Jung and Shakespeare

I was reading the intro to our most recent text, Cymbeline, in my Shakespeare class when I noticed this sentence: “it could be argued that Posthumus’ insecurity derives in part from having to make the difficult transition from [Posthumus and Innogen] being childhood sweethearts to becoming adult lovers, and then having that new relationship rudely disrupted by the King” (Warren, 32). I immediately thought of this class and what we have been talking about - basically how all these characters are repeating a pattern of the coming-of-age tale and that the process of individuation is what is driving their success.

So I wrote a paper about it. I think it fits nicely with what we have been talking about all along in our class. Shakespeare, after all, wrote many romances. Cymbeline is what we referred to in class as a tragi-comedy. Death and humor seem to co-exist in this story, but ultimately it ends happily. In any case, the following is my analysis of the individuation of the two main characters in that play, Posthumus and Innogen.

Cymbeline follows a long tradition of Romantic elements. It also follows what Carl Jung described as a process of individuation. Cymbeline is a coming-of-age tale in which the hero and heroine, Posthumus and Innogen, share a forbidden love, are separated, and must each face their own separate journey as they learn how to navigate the world around them. They both undergo a transformation that tests their love, and this ultimately leads to a revelation that allows their love to mature beyond the forbidden and into filial and societal approval.

Individuation is the process of personal transformation in which the unconscious becomes part of the conscious self. Jung described the process in terms of a holistic healing, with the end result being the maturation of the individual. Individuation is comprised of three components: the shadow, the senex and the anima or animas. For individuation to take place, one must experience all three. As we see in Cymbeline, the main characters go through these trials on their way toward a better understanding, not only of themselves, but of each other and their psychological and physical environment.

“Individuation, the finding and asserting of identity, is in these plays closely related to sexual maturity and cyclical change” (Garber, 31). The idea of individuation, of becoming a whole being, is important to the story because, as the play shows us, both Posthumus and Innogen share a level of naivete that suggests they have not quite achieved adulthood. Warren reminds us that Posthumus’ “cynicism and misogyny came across as the reaction of a limited man” (31). And Innogen’s idealization of the pastoral world, a world where “differences of rank would not threaten her marriage to Posthumus,” (42) comes up against the harsh realities of nature as she begins her long journey toward Milford Haven. “Here people are forced to come to terms with themselves and others – and this is precisely what happens to Innogen when she arrives here” (43).

Both must set off on their own psychological journey in order to learn about the harsh realities of their world. Shakespeare does not sugar-coat the brutality of love, sex and violence. Warren notes, “Shakespeare is emphasizing human realities rather than distancing them” (58). There is something very real about this fictional tale. It forces even the audience to consider the very grey space the play occupies between right and wrong and to take a closer look at who they think they are.

A Dark Shadow

Jung describes the “shadow” as turning one’s inferiority into a perceived deficiency in someone else. This important step in the process of individuation allows the person to see their darker side as a part of their persona. It is easy to see how Posthumus projects his inferiority upon Innogen, allowing his shadow to creep across the play like a specter. Evidence of his inferiority begins to show early in the play as he boasts about his wife’s beauty and chastity. As if his ego cannot stand on its own without having to lean on his wife’s virtue, he brags to his Italian acquaintances, Philario and Giacomo, of her feminine perfection. Increasingly provoked by Giacomo, he manifests his inferiority in what is typically referred to as “The Wager.” Posthumus bets that Giacomo cannot compromise his wife’s chastity. But the actual wager is not so much about Innogen as Posthumus’ hubris. “I make my wager rather against your confidence / than her reputation” (1.4.106-7) Giacomo assures Posthumus and the audience. It is obvious that Giacomo is less interested in bedding Posthumus’ wife than he is in proving him to be a fool.

