Stephen Gerringer
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“You might say a mythology is a formula for the harmonization of the energies of life.”
(Joan Marler, “Joseph Campbell: The Mythic Journey,” The Yoga Journal, Nov./Dec. 1987)
John,
Your reference to Carse’s Finite and Infinite Games lures me back to this conversation. Carse’s book was a gift from my first serious, longterm girlfriend (someone I’d known since junior high, but didn’t really connect with until college), decades ago; hence, it’s always been a favorite, thanks to that association (as well as being one of the first works to pitch my mind outside the cartesian comfort zone). [Correction: in retrospect, Douglas Hofstadter’s Gödel, Escher, and Bach is the first book she gave me – she gifted me Carse’s volume a few years later, on a related theme.]
This Campbell quote seems relevant:
A mythological order is a system of images that gives consciousness a sense of meaning in existence, which, my dear friend, has no meaning––it simply is. But the mind goes asking for meanings; it can’t play unless it knows (or makes up) the rules.
Mythologies present games to play: how to make believe you’re doing thus and so. Ultimately, through the game, you experience that positive thing which is the experience of being-in-being, of living meaningfully. That’s the first function of a mythology, to evoke in the individual a sense of grateful affirmative awe before the monstrous mystery that is existence.” (Pathways to Bliss, 6)
We all know the rules when it comes to riddles – they must have an answer that makes sense once shared – such as this example from Finnegans Wake:
. . . where was a hovel not a havel (the first rattle of his juniverse) with a tingtumtingling and a next, next, and next (gin a paddy? got a petty? gussies, gif it ope?), while itch ish shome” (231)
which Campbell and Robinson in A Skeleton Key to Finnegans Wake boil down to “Where was a hovel not a hovel? . . . When it is home.” (149)
That’s an answer which pretty much rings true for everyone – but that doesn’t always seem the case with myth and fairy tale.
Two examples come to mind:
Out of the eater, something to eat; out of the strong, something sweet.”
and
“One slew none, and yet slew twelve.”
The first is from the biblical myth of Samson, a wager posed to his Philistine bride’s wedding guests (Judges 14:14). The riddle is a reference to a lion the Israelite hero slew with his bare hands; on returning to the carcass sometime later, he discovered bees had built a hive in the carcass – an episode memorialized in a Grateful Dead song (“He ripped that beast, killed it dead / And the bees made honey in the lion’s head”).
The second riddle is from the aptly named “The Riddle” – the 22nd offering in The Complete Grimm’s Fairy Tales (published by Pantheon in 1944, which includes a “folkloristic commentary” by one Joseph Campbell).
In both instances, the riddle is drawn from an episode in the respective hero’s life that he alone knows, which seems more than a little unfair to those who are posed the question. Nevertheless, each of these riddles is successfully solved – a result of the hero of each tale confiding in a woman who shares his bed.
Despite the sweet and simple “where is a hovel not a hovel,” the riddle that is Finnegans Wake seems of this latter variety, with the answer contained within the one posing the question (i.e., HCE – Humphrey Chimpden Earwicker, aka Here Comes Everybody / Haveth Childers Everywhere).
Your reference to game and game theory really strikes a chord for me. Myth, ritual, dream, and art all emerge from the play-sphere of imagination. There are many answers – and no answer – to the central riddle of Finegans Wake; nevertheless, I do find an answer in literature (Shakespeare’s Hamlet, to be specific), however out of context it may be, that works for me:
The play’s the thing.”
Drewie,
I love this definition. Is this your own formulation?
Of course, that begs the question of just who or what “the Gods” are that are sending the message . . .
Drewie,
I love this definition. Is this your own formulation?
Of course, that begs the question of just who or what “the Gods” are that are sending the message . . .
Hello Elena,
I only just today discovered your comment in the thread on “The Creative Spark” here in Conversations of a Higher Order. Your words certainly ring true – and seem congruent with Joseph Campbell’s own observations.
You write
In my experience, an artist has the ability to create because he/she is in tune with something greater than himself/herself.”
As to what that something might be, it’s not easy to put into words – but the artistic image goes beyond words (I include literary imagery as well, which is more than just a dictionary definition) and resonates on so many levels.
