a chord:
So I went to film a Kaqchikel Mayan community in Guatemala, where the Popol Vuh is common cultural knowledge, and almost every part of life seems to reference the text. The birthing rituals often involve corn as Mayans are ‘people of the corn’ created by maize. Tepeu Gucumatz and the creator gods decorate altars and textiles. It was a delight to see the deep importance of the story of creation.”
We tend to think of rites as those accompanying critical transitions — birth, coming of age, marriage, death — sacraments all . . . but seems there was a time when ritual permeated every aspect of life:
“[T]he archaic world knows nothing of “profane” activities: every act which has a definite meaning — hunting, fishing, agriculture, games, conflict, sexuality — in some way participates in the sacred . . . the only profane activities are those which have no mythical meaning. . . . Thus we may say that every responsible activity in pursuit of a definite end is, for the archaic world, a ritual.
Every ritual has a divine model, an archetype . . ‘We must do what the gods did in the beginning.’ ”
(Mircea Eliade, The Myth of the Eternal Return, 27–28, 21)
Eliade illustrates his point by providing examples of construction rituals in early cultures — required, for example, in ancient Mesopotamia, whether laying the foundation of temple, palace, or peasant’s house. These rites replicate “the primordial act” of the creation of the cosmos (traces of such construction rituals echo today in the rites of the Masonic Order). Yet other examples of “the divine model” abound in rituals still observed, from the Judeo-Christian Sabbath (God rested on the seventh day, after six days of creation) to the marriage ceremony (the divine Hierogamy of the union of Heaven and Earth).
Campbell arrives at a parallel conclusion:
Well, the value of mythology in the old traditions, one of the values, was that every activity in life had been mythologized. You saw something of its relevance to the Great Mysteries and your own participation in the Great Mysteries in the performance — in agriculture, in hunting, in military life and so forth. All of these were turned into spiritual disciplines. Actually they were. There were rituals associated with them that let you know what spiritual powers were being challenged, evoked, and brought into play through this action.”
(Joseph Campbell, The Wisdom of Joseph Campbell, New Dimensions Radio Interview with Michael Toms on audiocassette, Tape I, Side 1, emphasis mine)
These comments about the interplay between myth, ritual, and every day life underscore your observation about the practice of this Mayan community in the present day: ” . . . almost every part of life seems to reference the text.”
Along with the breakdown of myth in general, that resonance between ritual, myth, and mundane life seems largely missing in modern society, whether for good or ill . . .
There is a thoughtful piece in the Atlantic this month, called “The Mournful Heart of It’s a Wonderful Life,” that I believe you would appreciate, James.
The author, staff writer Megan Garber, raises several compelling points I had not considered before. One is that it’s an odd choice for a Christmasy feel-good movie, considering this is a film whose protagonist suffers suicidal depression as a result of repeated failure of his dreams, his hero’s journey perpetually derailed through a series of tragedies (every time he’s about to follow his dream and set out on his adventure, something interrupts: his father has a stroke, his brother marries and takes a better position, there’s a run on the savings & loan, etc.):
George does what he has to do. He stays in Bedford Falls. He sacrifices once more. The circumstances are coincidental; for George, though, they amount for much of the film to a senseless resilience. He is tested and tested and tested, with a notable absence of relief or reward. The hero with a thousand faces is left, instead, with a thousand loan accounts.”
So much for following one’s bliss!
She also brings up drowning as a recurring motif. George saves his brother from drowning when the boy’s sled breaks through the ice, losing the hearing in one ear as a result; as George and Mary boogie down at the high school dance, the gym floor opens to reveal the swimming pool beneath, a watery abyss into which our hero unwittingly falls; George, seemingly out of options, plans to take his life by throwing himself into the frigid waters of a rushing river; and, of course, George sets aside his own suicide to dive in and save the seemingly hapless Clarence (Angel, 2nd Class) from a watery death. I love that resonance (water, after all, often symbolic of the undifferentiated unconscious – this is a deeply emotional and psychological film).
Garber sees It’s a Wonderful Life as an ode to resignation and despair – how do we handle the grief of our failed dreams?
I suspect you and I see the hero’s journey story arc as more nuanced than does Garber. After all, how well did George really know himself? He thought he valued a life of travel and adventure more than anything else, but did he? I would argue we see his values in the What – and more specifically, the Who – that he sacrifices his dreams for: the druggist Mr. Gower, Violet the town slut, his brother Harry, Uncle Billy, and all the friends and townspeople under Potter’s thumb. George Bailey is called to a different hero’s journey than the one he consciously envisioned; for me, the film is about coming to an awareness of his own true nature, reconciling himself to his true calling (perhaps in the same way I didn’t consciously want to be a teacher – nothing glamorous about that – and yet, I was good at it, and loved it), and sharing his hard won boon.
