Madrid, myths, emotions

In October I presented a paper at the biennial myth conference at Universidad Complutense, Madrid: ‘Myth and Emotions’. This was my second visit (the first, in 2014, culminated in a chapter in the fine collection Myths in Crisis: The Crisis of Myth, which I covered below). It’s a big conference, from Monday to Friday with papers in Spanish, French, and English, and I wasn’t able to attend the whole week. When I arrived, part way through an afternoon session, my Englishness painfully apparent, the empty bowl of tea-bags was instantly replenished. That’s the sign of some devoted and thoughtful conference organising.

Detail of horse from Picasso, Guernica (1937)
Pablo Picasso, Guernica detail, 1937. Museo Reina Sofia

The Essex myth blog hosts an endearing report on the conference, and I wrote some preliminary remarks there, so here I’ll limit my comments to other matters. In 2014, I planned an afternoon away from the conference to see Guernica at the Reina Sofía museum (it was controversially relocated from the Prado a few years ago). It is, of course, an absorbing work; one detail that impressed me, seeing the painting in the room, was the care paid to the texture and shading of the horse’s teeth, and then the paint being allowed to run. This juxtaposition of painterly verisimilitude and deliberate carelessness creates a rupture: a small piece of artistic violence as a focus for the horror depicted throughout the canvas.

Bernard van Orley’s Mary and Child (Prado)
Bernard van Orley, Mary and Child, 1515-1520. Museo del Prado

On this latest visit to Madrid, my gallery destination was, naturally, the Prado. With just a few hours, it is only possible to see a small fraction, hence it became a trip through the greatest hits, taking in Bosch, The Garden of Earthly Delights, Brueghel, The Triumph of Death, and whole rooms of Velázquez. I somehow managed to miss Titian entirely. These days I don’t get out much, and I could tell I was missing my family because some of the paintings moved me terribly: Bernard van Orley’s Mary and Child, in which the Christ child tugs on a red rosary, symbolising his eventual crucifixion; the geographical scale and quotidian detail of the Rest on the Flight to Egypt credited to a follower of Joachim Patinir, which recalls the Shield of Achilles in scope; the small exhibition ‘Childhood unveiled: Images of children in Spanish Romantic art’ had some wonderfully, delightfully expressive young faces, especially the gentle care in Joaquín Espalter y Rull’s Manuel y Matilde Álvarez Amorós, and the playfulness of Carlos Luis de Ribera y Fieve’s Retrato de niña en un paisaje. But it was Velázquez’s The Coronation of the Virgin which made me shudder. For some reason, the paintings in the Prado made me particularly sensitive to the human emotion of the Christ narrative. Well, the title of the conference was Myth and Emotions, and here I was, profoundly affected by the great numinous tale of the common era. Happy Easter.

Velázquez, The Coronation of the Virgin (Prado)
Diego Velázquez, The Coronation of the Virgin, 1635-1636. Museo del Prado

Translating Myth Q&A

Last month, the Open University Classical Studies blog posted a Q&A about Translating Myth. Pietra Palazzolo, my co-editor (who works for the OU), and I answered a few questions about the book, its rationale, and the associated events at the Essex Centre for Myth Studies. If our fellow editor, Leon Burnett, seems enigmatically silent in the conversation, it is because he was spared the interrogation, but he nodded his assent. Many thanks to Emma Bridges for her questions and for hosting the interview.

Mythologism / Neo-mythologism

A new entry for the slow work of my glossary of myth-theoretical terms. Here’s a curious one: ‘neo-mythologism’ is a rather unlovely term that crops up more often in Russian studies than elsewhere. In seeking its etymology I have taken some unexpected turns.

mythologism and neo-mythologism

The earliest use of ‘mythologism’ I have found is in the work of French linguist Pierre Fontanier (1765-1844). Mythologisme is indeed a finer word in French than ‘mythologism’ in English. For Fontanier, ‘mythologisme’ strictly refers to the use of mythology as a shared, recognized symbolic system, or a stock of cultural images, to make a proposition – to explain a case or present an argument – rather than acting as simple metaphor. In the system of mythologisme, the personification of a god, for example, works in its emotional, identificational affect, rather than through allegorical explanation. Consequently, some critics have used mythologisme to argue for the ideological uses of myth, i.e. that myth is used emotively to uphold the status quo.