“Artists . . . provide the contemporary metaphors that allow us to realize the transcendent, infinite, and abundant nature of being as it is.” (Campbell, Thou Art That, 6)
Art, for me at any rate, is akin to a religious experience – with the emphasis on experience:
The priest presents for consideration a compound of inherited forms with the expectation (or, at times, even requirement) that one should interpret and experience them in a certain authorized way, whereas the artist first has an experience of his own, which he then seeks to interpret and communicate through effective forms. Not the forms first and then the experience, but the experience first and then the forms.” (Campbell, The Mythic Dimension, 226)
Which brings me to my favorite line from your brief comment:
“I realized that when we are deeply personal about ourselves, we find also a universal aspect of our lives.”
There’s that personal experience!
I am curious, Elena – what is your preferred medium? And also, does art provide your living, or at least supplement your income (I would include teaching art in that category), or is it something you have to do apart from the daily grind?
Thank you for sharing these thoughts, Sunbug.
I especially appreciate your observations about Samwise Gangee, who has always struck me as the heart, so to speak, of the Lord of the Rings novels. He keeps on keeping on . . .
Have to admit that is delicious to ponder, Norland. You ask
So the question remains, as I put it at the end of my blast, do these epics succeed in tearing down or glorifying hero worship?
Let’s take them one by one. Lord of the Rings by no means tears down the edifice of Hero Worship. Quite the opposite. Though it may pose the Many (the Fellowship of the Ring) to the One (Sauron), no reader considers Sauron a hero. And even though the first book is a collective adventure, that breaks down as our fellowship splits apart, with individuals, pairs, or small groups veering off on specific quests – all supporting the ultimate goal with multiple parallel yet distinct hero journeys, a fugue formation that to a crescendo.
There is much to be gleaned about teamwork and the collective ethic from this epic; nevertheless, it does follow the trajectory of the hero’s journey, over and over again – with one major difference from traditional myths. The heart of the story are not Superheroes but Hobbits, whose reward is not glory. When I read LOTR in college, for all the wisdom of Gandolf and prowess of Aragorn, it was Samwise who moved me most – in many ways, the real hero of the sage, someone ordinary who achieves something extraordinary, gives himself to a vision something greater than himself – then, deed done, like Cincinattus goes home and fades into the mundane world.
This meant I could be a hero, not through feat of arms or special talents , but with a simple heart that’s true
. . . not that I consciously thought that, but that’s what “the feels” were.
I don’t think LOTR fostered over the top hero worship (I could be wrong – might be hordes of hobbits roaming the halls at Comic-con for all I know), but it did equate heroism not so much with glory, but duty and service and sacrifice – doing what must be done for the greater good.
Game of Thrones, on the other hand, has, I suspect, fostered hero worship – though at the same time, “Man’s in humanity to man” is on full display – violent, and bloody, where life is brutal and painful, even at its best. Though it’s fantasy, there is a sense of realism to it. Nevertheless, the audience, myself included, booed the villains and cheered our heroes, no matter how flawed. Martin, and the show runners on the small screen, did their best to subvert the hero archetype, but their heroes still follow the trajectory Campbell identified, and those we wanted to come out on top in the ned mostly did – particularly the Stark lan, as opposed to an individual, who over the arc of the series suffered a great fall, ordeals, magical helpers, death, resurrection, and come the final episode a restoration of fortune over the arc of series.
And yet, Daenerys – Stormborn of the House Targaryen, First of Her Name, the Unburnt, Queen of the Annals and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, Mother of Dragons – and, clearly, my intended soul mate – ultimately failed in her hero quest . . . at least in the televised tale (still to be determined in the book series) .
And what was the public reaction to that failure, as she followed a path Campbell warned of, morphing from Hero to Tyrant? Disappointment and outrage – a reaction in stark (no pun intended) contrast to the jubilation that greeted Arya’s unexpected slaying of the Night King three episodes prior; at least Arya followed the trajectory of the traditional hero’s journey, though with buckets more blood and gore than disneyfied heroes: Arya slays – hooray!; Daenerys disappoints – down with the dastardly show runners!
Now is that because the writers, directors, and powers-that-be did a poor job, or because the the hero’s journey is etched in our psyche, perhaps even embedded in our DNA? Hard to say, but we will not be denied our heroes.
Which brings me to the question you pose in your essay:
Did not Dune end up inadvertently strengthening and propping up the very thing it was supposed to take down: the naturalization of an imperialist ideology?