Jumping in to the river to “save” his guardian angel, then being cancelled big time –completely erased – before returning to his life, is the transformational death-and-rebirth experience at the heart of a hero journey.
Garber does end up somewhere in the vicinity of the point you make about the movie that captures the sense of, as Campbell asks, what sustains us in the face of tragedy . . . definitely a relevant question in these times.
Given today’s date, I’m bumping this nostalgic thread back up to the top of the forum. Jump on in if so inclined, or just enjoy the read.
Hope all are having a very Merry Christmas!
Bumping this Solstice thread to the top of the forum given it’s relevance to the season. Feel free to add to it, or just read – and hope you’ve had a Happy Yule!
I have a confession: though I have been reading Finnegans Wake for decades now, and will be reading it (I hope) for decades more, I have never completed it in Campbell fashion from cover to cover, and doubt I ever will.
Before I discovered Joseph Campbell’s work, I was turned on to Finnegans Wake as a result of reading Robert Anton Wilson’s and Robert Shea’s Illuminatus! trilogy, a delightful, delirious, fictional romp through the conspiracy theory mythscape that lampoons just about everyone (Ayn Rand and Atlas Shrugged, for example, appear as author-philosopher Atlanta Hope, author of Telemachus Sneezed, with its catchphrase “Who is John Guilt?”).
The Wake became part of my psychedelic ritual many many decades ago: a joy to read during the comedown period after mushrooms or an intense LSD experience (had several dozen of those; Ram Dass and Timothy Leary are the only people I’ve met whom I knew had ingested more acid in a single sitting). On those leisurely morning-afters, it would take forever to get through a single passage as each image would open out and unfold in manifold directions at once – layer upon layer of associations, personal and collective. I found the pun imagery, visual as well as verbal, enchanting and intoxicating.
At that point in time I was in the process of realizing the incredible resonance between dream consciousness and the psychedelic state. Much the same as writing down dreams, I took to recording as much as I could remember the morning after a psychedelic experience – and, as with dreams, I discovered the more I practiced this technique, the more I was able to recall. Hence Stanislav Grof’s work (The Undiscovered Self, The Holotropic Mind, etc.), documenting insights from observing and/or participating in thousands of legal LSD experiences, struck such a chord when I read it – and Grof’s work, as Campbell has noted, provided independent scientific confirmation of the existence of mythological archetypes humming along in the unconscious psyche.
Can’t say I had the same reaction to Ulysses. I attempted to read that book a couple of times back in the same period, but it did not capture me the way the Finnegan did. In fact, I found it excruciating and snooze-inducing; it took Campbell to open the door to an appreciation of that work.
I do find a certain significance in the names of many of the thinkers in myth and depth psychology I am drawn to: Campbell and Hillman are fairly straight forward. Then there are our German brethren: Freud (joy), Jung (young), and Zimmer (room – when I read Zimmer, it feels as if I am stepping into a sumptuous and richly apportioned secret chamber).
And, of course, Joyce certainly weaves allusions to Freud and Jung throughout the Wake.
Hey Robert – I accidentally posted this reply to Sunbug rather than you (I became confused as to who posted what!), so am copying it here:
I very much enjoyed the excerpt of the Proteus chapter you posted above. I have found that Joyce’s work speaks most clearly to me when I read them aloud – not just Ulysses, but the Wake as well. Getting a sense of the rhythm slows the read and allows the images to form and soak my soul.
In a recent Joseph Campbell Pathways podcast (the September 15 bonus episode on “Mythic Themes in the Work of Mann and Joyce”) Joe begins by regaling the audience with his recitation from memory of the entire first page of Finnegans Wake – a tour de force that sheds light on how to read this seemingly daunting work.
(Of course, the sounds of surf, seagulls, and musical soundtrack in your selection do enhance the experience.)
Sunbug – I very much enjoyed the excerpt of the Proteus chapter you posted above. I have found that Joyce’s work speaks most clearly to me when I read them aloud – not just Ulysses, but the Wake as well. Getting a sense of the rhythm slows the read and allows the images to form and soak my soul.
In a recent Joseph Campbell Pathways podcast (the September 15 bonus episode on “Mythic Themes in the Work of Mann and Joyce”) Joe begins by regaling the audience with his recitation from memory of the entire first page of Finnegans Wake – a tour de force that sheds light on how to read this seemingly daunting work.
(Of course, the sounds of surf, seagulls, and musical soundtrack in your selection do enhance the experience.)
Benjamin,
I’m curious if my earlier answer from November 5 helped? Of course, those brief quotes don’t cover everything you bring up in the summary of your argument, though I’d suggest pointing to The Hero with a Thousand Faces, which makes exactly that case over the whole length of the book – your summary captures the theme of that work.
Of course, you have likely completed the essay by now, so this might be moot. I do hope all went well.