Innogen also must come face to face with her shadow. Warren points out that “both in the process try to cope with the apparent faithlessness of the other by generalizing about the frailty of the opposite sex” (37). Posthumus certainly has his misogynistic rants, but Innogen also voices the insecurity and utter dispair she feels when Pisanio reveals to her Posthumus' murder plot. She generalizes the male psyche thus: “Men’s vows are women’s traitors. All good seeming, / By thy revolt, O husband, shall be thought / Put on for villainy; not born where’t grows, / But worn a bait for ladies” (3.4.54-7). Innogen obviously feels her repressed weaknesses coming to the surface in this scene. Her shadow projects her perceived deficiencies outwardly, turning her back on all men and, therefore, love. Her only escape, then, is to ask Pisanio to “Do thou master's bidding” (3.4.65) and kill her. This is perhaps the darkest moment in the play, where Innogen has given up all hope. It is essential, however, for her to hit rock bottom in order to begin her ascent with a conscious knowledge of her dark side.

Cymbeline as the Senex

In literature, the Senex is represented in a character that shows wisdom and sound judgment or, as we see in the character of Cymbeline, an irrational father who opposes the marriage of his daughter to an “unworthy” suitor. Cymbeline can be seen as the catalyst to setting both characters on their path toward individuation. Garber describes this archetypal situation in the following way: the couple is “incapable of coming to terms with the complex worlds they inhabit, and incapable, too, of successfully replacing the fraternal or filial bond with the more fruitful bond of marriage” (31). Their inability to cope with the world at large, coupled with their inability to come out from under their parent’s shell, suggests that there is still quite a bit of immaturity or naivete to deal with before they are psychologically ready to live together, on their own, as husband and wife.

Cymbeline, though not necessarily a likeable character, does provide the needed conflict that causes the lovers to spend the necessary time apart, make mistakes and grow. It is a process that Garber describes as “losing-oneself-to-find-oneself” (32). In this case, they must also lose each other first. Both Posthumus and Innogen also find themselves separated from the society to which they have become accustomed. Innogen ends up wandering the heath, while Posthumus finds himself in a foreign land and then on the battlefield, far from the pleasantries of the royal court.

Anima and Animus

The last of the components of individuation, anima, describes the feminine qualities of a male, while animus describes masculine qualities in the female unconscious. According to Jung, oftentimes the anima manifests itself in the dreams of a male. Posthumus seems to be nearing the end of his transformation when he dreams that Jupiter descends on an eagle and assures his family that everything will turn out favorably for him. “He shall be lord of Lady Innogen, / And happier much by his affliction made” (5.3.201-2). Jupiter reinforces the idea that Posthumus must suffer first in order to complete his psychological journey and become a man worthy of Innogen’s love, finally realizing the personal fulfillment that marriage provides.

But perhaps even more important than Jupiter’s blessing is the reuniting of Posthumus with his family in the dream sequence. By providing him with the support of his family, Shakespeare is giving Posthumus yet another reason to look beyond his own ego and toward a view of “himself” as greater than himself. Reconnecting Posthumus with his family allows him to progress in his attitude toward women in general and Innogen in particular, letting go of his misogynistic unconscious and moving toward one that is more empathetic to the nuances of female sexuality. There is an immediate realization upon waking from the dream that he has a chance to reunite with Innogen. “Many a dream not to find, neither deserve, / And yet are steeped in favours; so am I, / That have this golden chance and know not why” (5.3.224-6). Reuniting with his family provides Posthumus with the needed context, a familial context, with which to view his relationship with Innogen and restores his hope of reuniting with his wife.

Innogen engages her animus when she transforms into Fidele, the male page to Lucius. Warren notes, “Innogen’s decision to turn away from despair and to opt for life marks the turning-point of the play. By choosing life rather than death, she initiates the upward movement of the play” (50). Pisanio, perhaps a senex in his own right, encourages Innogen to disguise herself as a man, “and forget / Your laborsome and dainty trims” (3.4.164-5). Her decision to embrace her male qualities, rather than follow “the example of an earlier heroine, Juliet, who finds herself in a similar situation and kills herself,” preserves her life and also ensures the play does not become a true tragedy. “That Innogen does not do so makes important points both about her personality and about the nature of the play.”

Final Thoughts

Shakespeare psychologically tortures the characters of Posthumus and Innogen in order to give them a path toward individuation, reconciliation and happiness. Though the horrors the two have experienced might have scarred some, Posthumus and Innogen appear to come out the better for their suffering. Warren states “Cymbeline, like the late plays in general, engages with tragedy but in the end looks beyond it: the vision is a broader one.” It is ultimately Innogen’s brothers who provide the necessary concession needed for Cymbeline to bless the marriage, but it is Posthumus’ ability to come to terms with Innogen’s sexuality that provides a key piece to the conclusion of the play.

