How Tender is the Night?

One of the pervading themes of Tender is the Night is a theme that is shared by the other novels by Fitzgerald that I have read: that of the natural unhappiness that comes with the human condition. Though I have yet to finish this novel, it seems as if each page I turn brings me deeper into the characters’ psyches and gives me glimpses into fresh reasons for their underlying unhappiness. Whether it be from a faltering career like Dick Diver or Abe North’s, a changing relationship like the one Rosemary Hoyt has with her mother, or for some other deeply embedded personal issue like Tommy Barbar, as Fitzgerald develops each significant character, he seems to layer him or her with significant sadness.

I am curious to see whether the conflicts that Fitzgerald has thus far introduced in the book will be resolved, or whether the message to be gleaned from the novel will come from its characters’ inability to overcome their obstacles: whether Dick will be able to manage his newfound relationship with Rosemary, whether Abe will drink himself to death, and whether Rosemary can truly make a life for herself without her constant influence. Regardless of the means that he takes to do so, I am certain that Fitzgerald will be able to teach me just as much about human nature and the lives of the privileged as he was through his other novels. I am only waiting to find out the lesson behind Rosemary’s foray into life on her finally unveils itself: either through the resolution or the deepening of the significant sadness in the lives of Rosemary and her new friends.

Is Thebes Its Own Tragic Hero?

The story of Antigone is far more than just the typical tragedy. While the play certainly goes through the typical story arc of a respected, promising hero (in this case heroine) falling from her pedestal in heartbreakingly sorrowful manner, this particular tragedy adds far more to the dramatic experience than just what we as readers have come to expect from tragedies. In fact, reading Antigone directly after finishing Oedipus Rex and thus coming into the story with the horrors that Thebes, Creon, and, Oedipus’ children have just finished dealing with fresh on the brain, it almost seems as if the city of Thebes itself serves as its own version of the tragic hero. In the series of events described by Sophocles (in addition to the events that he trusted his audience to already know about the city) alone, Thebes has been forced to deal with a man-eating Sphinx, a murdered King, an incestuous relationship between the Queen and her son/her former husband’s killer who has since become the new king, the death and expulsion of a queen and king, respectively, and finally a war instigated by one of the former king’s sons. Despite all of this, the city of Thebes has kept its pride and character, and seems to be just as promising, wholesome, and majestic as the two more conventional tragic heroes of the play at the beginning of Antigone.

Contrary to these other characters, though, Thebes is not in total despair at the end of the play. While Antigone is dead, and Creon might as well be by the time he hears of his wife’s suicide, Sophocles gives no indication that this latest failure in Thebes’ government will be any more potent than the ones detailed in Oedipus Rex. Though the city’s response to this latest in their series of misfortunes is not responded to with the immediacy that Oedipus’ death was, this does not mean that Sophocles’ Thebes was without hope. Perhaps in saying that he alone is responsible for the deaths of his wife and son, Creon absolves the rest of the city of guilt in the fiasco, essentially creating the possibility for recovery and long sought-after peace for the city as a whole. In fact, outside of Creon’s family, if you include his sister’s family tree in that description, no one in Thebes seems to be having too much tragedy. In fact, by the end of this story, readers are left feeling that perhaps there is no “anagnorisis” because Creon’s family is simply not right for the throne of Thebes, thus separating his tragedy from the city’s. With everyone from Oedipus to Creon to Haimon now deceased, it seems as if the rotten branch of the tree of Thebes has been pruned in order to facilitate growth, rather than tragically chopped off. And perhaps this is why Thebes itself cannot truly be categorized as a unique type of tragic hero. Perhaps the chance to move onward in a totally new direction is just what Sophocles’ sad city needs in order to truly thrive and shed the tragedy of its past. The difference is all in perspective. (521)

The Farthest Thing From Proud

Throughout the years, I have been called many things, “mighty” and “dreadful” the least of these. I have been reviled, feared, and avoided more times in my lifetime than any other creature that has walked the earth—and there have been many of those, all passing through my embrace at one point in time. I have not cherished the fleeting moments that I spent with your friends, relatives, or acquaintances, though. Rather, quite the opposite. I am in a constant state of dread, knowing that each passing moment means more work, more sadness, more fear.

Above all else, I wish this were not the case. Though I carry out my job calmly and efficiently, this does not mean I enjoy it, let alone am proud of it. I do not puff my chest each time I carry another soul from its earthly body. It costs me even more than it does you for me to collect those souls closest to you who truly disagree and feel that their time has not yet arrived. Do you think it easy to venture into battlefields or hospitals to collect my souls or that I would willingly give myself to this task? I come when the time is right: no sooner, no later. I have no choice in the matter.

As tiresome as my job is, it must be done, for I do in a way provide a form of solace. The sick, the wounded, the beaten down all find refuge in me in a way that has irrevocably eluded them on earth by the time I come calling. Peace and serenity are two gifts that I do possess, though few people take the time to consider this in between cursing me and doing everything in their power to keep me far away from everyone important to them. I do not blame them for this, as I too feel that my gifts are far outnumbered by the sorrow that is synonymous with my frequent visitations.

Thus, I find it difficult to decide whether those who doubt me are the most gullible of fools or the most sage of wise men. Whether or not the blissful escape of eternal rest is more than just a euphemism, though, even I cannot say for I alone have survived life’s millennia without having to fear my shadow. Though this has made my task easier, it has not made it any more pleasurable. I long for the day when I will be relieved of my heinous duties, but that end is not in sight for me. Though the souls that I take may indeed wake once more after I have collected them, I cannot believe that I will ever share this experience.

I am not meant to live as any normal soul who roams the earth does. I cannot partake of life’s cheap pleasures and thrills nor can I imagine the physical nature of pain, heartbreak, or loss. I am an entity designed to pick up the pieces once Life’s turn is done. It is not a job that I recommend, nor one that I will ever escape from. Until the universe’s last soul has breathed its final breath, I must persevere. Though I may not be nearly as mighty nor as dreadful as they say, I am the end. I am the slave of the reckless. I am the gateway to the beyond. I am Death. And I am immortal.