As for ‘neo-mythologism’, the earliest usage I can find is from 1962. The previous year, the Italian director Vittorio Cottafavi released Ercole alla conquista di Atlantide (1961; in the UK titled Hercules Conquers Atlantis, in the USA re-edited as Hercules and the Captive Womenwatch here). Considered a highlight in the ‘peplum’, or ‘swords and sandals’ genre, Cottafavi is also credited with describing it as ‘neo-mythologism’, but I have found no authoritative source for this, nor an Italian equivalent for the term. The earliest reference is in a 1962 article in Fiction, a French science fiction magazine: Jacques Goimard, ‘Néomythologisme et Paléo-science-fiction’. I haven’t tracked down the article in a library (although the entire magazine is available on EBay for a few Euro… I may succumb). I’m inclined to presume that Goimard, rather than Cottafavi coined the expression, perhaps by mutual agreement. Both néomythologisme and paléo-science-fiction describe the mix of familiar myth and the allegorisation of contemporary concerns as found in Cottafavi’s film. See this synopsis by Derek Elley: ‘The plot is tailored for the Nuclear Age: Antinea (Fay Spain), Queen of Atlantis, possesses a drop of Uranus’s blood buried deep in a dark shaft which gives her a terrible power over mankind; Hercules [Reg Park], through superhuman feats, exposes this to the sunlight and causes the destruction of Atlantis.’ Here, then, neo-mythologism refers to the use of ancient myth in modernity when combined with contemporary allegory.

A differing view, however, is offered in an alternative commentary on Cottafavi: Martin Winkler avers, ‘Today, even complex myths can be told or retold entirely in images. Italian director Vittorio Cottafavi, who made several films about ancient history and myth, aptly described this phenomenon as “neo-mythologism.”’ Once again, though, the ultimate source of the quotation is elusive: Winkler cites the English translation of a French book, by Pierre Leprohon, on Italian cinema. Leprohon dates the arrival of neo-mythologism in Italian cinema to 1960 (233), but it is not clear what the Italian term is: the usage seems to be a product of translation from Italian to French (where mythologisme is more idiomatic) to English (where it isn’t). I would guess that the Italian may be as simple as ‘nuova mitologia’, and Leprohon was following Goimard (although Goimard does not appear to be credited).

As an aside, in Gianni Rondolino’s book (in Italian) on Cottafavi, the films are described as featuring characters ‘della storia e della mitologia — o meglio della storia mitologizzata e della mitologia storicizzata’: ‘from history and mythology – or rather of mythologized history and historicized mythology’. This seems to be a reasonable description of Goimard’s usage of néomythologisme in the apparent absence of an equivalent term in Italian. The characters reflect historical tensions in a metaphysical dimension.

Neo-mythologism then returns in Russian. Victoria Adamenko, in Neo-Mythologism in Music, attributes the coinage to Eleazar Meletinsky. Meletinsky’s major work on myth is Поэтика мифа (1976: translated as The Poetics of Myth, 1998). Only once, as far as I can tell, does he use the term неомифологизм (98) which is transliterated neo-mythologism (73). More frequently, on the twentieth century resurgence of myth, he speaks of ремифологизация (27, for which the translators supply a gloss: ‘re-mythification (“re-mythologization”—the re-emergence of myth)’ 16). A few times, he mentions мифологизм (8, ‘mythicizing’, xx). Meletinsky’s sole usage of ‘neo-mythologism’ here does not seem sufficient to justify its seeming popularity in Russian studies, but that will have to be a story for another day.

Adamenko’s book is the most prominent usage of ‘neo-mythologism’ in English of which I am aware. Following Meletinsky’s discussion of the mythical method of writers of the Modernist period (in particular, Thomas Mann), Adamenko uses ‘neo-mythologism’ to separate modern myth-making from archaic myth-making. In this way, ‘neo-mythologism’ can be a usefully distinct term for describing the use of myth in modern, secular, or demythicised cultures. Adamenko’s interpretation is, then, not too far away from Goimard’s.