While Warren suggests that Posthumus is not yet a perfect man, illustrated by his continued use of (unconscious) violence toward Innogen in 5.4, it is important to recognize that Shakespeare set Posthumus on a purposeful path toward individuation and maturity. Indeed, the plot of the play revolves around the well-known theme of descent and ascent in Romance literature. The hero and heroine must fall before they can be reunited. But what sets this play apart is Shakespeare’s refusal to sugar coat the ending. Yes, there seems to be a somewhat contrived, fairy tale ending, but the lingering residue of sex and violence still permeates the air. Humanity is not always just. And even happy endings can be flawed. But without obstacles to overcome, humanity does not grow. Within our struggle lies our redemption – our maturation and individuality. For it is not only the circumstances in which we are born, but our triumphs and hardships that change who we are and determine who we will be. Shakespeare seems to have understood this and wrote a play about it – several plays, actually. This one was called Cymbeline, though it could have just as easily been called “The Individuation and Reconciliation of Posthumus and Innogen.” I suppose Cymbeline has a better ring to it.

Where Stories Were Born

The Night with the Lion is a tale with obvious roots in the tale of the Green Knight. As Zimmer points out, "Sir Owain, in his adventure, overcomes as a merely preliminary test the two trials that constituted the whole of the adventure of Sir Gawain," (130) namely, self-indulgent temptation and the fear of death. I can certainly see where these two streams crossed in the Ocean of Stories to create two interconnected but separate tales. But Zimmer suggests that the roots go even deeper, and that the symbolic elements such as the fountain and the lion come not from the confines of the island nation from which these stories were crafted, but from a time and place far removed.

"The symbols and tales of the preclassic Egypto-Babylonian civilizations were thus carried directly to the pre-Celtic and Celtic populations of Britain, Wales, and Ireland" (130). I suppose we see this in all of our stories, the great classical works of Homer and Dante always influencing literature, right up to today's Bestsellers. The earliest works continue to wash up onto the pages of our modern text as grains of sand, no longer whole, but still circulating in the ocean - still very much a part of it.

In this case, the lion "suggests the East, specifically Syria and Mesopotamia" (129). "And the symbol of the well yielding the precious water of life is one long familiar to the sunstricken countries of the Near East, which are forever haunted by the fear of drought and the danger of death by thirst." How funny, Zimmer points out, that a place as rainy as the land of the Celts would pick such a symbol as holy. But I think it illustrates a great point - that such tales are not only passed down from generation to generation, but are carried around the world. Even in a time when long distance travel was somewhat limited, along with precious commodities and religious ideals, stories were one of the things that were carried around the world. I think it speaks to the significance of stories in nearly every culture that these are the cultural treasures that continue to endure even today.

What I'm getting at here is that we think of these Celtic tales as distinctly from that part of the world, but when we take a closer look, some of the most important parts of these stories come from another culture entirely. What the Celts were able to do is integrate these Eastern grains of sand into their own ocean and produce their own enduring tales. Zimmer says "to this day the genius of the Celtic race remains second to none in its power to weave the magic tapestries of the everlasting mythical romance of the human heart" (130). But that tapestry contains fibers made elsewhere.

This is an important lesson for us, as English students. As readers and writers, we should know how deep the elements of our stories truly go. And we should not exclude elements from cultures we know little about or think have strange or naive literary histories. Taking a world view and incorporating cultures other than our own is how some of the greatest works have endured centuries of telling and retelling, as well as publishing and translation hurdles. Particularly with our ease of travel and the proliferation of texts and English translations of works outside our comfort zone it is impossible to simply claim ignorance of world literature. We should be doing exactly the opposite. We should be immersing ourselves in the stories we know little about and thinking about how they have influenced other texts, including our own!