I do not know. I would say the jury is still out on that. All over the internet there are blogs, critiques, and commentaries on the Lord of the Rings and the Game of Thrones that tie these works rather tightly to Campbell’s concept of the Hero’s Journey. Fair enough in one sense – all, even Dune, follow that pattern (not that Tolkien could consult his pocket Hero with a Thousand Faces for guidance, considering Joe hadn’t written it yet, any more than Homer used it for a reference – the Hero’s Journey just seems to emerge almost naturally from a tale well told . . . which may be why it takes such hard, often unsuccessful effort to subvert it).
But there doesn’t seem a lot of reflection, at least on the internet, and in more than a few academic papers, that are prompted by those works to question the Hero.
The same doesn’t hold for Dune. Yes, it follows the HJ story arc, and if all one does is read that first novel of the trilogy (which was conceived as one complete, massive work by Herbert), it’s easy to think this is the standard tale. But those who read beyond, through Dune Messiah and Children of Dune, what you’re expecting is not what happens. I recall finding that unsettling, but I was not up in arms about it the way so many were with the abrupt ending to HBO’s GoT series. Rather, I did a lot of thinking.
On the other hand, maybe my loss of momentum as I attempted God Emperor of Dune, essentially an afterthought to the original series, was because the trilogy left a bad taste in my mouth.
However, even though there is plenty of material in cyberspace that lauds the use of the Hero’s Journey in Dune, much of that comes from superficial fan blogs and reviews. There are also many deeper analyses that acknowledge what Herbert was trying to do. The fact that came through makes me think that maybe Herbert has struck a chord, or at least a discordant note that cannot be ignored.
I’d say the jury is still out. A successful film reaches so many more people than a complex, science fiction novel; based on the this first film, I suspect it is taken by most as a traditional, albeit somewhat darker, version of the Hero’s Journey. We’ll have to see where the director takes that in the sequel, which will only bring us up to the end of the first novel; if there’s enough commercial return to green light further sequels, we may have the opportunity to see if Herbert’s themes translate to the big screen, and whether they strike a chord with the movie-going public.
At this point, I have my doubts – but time will tell.
Andrewl,
Thanks for pointing out those images in The Hero with a Thousand Faces illustrating the dome of the sky, drawn from different periods and cultures. Certainly that reflects the perspective experienced by most people on the planet over time.
Though the final image, that of the Earth from the surface of the Moon, certainly counters that image from a factual perspective, I’d venture to say that doesn’t necessarily alter the individual experience. That’s an image I see on TV, or in a book, or on my PC, but it’s not anything I have ever directly experienced in my day-today-reality. When I step outside I see the Sun, and the Moon, rise in the East and set in the West – an experience no different from those who assumed the sky a dome – and even the language I use to describe that experience reflects that perspective (considering neither the Sun nor Moon are rising or setting; we revolve around the Sun, the Moon revolves around us, but I experience them – and the constellations – as moving through the heavens, rising and setting).
I’d suggest that image, of Earth as a globe suspended in space, hasn’t disrupted our experience of the sky dome above us; rather, it’s technology that has taken our eyes away from such a sight. Over a few decades in the classroom, I notice the neon lights, at least in the city, along with the TV in the living room and the device in one’s hand, tend to drown out the night sky; though I regularly asked, it was very rare that a student could tell if the moon the night before was a crescent, or full, or new, or whether it was waxing or waning, which is something that my parents, tenant farmers on the midwestern plains in the 1930s and 1940s, always knew. Similarly, my students were far more aware of the golden arches than a rainbow after a storm.
I suspect that lack of attention to the night sky is as much or more responsible for the relegation of astrology to the comics and puzzle page of the local paper.
On a different topic, I am intrigued that your dream life is super-charged on the nights of the 20th – 22nd. I’m curious what might be at work there. Any ideas?
I love this, Aaron!
I too, spent a couple decades in public education, mostly at the junior high level, and especially focused on myth and the Hero’s Journey in particular in literature classes. No surprise, my students (especially the 7th-graders) were generally a touch less skeptical than full-fledged adolescents in high school; I would often begin with a discussion of The Lion King, as something just about every student is familiar with that hits all the markers.
What I like about your analysis of the trajectory of student reactions is that it pretty much seems to apply to adults as well. I do notice the “sometimes mind-blowing personal connections to individual or cumulative stages of the Hero’s Journey” is often what seals the deal. It’s one thing to see Hollywood moviemakers applying the hero’s journey, but quite another when you recognize that dynamic playing out in your own life.