A final note. When Meletinsky uses ‘neo-mythologism’, it is alongside a reference to Charles Autran (1879-1952) and his work on epics. I have yet to find (néo-)mythologisme in these large volumes, but Autran’s work emphasises the importance of culturally significant ritual language. In this way, Autran’s theory is suggestive of an older theory in French thought, namely mythologisme.

How to untangle this and arrive at a synthetic definition? First, I shall refuse to transliterate it into English where the word is horrible. Instead, I propose the following:

  • mythologisme (French): a system of mythologizing which draws on a stock of cultural images and symbols with an emotional affect and results in the presentation of an argument.
  • néomythologisme (French) or неомифологизм (Russian): the use of myth in modern, secular, or demythicised cultures in order to allegorise contemporary conditions.

References

Pierre Fontanier, ed., Les tropes de Dumarsais avec un commentaire raisonné par M. Fontanier, I, Paris: Belin-Leprieur, 1818 (a commentary on César Chesneau Dumarsais [1676-1756], Traité des Tropes, 1730). See also Fontanier, Les Figures du discours, Paris: Flammarion, 1968, which compiles Manuel classique pour l’étude des tropes, ou Élémens de la science du sens des mots (Paris: Belin-Leprieur, 1821) and Des Figures du discours autres que les tropes (Paris: Maire-Nyon, 1827).

Jacques Goimard, ‘Néomythologisme et Paléo-science-fiction’, Fiction, 101, 1962, 139-144.

Derek Elley, The Epic Film: Myth and History [1984], Abingdon: Routledge, 2014.

Martin M. Winkler, ‘Greek Myth on the Screen’, in Roger D. Woodard, ed., The Cambridge Companion to Greek Mythology, New York: Cambridge University Press, 2007, 453-479: 454.

Pierre Leprohon, The Italian Cinema [Le cinéma italien, 1966] trans. R. Greaves and O. Stallybrass, New York: Praeger, 1972, 174-79.

Gianni Rondolino, Vittorio Cottafavi: cinema e televisione, Cappelli, 1980, 74.

Victoria Adamenko, Neo-Mythologism in Music: From Scriabin and Schoenberg to Schnittke and Crumb, Hillsdale, NY: Pendragon, 2007.

Eleazar M. Meletinsky, The Poetics of Myth [Поэтика мифа, 1976], trans. Guy Lanoue and Alexandre Sadetsky, New York: Routledge, 2000.

Charles Autran, Homère et les origines sacerdotales de l’épopée grecque, 3 vols, Paris: Denoël, 1938-1943 and L’épopée indoue: étude de l’arrière-fonds ethnographique et religieux, Paris: Denoël, 1946

Jung within Freud

In July I made my first visit to the Freud Museum in London. The occasion was a conference entitled ‘Ecstatic Ancient / Archaic Thought and Analytical Psychology: An Inquiry’, and behind the title lay the intention to discover the ways in which archaic and ancient cultures understood what we today think of as the unconscious. Furthermore, the conference sought to recover the place of Carl Jung in such discussions, who is felt to be under-represented, compared to Freud, Lacan, and so on.

If there was any irony in the fact that we convened in Freud’s house to concentrate on the legacy of his great apostate, it did not reveal itself in sub-disciplinary antagonism. Any rancour was reserved to the final moments of the conference, and concerned a more modern academic schism.

Inevitably, many of the papers (including my own) concerned aspects of Greek thought. Euripides’ Dionysian tragedy, the Bacchae fitted the theme particularly well. Scott Farrington’s reading of the Bacchae considered dramatic performance as ritual: in effect, there is no spectator. To observe a ritual is to participate in it, and all present are connected in an invisible web. Mark Saban’s paper returned to Dionysus in the second day of the conference. He addressed the root of ‘ecstatic’ in the Greek ek-stasis, standing outside one’s self, and returned to the idea of the theatre audience standing outside the self and extending sympathetically to the other. A gnomic thought I jotted down has become one of those notes that made perfect sense at the time, but has since taken on an air of enigmatic mystery, namely that to encounter Dionysus is to see the unconscious seeing ourselves…