Frye calls this the problem of "cliche mythology" (166) or "social mythology" (168). A combination of media, teachers, parents, etc. serve to water down these powerful mythologies until they are barely recognizable and, in a word, naive. Much like the disnification of the Grimm fairy tales, we choose to supplement a softer story for the hard truths exposed in these texts.

I asked myself "but how is this (watering down these ancient stories) different from taking the grains of sand from such stories and incorporating it into your own work, just as the Celts did with the stories that were relayed to them from the East." The best answer I can come up with is that they did take bits and pieces - a lion here, a magical fountain there, but they didn't water it down (no pun on fountain intended). They used the symbolic much in the same way I imagine the ancient Mesopotamians did. The symbolism stayed in tact and, therefore, the power of the lion remains. Even now, some 5,000 years (or so) later, this symbol persists in the minds of college students, like me. That's the kind of enduring work we all wish we could produce.

The Three MSU Athletes Gruff

Ok, I have to admit, my story wasn't well disguised. I had no idea so many people were familiar with the story of the Three Billy Goats Gruff. Then it all came crashing down when my story's thunder was stolen by a (much better) previous performance involving a toll bridge and some fantastic accents. So I guess it should be no surprise that everyone guessed my displaced fairytale. But I must say, this was pretty fun. And I was pleased with the story that developed on the page. This was a great exercise and I can't help but think that if everyone wasn't fervently searching for clues about what fairytale I was stealing for my story, I think maybe I could have at least fooled a few people.

That's basically how I approached this thing. When I started writing the story, I tried to eliminate all mention of goats. During revision, though, I couldn't help but drop little hints, like the names of the characters and their features. I know I totally blew it, but I really couldn't resist the temptation. And I think it not only added to the story's depth, but also to the humor. Once everyone discovered the thinly veiled fairytale, I think the hints became comical. I could hear the chuckles in the audience as I made references to "kids" and "nannies." In case you missed any of them, I tried to italicize the little hints dropped throughout the story below. Some of these included references to goats and some referenced the fairytale itself.

My favorite was the "Norseman's beard," an obvious reference to the origin of the story and, perhaps, even the original story teller's facial features. I picture a large goatherd with a meaty beard overlooking his land, a steep hillside descending into a fjord, in which his goats graze. He spends hours looking across the fjord at some distant, pristine patch of grass on which he would love to turn his herd loose. But the fjord, his relentless troll, will not allow passage and so he devises a way to beat the troll and cross the forbidden bridge so that his goats can get fat and happy. Of course, I also imagine him getting blotto drunk at the equivalent of The Crystal in Norway while telling the story to his friends. (Photo: Brett Keisel, BEST BEARD EVER!)

So here it is again, in the written form:

Billy, Reid and Buck were on their way to the bar one night. Billy was a member of the track team. A skinny guy, he nonetheless was an eating machine, once consuming three large pizza's in one sitting. Reid was a Canadian by birth, a hockey player and a champion of the keg stand. He had a goatee and was meatier than Billy, but not nearly as big as Buck, who was the largest of the three, by far. A lineman on the football team, Buck had a large Norseman's beard and was easily 300 pounds; by all accounts he was a scary dude.

It was a winter night and mostly quiet as they walked down the snowy sidewalks of downtown Bozeman. But they could hear in the distance the loudly boisterous revelry of the Crystal Bar permeating the crisp night air. As they strolled through downtown, they discussed where they might go for their night of drinking.

“I'm tired of 317,” said Buck to the other two. “It's always a sausage fest. Let's try the Crystal tonight. It looks wild in there.” The other two quickly agreed.

As they approached the bar, the music grew louder and as they gazed up above the doorway, they became even more excited. “Wednesday is Ladies Night,” a banner proclaimed. And it was definitely Wednesday!

But...there was a problem. “Awww...Damn! Look who's working the door,” said Billy.

“Aw, man, I hate that guy,” cried Reid. “Always gives MSU kids a hard time. I think he's from Missoula or somethin. Roots for the Griz. One time I heard he broke some guy's nose just because he looked at him funny.”

“Horseshit,” Buck said. “We're going in there. It's ladies night. LADIES night!”

“But it says there's a cover,” whined Billy. “I didn't bring any cash.”

“Me neither,” protested Reid. “How're we supposed to get past him?”