I could not agree more, telsa, about the absence of coming-of-age rituals in our society. I taught junior high, where students are right on that cusp between child and adult, with nothing to demarcate that death of childhood and the beginning of something new.
As Campbell pointed out, in the absence of such rituals, along with elders to provide guidance, these initiations emerge on their own, albeit unbridled and dangerous, as teens engage in increasingly risky behavior, essentially flirting with death (an unconscious symbol of the death-and-rebirth initiation they are lacking). Elaborate, violent, often deadly gang initiations often fill that hole.
I am curious – are there any rituals you practice in your own life? (As an example, I hold a little private ceremony, with incense, candles, sage, drums and rattles, and tarot cards, on the cardinal points of the year – the Solstices and Equinoxes – along with the cross-quarter days that fall halfway between – Imbolc, on February 1, Beltane on May 1, Lughnasad on August 1, and Samhain on October 31/November 1; of course, personal rituals don’t necessarily need to be so formal, as long as they are meaningful for those participating.)
Thanks for indulging my tangent, Kristina. I appreciate the way you make a distinction between chaos and market or industry disruption. That raises interesting questions about how an existing institution makes room for creative disruption – but that would indeed take us far afield.
Returning the topic of chaos as precursor to creativity, my sense is that chaos, in the alchemical sense, suggests formlessness – everything swirling about, which can be especially disconcerting in terms of one’s personal circumstances – while creativity, in a sense, gives form to that formlessness
. . . or, at least, to a portion of that formlessness.
Seems to me in addition to developing the sense of wu wei you mention in your essay, it would be beneficial to have a container in which that formlessness can take shape (drawing on the alchemical metaphor). Ritual fulfills that function for me: establishing a sacred space and activity that provides a safe setting for me to give free rein to the flux.
Sometimes that’s an elaborate ceremony with sage and incense and candles and drumming and chanting, and sometimes it’s just sitting quietly and observing what’s stirring within. Just by observing and reflecting, the sense of turbulence calms and I can see what wants to emerge.
From A Joseph Campbell Companion:
The goal of the hero’s journey
is yourself, finding yourself.”From Pathways to Bliss
The hero journey is one of the universal patterns through which that radiance shows brightly. What I think is that a good life is one hero journey after another. Over and over again, you are called to the realm of adventure, you are called to new horizons. Each time, there is the same problem: do I dare? And then if you do dare, the dangers are there, and the help also, and the fulfillment or the fiasco. There’s always the possibility of a fiasco.
But there’s also the possibility of bliss.”
And briefly, from The Hero with a Thousand Faces,
The modern hero-deed must be that of questing to bring to light again the lost Atlantis of the co-ordinated soul.”
Just a quick hit-and-run post, tossing a few nuggets out there. I’ll dive a little deeper as time allows . . .
Happy to share, Aaron – but that is just my perspective. I’m curious how you approach these concepts in your teaching and workshops, where what counts might not be the terminology used so much, as what actually works.
Good question, Aaron.
I saw this post a couple days ago, but this is the first chance I’ve had to reply (you may have noticed by now that discussions in Conversations of a Higher Order unfold at a much more leisurely pace then over social media, where a Facebook post, no matter the depth and profundity of the comments it generates, tends to scroll off the screen and into the ether within a few hours, or a day or two at most, never to be seen again; here in COHO it’s not unusual for individuals to take a day or two, or even a week or two or more, to digest a post and let thoughts simmer a bit before seeing what bubbles up to the surface and posting a reply – nor do we shy away from longer posts).
There does seem more than a little resonance between narrative therapy and Campbell’s conceptualization of personal mythology, especially in the initial stage of the therapeutic process (can’t change the story until one knows what story has been playing out in our lives – definite overlap between that and discovering one’s personal myth).
My sense is that “personalized myth,” as opposed to “personal myth,” is an ego choice – more of a want or desire than necessarily an act grounded in self-reflection, whereas changing one’s story under the aegis of narrative therapy is, like finding one’s personal myth, ground in the dictum “Know Thyself.”
Just for my own benefit, I find myself conceiving the difference between discovering one’s personal myth and employing narrative therapy as analogous to the difference between traditional dreamwork and lucid dreaming: similar dynamics at work, albeit with a different inflection.