Further distinguished papers came from Catriona Miller, whose discussion of the Sumerian underworld probed the changing signification of Abzu/Apzu; Terence Dawson, who highlighted the beautiful affirmation of cyclical history in the opening of the classical Chinese Novel, Romance of the Three Kingdoms: ‘Here begins our tale. The empire, long divided, must unite; long united, must divide. Thus it has ever been.’ Alan Cardew performed a characteristically erudite and witty collision of German classicism and late antiquity; Richard Seaford horrified us with an extension of his theory that an abstract system of money was central to the development of philosophy and ideas of the self; and Emmanuela Bakola put forward a winning argument for a staging of Aeschylus’s Oresteia in which the Furies are revealed in shocking, brief flashes prior to their main entrance.

The final presentation of the conference was by Paul Bishop who, among other things, noted that interest in the ekstatic and the archaic is counter to dominant thinking in the humanities. This has indeed been my experience: materialism (or historical materialism and dialectical materialism) is the foundation of a compelling critique of contemporary social relations but it often seems to inculcate a suspicion of other ways of viewing the world. So there is work to be done on advocating the potential for mythical structures of thought to be perceived, not as the inevitable root of totalitarian ideology, but as opening a way for transcending the degraded social relations of (if you will) late capitalism.

This great conference, organised by Leslie Gardner, ended with an open discussion session which erupted into an impassioned argument about the benefits or otherwise of neuroscience (also known as biopsychology or, waggishly, neurobollocks). I have no informed opinion about this, and watched in bemusement as some interlocutors simply refused to acknowledge a divergent view. I ended up with the rough supposition that, from a humanities perspective, neuroscience may be useful historically, in describing processes, it is useless analytically. But I am willing to be corrected.

This took us a long way from where I felt the conference belonged. So I’ll conclude with a comment Richard Seaford made in response to Paul Bishop’s paper. You know the Wisdom of Silenus: it is best not to be born; but the second best is to die quickly. It is the cornerstone of pessimistic philosophy. Prof. Seaford reminded us of the context: Silenus tells it to Midas – the king doomed to turn all he touches into gold. To Midas the words are entirely appropriate. The Triteness of Silenus! Yet surely Silenus is thought to be addressing the tragedy of humanity in general, and not just the destructive avariciousness represented by Midas? That’s one to ponder was we stroll downstairs to Freud’s couch for a nice lie down.

Translating Myth

Cover of Translating Myth, edited by Ben Pestell, Pietra Palazzolo and Leon BurnettTranslating Myth, a book I edited alongside Pietra Palazzolo and Leon Burnett has recently been published by Routledge/Legenda, in Legenda’s Studies in Comparative Literature series.

It collects fourteen essays on different aspects of myth and translation, from literary translation of Blakean mythopoeia to the cultural translation of Oedipus in Cameroon.

I’m very pleased with the finished result: it’s a handsomely produced volume with carefully-reproduced illustrations, and, most importantly, some excellent critical readings.

As an academic book, it is, lamentably, prohibitively expensive (even with the 20% discount), but I can unreservedly recommend that you order it for your local academic or public library. An e-book is also available.

Some more information (blurb, table of contents) is on the Essex Centre for Myth Studies site, and ordering information, a preview, and so on, on Routledge’s site.

These comments from the introduction (by Pietra and me) on Giuseppe Sofo’s chapter on the further translations of Derek Walcott’s Odyssey are indicative of the tenor of the book:

The reader is led through this recent journey of Odysseus, from English to Italian and from the Caribbean Sea back to the Mediterranean. At the end of this stage of its travels, the myth has changed while retaining its essence. It has survived the transaction between oral and written forms, just as it remains identifiable through translation across languages and cultures. Thus the process we describe at the start of this introduction, which Odysseus himself implicitly identified when hearing the song of Demodocus, is shown throughout this volume to be infinitely varied, generating vital and ever-renewing debate.

