The epic human: 2

Lukács and Bakhtin both treat the epic as a product of the particular tradition of epic literature that begins with the Homeric pieces. While other accounts of the epic genre attempt to take a more global perspective, including literature from many diverse cultures in their discussion, the reality is that the epic in the West has been framed by an ongoing conversation with the Homeric tradition. For example, the Japanese scholar Masaki Mori attempts to expand the number of texts to be considered as ‘epic’ by listing three basic elements of works that are classified as epics – elements which can be found in texts outside the Homeric tradition. These are 1) an epic is long and 2) an epic is a narrative. That’s as much as Mori will say about the formal characteristics of the epic. To these he adds a thematic element, which he calls 3) ‘epic grandeur’.[1]  Mori’s ‘epic grandeur’ emerges on his account from three underlying thematic elements: the hero’s attitude toward his mortality, his communal responsibility, and the dual dimension of time and space ‘he and the entire work must cope with’.[2]

 

Mori notices that the epic hero is fundamentally human. Even if he is the son of a goddess (as is Aeneas), he is not immortal. Even Achilles alleged invulnerability emerges from later legends, and is not part of the Homeric tradition. He must act, therefore, within the limits of his humanity, since he cannot transcend death, or invoke some particular special power. As Mori writes, “How the protagonist comes to terms with the end of his life and what he can achieve within a limited life span determine his status as an epic hero”.[3] Nevertheless, this hero is not simply interesting because of who he is; rather, he must act on behalf of a community, or within the context of a community. Bakhtin somewhat clumsily names this as a ‘nation’. However, the community in question need not be so neatly demarcated; and indeed, one of the most compelling things about epic is the way in which the universally human is reached through the narrative of the particular.

Mori’s third criterion for epic grandeur is the sense that the narrative occurs within an vast expanse of time and space. The epic’s relationship to time stretches back and forwards. The traditional beginning of the epic in media res allows for a retelling of the past. This is then interwoven with a prophecy of the future, and the powerful sense of a telos binding the past and the future together in one line. Geographical space is also expansive in epic. Even if the action is compressed into a present moment in a particular place (as with The Iliad), the audience is made very much aware that it takes place on much larger stage. The scope of the story thus overspills the momentary and the local because it is so comprehensive.

Mori’s attempt to open up the epic to works that do not belong to the Homeric tradition is both useful and unsatisfactory at the same time. Broadening the scope of the genre enables us to see epic themes in works that are not strictly speaking ‘epic’ – for example, works written in prose rather than in verse. It also enables the consideration of works that belong to the oral and written traditions of other cultures. The notion of ‘epic’ as a device for the classification and analysis of literary works still retains its Western heritage, though, which largely begins with Homer as its first exponent and Aristotle as its leading theorist. It is arguably impossible – even if it were desirable – to simply cast off the Homeric perspective on epic. Thus: while it would be better not to be trapped into a classification of epic containing virtual no works other than the Homeric, it is still the case that the place of the Homeric poems within the tradition of epic is unparalleled. As Louise Cowan writes:

It has been customary to say that Homer invented the epic; it would be more accurate, however, to say that he discovered it, for the epic is the portrayal of something potential in the human soul from the beginning, though not known until expressed in poetic form. [4]     

In the previous chapter I cited Charles Bazerman: ‘Genres are not just forms. Genres are forms of life, ways of being’.[5] From this conversation with Bakhtin, Lukács, and Mori we may begin to venture a number of propositions about the theological anthropology of the epic – propositions which we will test with reference to the epics of Virgil and Les Murray. The first, and most striking of these (1), is that in epic the human being inhabits a world which is highly teleological. The narrative may well be impeded at a number of points – indeed, it has to be if there is to be any dramatic interest in it – but there is no doubt about the outcome. World history is what it is because of the divine desire and direction. As Hegel put it: “In the epic individuals act and feel; but their actions are not independent, events [also] have their right.” “Events” in epic are not, however, are not the creation of the author of the epic. They belong to the divine will. The divine will is revealed to the characters and/or to the readers, but never completely, which allows for the route to destiny to appear somewhat indirect.

Hegel rightly raises the question of the individual’s independence; for in the epic, the question of human freedom is always being negotiated (2). Human beings are indeed viewed as genuine agents and not merely as puppets without conscious awareness of their need to act upon the vast stage of the epic cosmos. But the secret of true human agency in the epic is to act in line with fate and not against it. Their duty is to recognize their destiny and to follow it. Events turn against them when they do not do this.

This means that (3) the epic human being is not much given to the internal dilemmas and deliberations so characteristic of the novel (to concur with Lukács). Authentic humanity – human being realized as true to its nature – is not discovered by reconciling tensions internal to oneself. In fact, it might be possible to argue that the epic does not have a view of the human being as a self at all – if by that we are indicating the self-reflexivity so characteristic of other narrative forms. There are no true soliloquys in epic. Dido commits suicide in book IV of the Aeneid, but the causes of this are not complex. She is not depressed: she is in love, and fate has taken her love from her. Her suicide is as much an act of piety as Aeneas’ departure is.

The epic seeks to make or recover an identity for a community or group (5). Sometimes that is a “nation”, though the value of this term is questionable. The individual’s identity as against other identities is not the issue. Rather the community recalls its own identity through the story of its origins, or the story of its survival through military struggles. The question of ‘who am I?’ is subsumed by ‘who are we?’ In epic, then, heroism is a matter of representation: the hero is an embodiment of the community’s view of the ideal human life. This is why he is not super-heroic, since to be endowed with gifts surpassing those of ordinary mortals makes him unfit to be an exemplar. He exemplifies a virtue, which is capable of imitation in ordinary.

This is why (6) the epic hero does not deny his human limitations, least of all his own mortality. It is also why genealogy is important for epic, since that is the only means that the mortal has for transcending death. The epic hero (as Mori notes) is a human being, and will one day die. Even after he achieves his goal, he must leave behind a legacy.

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[1] Mori, p. 47.

[2] Ibid.

[3] Ibid., p. 48.

[4] Louise Cowan, "Epic as Cosmopoesis," in The Epic Cosmos, ed. James Larry Allums, Studies in Genre (Dallas: Dallas Institute of Humanities and Culture, 1992), p. 24.

[5] Charles Bazerman, "The Life of Genre, the Life in the Classroom," in Genre and Writing : Issues, Arguments, Alternatives, ed. Wendy Bishop and Hans A. Ostrom(Portsmouth, NH: Boynton/Cook : Heinemann, 1997), p. 19.