“Don't you two worry,” said Buck, as he called for a huddle, “I have a plan.”

Billy approached the doorman first.

“What's up kid?” said the bouncer.

“Nothin man.” Billy said, a little unsure of himself. “I'm...I'm here for the chicks!”

The bouncer looked him up and down. “Riiiiiiight. Chicks are free. But dudes have to pay a cover charge,” he said in a gruff voice. “Five bucks, Casanova.”

“I didn't bring cash tonight, man; credit card only. The guy behind me's gonna pay,” said Billy. “Let me in and he'll get my cover.”

“Go ahead in.” The bouncer waved him inside, “but if you're lying to me I'm coming in after you.”

Reid approached the door next.

“Ten bucks man.”

“Huh? The sign says five. You tryin' to stiff me, fool?”

“Fool? Harumph. Your boy in there said you had his cover. Now do you or don't you?”

“Not me. But 'ol Buck back there said it was his treat tonight. Talk to him.” He gestured over his shoulder and slipped by the bouncer, disappearing into the smoke and neon.

Buck walked up quickly and flashed his ID. The bouncer was beginning to look kind of pissed.

“That'll be 15 bucks, bro.”

“Say what? I ain't payin that.” And Buck too tried to brush past him. The big, scary bouncer put his meaty hand on Buck's chest and gave him a shove backward.

“Uhhhh-aaaah. No way, man.” The bouncer stood up from his perch on the bar stool. “You gotta pay for you AND your two friends. You got a problem with that you take it out on them. Now, give me the money or I kick your ass first and then I go grab your scrawny little friends and wring their scrawny little necks!”

Buck smiled to himself and said, “Let's do this!” and charged at him as if he were a practice dummy. He lifted the heavy bouncer off his feet and knocked him into the stone wall. The bouncer quickly got up, but Buck was on him just as fast. He grabbed him by the ears and gave him a mighty butt with his head. The bouncer fell backward and Buck proceeded to stomp on his face with his size 15 shoes until blood gushed from his nose. Then he tossed him into the street where the Streamline bus hit him square in the forehead. The bouncer just lay there, motionless on the pavement, covered in his own blood, his body and bones crushed to bits.

Buck wiped his hands on his Carhartts and walked into the blaring music to join his buds. That night they each found a lady. Coincidentally, all three were nannies for rich families in Bozeman. And from that day forward, they made Ladies Night a tradition, for when the management at the Crystal learned of what had happened to their mangled bouncer, they hired Buck on the spot. And Billy and Reid never had to pay a cover charge at the Crystal again.

Romance Requirements

I'm going to choose the foggiest of the four requirements of romance to blog about, since it is probably the most obscure part of a story for me - and that is the revelation, the remembrance, the recognition or the apocalypse, whichever label you prefer.

Frye, on page 54, writes of the cyclical nature of romance, how romances begin with the idyllic world, or very close to it, and end right back at that same spot - the happy ending. This is a fairly simple concept - two people start at point A and end at point B. It is what happens in the middle - the fun stuff - that builds up to the revelation. The revelation is closely associated with the climax in each story, as the action builds to a crescendo and, ultimately, the path that the protagonists are destined to take is revealed. I guess I just kind of said it in the previous sentence. Everything is "revealed" and this allows the characters to make the "right" choice, the one that will lead to happy endings for the just and probably less than happy endings for the unjust.

The revelation can take many forms. There can be an epiphany, as in the case of The King and the Corpse. It can take the shape of chance encounters or recognition, such as in An Ephesian Tale. Or there can be a discovery of noble birth, as in Daphnis and Chloe.

In The King and the Corpse, describing the revelation of the King, Campbell quotes Novalis' observation that "the moment one impossible thing becomes possible, simultaneously another impossible thing becomes unexpectedly possible: the hero overcoming himself simultaneously overcomes nature." In romance, the revelation can be even more spectacular than in other genres, which makes the revelation even more fun. In the end, the corpse, or the ego, becomes the King's savior, the only one who can "save us from the magic circle of our own self-created evil" (229). At least in this story, the revelation even comes with a lesson. But not all revelations have to teach us something.