Trying to take a mythical, long view

Titian Europa
Titian, The Rape of Europa (1562)

Like the rape of Helen by Paris, this is an act of sexual coercion with historically portentous consequences: Europa’s rape will literally give rise to Europe. From her union with Jupiter, Minos will be born, and the most ancient of European civilizations on the island of Crete. Her brother Cadmus, the inventor of writing, will search for her, and found the great ancient city of Thebes. The painting records no less than the birth of civilization.
(Stephen J. Campbell)

I am reflecting on the result of the EU referendum. Whatever the motives of the individuals who voted to leave the EU (and I don’t share the view of some on the left that the “leave” vote will deliver opportunities to chip away at the global neoliberal hegemony), the rhetoric of the official campaign unapologetically exploited a spectrum from xenophobia to racism. This leaves a bad taste in the mouth. I want to start washing that out with some thoughts about myth and the British mind.

The “natural” [English-language] national myth ought to have been Arthurian – as Malory, Milton, Tennyson or T. H. White variously supposed. Did, for Britain, the major Christian legends and typologies not lie to hand as they did on the Continent of Europe? What Faustus after Marlowe in English literature is there to be set beside Valéry’s or Bulgakov’s or Thomas Mann’s? What Don Juan except Byron’s? No, it is to Achilles and Odysseus, to the “topless towers of Ilium” and the shores of Ithaka, it is to “deep-browed Homer” that English-language sensibility turns and returns, incessantly, as if striving to appropriate to itself, to the native genius, material already, by some destined or elective affinity, its own.
(George Steiner, ‘Homer in English’)

Steiner notes the same lack of a native mythology that Tolkien wanted to address, but if we have appropriated the Greek, do we need another? (England, of course, never embraced the Celts.) Our mythology is Greek, our early literature is Scandinavian, and our longest-established religion is from the Eastern Mediterranean. But it seems this cultural openness has always been accompanied by suspicion, see Horace, who, in the first century BC, described Britons as hostile to strangers (Ode 3.4, a trait recently discussed by Edith Hall). This mind-body dualism finds its political analogue in the forty-eight/fifty-two per cent split of the referendum vote.

One of the uses of myth is to shore up social or national identity, and the global mythology of our literature is countered by the folk figures of John Bull, Britannia, and a recently deified Churchill. But these figures seem fixed in the public imagination: unlike mythical beings, their stories do not admit change and metamorphosis. Marina Warner surveyed the development of Britannia as a national figure and finds a peculiar, and still recognizable paradox in James Thomson’s ‘Rule Britannia!’: ‘The rhetoric exposes the tension between the Britannia who upholds the freedom of democracy […] and the Britannia who herself brings nations under subjection’ (Monuments and Maidens, 46).

But a living mythology should not be stuck and backward-looking, it should ease transition. In fifth-century Athens, Aeschylus had Orestes speak a charter for a new political arrangement: pledging the military assistance of Argos alongside Athens (Eumenides, 762-77). It’s a pledge of union, of unity after monstrous bloodshed. Alas, like the EU, the union is destructively imperfect: if the ideal of the EU is, in part at least, to keep peace within the union, the Oresteian parallel of plenty of war beyond the borders (Eumenides 858-66) is also revoltingly apposite.

In seeking the strength to combat fascist propaganda, why not look to the apocalypse? (apokaluptein is, literally, ‘to uncover’.) Myths of the apocalypse invariably culminate in a rebirth, reminding us of the circularity of existence. What seems dismal now is not eternal. This is the aftermath of Ragnarök (in a rather selective translation from Snorri Sturluson’s Edda, by C. Fee and D. A. Leeming):

The earth will rise from the deeps again one day, green and blossoming, and crops will flourish where none were planted. A new sun will take the place of her mother, and a number of gods will return to the ancient ruins of Asgard, led now by Baldr. Lif and Lifthrasir will survive to renew the race of men: they will have hidden themselves securely in Yggdrasill’s embrace, and the fire of Surt will not scorch them: they will survive on the morning dew, and keep watch through the branches above them for the new sun rising. And thus, through its death, the world will be born again.

 

Human and animal violence

Some see the origin of religion in human violence: violence needs forgiveness and forgiveness needs authority. In the context of describing his poetry, Ted Hughes implicitly illuminates the difference between human and animal killing.

these creatures [Hawk, Pike and Bull] are “at rest in the law” – obedient, law-abiding, and are as I say the law in creaturely form. If the Hawk and the Pike kill, they kill within the law and their killing is a sacrament in this sense. It is an act not of violence but of law.