one of his best novels The Rainbow (1916); it has, as you would guess, a certain amount of flood
imagery, along with all the associations that imagery conveys. When you read about a rainbow, as in
Elizabeth Bishop’s poem “The Fish” (1947), where she closes with the sudden vision that
“everything / was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow,” you just know there’s some element of this divine
pact between human, nature, and God. Of course she lets the fish go. In fact, of any interpretation a
reader will ever come up with, the rainbow probably forms the most obvious set of connections.
Rainbows are sufficiently uncommon and gaudy that they’re pretty hard to miss, and their meaning
runs as deep in our culture as anything you care to name. Once you can figure out rainbows, you can
do rain and all the rest.
Fog, for instance. It almost always signals some sort of confusion. Dickens uses a miasma, a literal
and figurative fog, for the Court of Chancery, the English version of American probate court where
estates are sorted out and wills contested, in Bleak House (1853). Henry Green uses a heavy fog to
gridlock London and strand his wealthy young travelers in a hotel in Party Going (1939). In each
case, the fog is mental and ethical as well as physical. In almost any case I can think of, authors use
fog to suggest that people can’t see clearly, that matters under consideration are murky.
And snow? It can mean as much as rain. Different things, though. Snow is clean, stark, severe,
warm (as an insulating blanket, paradoxically), inhospitable, inviting, playful, suffocating, filthy (after
enough time has elapsed). You can do just about anything you want with snow. In “The Pedersen Kid”
(1968), William H. Gass has death arrive on the heels of a monster blizzard. In his poem “The Snow
Man” (1923), Wallace Stevens uses snow to indicate inhuman, abstract thought, particularly thought
concerned with nothingness, “Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is,” as he puts it. Very
chilling image, that. And in “The Dead,” Joyce takes his hero to a moment of discovery; Gabriel, who
sees himself as superior to other people, has undergone an evening in which he is broken down little
by little, until he can look out at the snow, which is “general all over Ireland,” and suddenly realize
that snow, like death, is the great unifier, that it falls, in the beautiful closing image, “upon all the
living and the dead.”
This will all come up again when we talk about seasons. There are many more possibilities for
weather, of course, more than we could cover in a whole book. For now, though, one does well to
remember, as one starts reading a poem or story, to check the weather.
10
Never Stand Next to the Hero
A
S YOU KNOW BY NOW
, from time to time I like to give you life advice. This next bit is the most
important lesson I can impart to you, so listen up. If you’re approached by some guy to drive his
chariot, ask his name. If he says, “Hector,” do not consent. Do not stand still. Do not walk away. Run.
Very fast. When I teach The Iliad, my favorite comic routine is pointing out what happens to Hector’s
charioteers. The average space between a charioteer being named and being skewered is about five
lines. Occasionally, he gets speared before being identified, which seems really unfair. We finally
reach the point where I have only to say something like, “Oh, look, a new charioteer,” then pause.
Everyone knows what comes next. Now, Homer actually has a good bit of intentional comedy in his
epic, but I’m pretty sure this is not an instance of that. Rather, it stands as an example—or several
examples—of the sort of surrogate fate that befalls heroes. And, alas, the people close to them.
If we except lyric poetry, nearly all literature is character-based. That is, it’s about people. This is
not an observation unique in the history of literary criticism, but it bears remembering from time to
time. And for people, characters, to hold our interest as readers or viewers, it is important for them to
do things from time to time. Big things: go on quests, marry, divorce, give birth, die, kill, take flight,
tame the land, make a mark. Small things: go on walks, dine, take in a movie, play in the park, have a
drink, fly a kite, find a penny on the ground. Sometimes the small things become big. Sometimes the
big things are smaller than they seem at first. No matter how large or small the actions, though, the
most important thing that characters can do is change—grow, develop, learn, mature, call it what you
will. As we know from our own lives, change can be difficult, painful, arduous, possibly dangerous.
Sometimes even fatal.
Just not to the main character.
One of the most complex instances of this surrogacy phenomenon is also one of the oldest. If ever
there was a flawed hero, he is Achilles. The Iliad, contrary to popular imagination, is not the story of
the Trojan War. Rather, it relates the events of a very small period of time, something like fifty-three
days out of the war’s ten years. You see, even epics work best if they are about not widespread
events but single actions and their consequences—the hero returning home, the rescuer coming to the
aid of a community plagued by a monster, the fall from grace of the original two humans. This epic is
especially pure: the actions of a single man and their impact on thousands. When I say this part in
class, I speak in italics: this work is about the wrath of Achilles.
The Big Man becomes angry when Agamemnon, the leader of the Greek forces, steals Achilles’s
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