Whatever it is that creates the so called turn in the plot, what remains is the resolution of the story, where all the struggles, the quests and/or the apparent deaths are laid bare for all to see, as is the path that the characters must now embark upon. Only, now the path must be static. It must not contain uncertainty or danger. In this way, the revelation must not only contain a resolution for the past aspects of the story, but a future in which all uncertainty is eliminated, at least on the surface.

Not being a spinner of fiction, I have no real experience in weaving such a complicated web. I've always wondered how authors come to such complex climaxes, seemingly ending their stories with all the answers. I suppose that's the subject for another blog, but I would like to know how the writing process for romance works. I've heard of authors starting with the revelation and working backwards, building the plot and characters around the story's climax. If this is true, could we then call the revelation the cornerstone on which the rest of the story is built? Is it the most important block in the wall? Or is the quest or the happy ending the true climax, in terms of writing process? Or does it matter? Do all of these have to synch in order for the story to be "good?"

Frye'ing My Brain

I was going back through Frye and I noticed that I had underlined and starred the following passage:

"But a myth on this lower level may be a lie and still represent true indoctrination, and true indoctrination is the real social function of literature" (Frye, 19).

This was more than likely one of those sentences that flew right over my head as my eyes flew over the page, trying to digest what I could late one night. I really didn't understand it and probably still don't. So I thought it might be a reasonable thing to try to pick apart here, since it will force me to think about it a little deeper.

On the surface, this seems to give a very crisp answer to the question, "what's the use of stories that aren't even true?" What's the use? Apparently it's indoctrination - shoving ideas down people's throats. Ok, that's a little harsh, but it seems sort of funny to me that we use fiction - something that obviously isn't true - to plant unproven ideas, ideas that we are told not to question, into other people's heads. Basically, Frye is saying that the real function of literature, as it pertains to the social aspects, is to tell people how they should think.

Weird.

But is it true? I guess it kind of is. A full understanding takes a deep understanding of truth, as Plato seemed to perseverate on in his teachings about reality. But Plato seemed to say that reality in our own heads is guided mostly by perception. And how a particular story is perceived determines largely how we view the story's content, and therefore, our reality.

Frye uses the example of myth versus fables, "one being at the top and one being at the bottom of his vision of reality." The indoctrination in myth is more widely accepted because of its tradition. Therefore, the teachings of myths are thought to be more true.

I can't help but think that some of this has to point back to the popularity of romance among the masses. Romance has a high morality and, thus, a comfort factor, among its readers. The quest, the revelation, the happy ending, even the apparent death all sit well with most people. It justifies what most people hold in their brains as "right" and we, as do Chloe's sheep to the fields, follow that primal instinct to our comfort zone.

So the structure of the story, rather than the content, will lend it its ethos. Invoking more of the oceans streams leaves us with more warm fuzzies by showing us first something that is familiar and only teasing us with adventure, death or tragedy. Because, in the end, we will be left satisfied, if that is how our brain works. If we are a sheep, we will accept almost anything within the romance structure, as long as there is a happy ending.

But I must ask, then, who is the sheep? The author or the audience? As a writer, I take offense to the idea that I must accept a certain genre as the way to communicate my ideas. As a reader, I reject the idea that I am unknowingly being indoctrinated because I enjoy a story such as Daphnis and Chloe. I feel sophisticated enough to be able to pick apart what I enjoy and what is morality woven into the story. Or am I?

I am reminded of a passage from The Two Gentlemen of Verona here:

Speed: "The shepherd seeks the sheep, and not the sheep the shepherd; but I seek my master, and my master seeks not me. Therefore I am no sheep."

Proteus: "The sheep for fodder follow the shepherd, the shepherd for food follows not the sheep; thou for wages followest thy master, thy master for wages follows not thee. Therefore thou art a sheep."

As maddening as this line of logic is, I think it represents the spinning in which my brain is now engaged. I suppose as a writer I need to write to an audience in order to accomplish my goal of having someone read my work, if that is indeed my goal. And perhaps the price of ingesting a good story may be absorbing a bit of ideology from the author.

Did the authors of the Christian bible really want a romance as the basis for their epic story? Who can say? But they certainly employed this genre as evidenced by the quest of Jesus to spread Christianity, his apparent death, the revelation of his resurrection and the happy ending, in which he and all "good" Christians will ascend into heaven to be with God, the very definition of Love as expounded by the religion.

Wow. Breakthrough? I think not. But I think I'm getting a little bit more of the forest through the trees here. Abu Kasem's Slippers is a pretty good story. I know it's not true, but I get the message. Sure, it made me think. I'm not ready to change my shoes in the literal sense, but I get the methaphorical significance, the "visible sign of his unpalatable greed" (Campbell, 9). It made me think about my karma and my ego. If that makes me a sheep, so be it. But I'll bet it makes me a smarter sheep than the rest, and I think that's probably a good thing.

Sheep Go To Heaven, Goats Go To Hell

What struck me about Daphnis and Chloe was the simplicity not only of the story and its characters, but also of the setting - that of the pastoral life. Daphnis the goatherd and Chloe the shepherd coexisting not only in the pasture, but in love. Perhaps it is a romanticized representation of life in the fields, but there is something primal and instinctual about this life that is rooted in our psyche.

So when I saw this representation of the story in Wikipaintings, I stopped. The sheep and goats are as woven into the tapestry of this story as they are into the understanding of physical love between Daphnis and Chloe. This leads me to perhaps the most memorable part of the story, in which these two are attempting to unravel their feelings of sexuality and their desire to fulfill their love for each other physically.

Indeed, it is the coming together of their flocks that lead to their coming together, ultimately, in love and marriage. And it is the animals that teach them many of the lessons that they learn in love.

Daphnis observes that the rams and ewes and the "he-goats and she-goats" engage in an act that he doesn't necessarily understand, though "after they've done the thing they do, the females don't run away from the males anymore and the males don't have the labour of chasing the females...they graze together in future as if they had together enjoyed the same pleasure" (179).

This is the next step in their quest to be joined in physical union. Though their naivete still prevents them from performing the act which they unknowingly desire, it is the collaboration of the animals and the random people who pop into their lives that ultimately teach them what they need to know.

The painting, by Leon Bakst, is of Daphnis and Chloe bidding each other goodnight. It shows a pure white Chloe contrasted with a dark-skinned Daphnis, separated by their flocks. Their union not complete, they must say goodnight after spending the day together. Though the intermingling of the sheep and goats shows the closeness of their relationship. In the painting, it even seems as if some of the flock have begun to meld together, showing their physical union is imminent.

As we talked about in class today, the pastoral landscape is often thought of as an idyllic setting and can be used to enhance a romance. Indeed, Bakst seemed to be struck by this notion and felt compelled to include not only the greens and blues and oranges found in nature, but also the blacks and browns and whites of the animals in his representation of Daphnis and Chloe. All this comes together to provide an influence of the pastoral on the lives of the characters. How could one separate the story of Daphnis & Chloe without the goats and sheep that follow them and are followed by them?

Virgin Stories

There certainly are such things as virgin stories, but are there any virgin stories? In other words, romance is filled with those stories about protecting virtue, preserving virginity, etc. But in presenting this theme throughout the genre, are any of these stories original? And does the repetition of this theme, the formulaic quality of the romance, turn certain people off? Is it the cliche that sends some of us into groans?

Many of my fellow students alluded to the fact that they do not enjoy the repetition of the archetypes found in romance. But for the very same reasons, there are those who are die-hard fans of romance. Is it the familiar that we cling to, but also reject? As Dr. Sexson said last Friday, is it our ancestral memory, our collective unconscious that leaves us pining for this comfortable "happy ending?" What, then, of originality? Will there ever be another cherry popped in the annals of romance?

There certainly are those off the wall romance stories, like Natural Born Killers or True Romance, where the conventions of romance are stretched to the breaking point. For some, this may be the only romances worth paying attention to. This certainly negates the idea that no one may die in a romance, as we see in both of these stories. Corpses litter the landscape in these modern romances. So, I wonder what other conventions may some day be stretched. And as we pull apart the ideas of romance, do we automatically turn them into irony and tragedy? Or do we simply classify them as "bad romance?"