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Does fate or free will determine human action? In modern America the consensus of opinion has come down solidly on the side of free will. From the Declaration of Independence to the image of a lonely cowboy on a movie screen, from rebellious teenagers to Ayn Rand, the conviction that we determine our own destinies and act as the agents of our own wills has been central to our thought.
From this perspective, the story of Oedipus the King is based on false premises. The protagonist, Oedipus, is warned of his terrible fate by an oracle; though he attempts to change his own destiny, he is unable. He lives in a profoundly deterministic universe. The story of Oedipus is tragic, as it was meant to be, because it represents the horrific downfall of one man. On the other hand, the tragedy may not make sense; there is a profound dissonance between the fatalism of the play and the modern philosophy of free will. Therefore the emotional impact of the play may be markedly lessened. A modern reader might reason: if Oedipus lived in a universe of free will, he was not strong enough to exert his; why, then, should we respect him? If he lived in a predetermined universe, how can we who do not live in one empathize with him? And how can we do aught but think him a fool for failing to reconcile himself with his fate and recognize it when it happened?
From the same perspective, Antigone seems to be a totally different play -- an almost triumphant one. Antigone herself seems to be nearly the apotheosis of free will. Despite the edicts of the state and the abandonment of her family she maintains her individuality and morality. By an exercise of will she defends what she believes in. Though she is destroyed for her ability to stand alone, she is ultimately vindicated by the fidelity of her lover and the contrition of the king. The critical questions a modern audience might ask are not those they would ask about Oedipus, as above, but rather: what were Antigone's motivations? Why did she choose to take so bold a path?
I suggest that all of these questions -- those one might ask on Oedipus as well as those on Antigone -- are not appropriate; that there exists a perspective in which free will is not merely irrelevant but inconceivable. I do not seek to prove, though evidence exists, that the ancient Greeks experienced the Theban plays from that perspective; I seek, rather, to demonstrate that such a perspective is possible, and to invite the reader to cast aside preconceived assumptions long enough to examine those assumptions and envision an alternate perspective.
Consider a universe, not unlike our own, in which all human actions are predetermined. Give this force a name: fate, if you like, or moira, as the Greeks would have said. Let time begin; let civilization arise. Watch the denizens of this universe wander through their predetermined lives. Imagine they are not so very much unlike us. They know as little as we do about the forces which govern time and space. They know, however, that fate is real, and that it binds them.
Perhaps it would be logical -- in a cold and detached way -- for them to recognize the grip of this fate. Indeed, as long as it cannot be avoided, they might seek ways for it to happen with as little suffering and difficulty as possible. But they -- being, after all, not so very unlike us -- are not detached from their lives. They are doomed to their futures, but not dispassionate about them. Perhaps they are joyful; perhaps, more commonly, they are afraid. Perhaps, though an oracle tells them what is to happen, they are unable to face the truth and run from it, seek to hide themselves away, hope the truth will never find them. Perhaps the young Oedipus is not dispassionate but horrified when he learns he will kill his father and violate his mother, and thus he tries to run. Illogical? Yes. But human....
I suggest that it is this essential humanity with which we are meant to identify. In this perspective, the struggle is not between determinism and free will, and Oedipus is not a fool for failing to exercise his will or be resigned to his fate. Instead, the central conflict of the play is between fate's inexorability -- the truth which we cannot escape -- and human emotions -- the way which we cannot help feeling. Oedipus flees from the unendurable and fights against the impossible, tormented by it; we, the audience, understand, for we have all fought something which we couldn't overcome. We have all tried to believe, against every possibility, in outcomes that couldn't be. We know why Oedipus feels horror and pain; drawn into his experience, we find a mirror for our own frailty.
We are meant to identify with Oedipus' humanity; in this way the play finds its power. By contrast, we are not meant to identify with Antigone's failings. We are, instead, to be transfigured by her superhumanity. Both characters come to tragic ends: Oedipus meets his with all the confusion, fear, and mistakes we ourselves do. Antigone, on the other hand, goes down to her doom with a great and terrible fearlessness, a righteousness and dignity far beyond the scope of mundane experience.
An interpretation grounded in the philosophy of free will would encourage us to honor her for her strength of character but to examine her motivations. Why was the burial rite so important to her? Was she acting selflessly, or to impress those around her? In a philosophy which does not incorporate free will, however, these questions cannot be asked. Antigone cannot be treated as an agent, motivated by free will to express her piety and morality. Instead, she is not their expresser but their mode of expression: like an autumn leaf before the wind she is swept away by the forces of ethics and the will of the gods. From the moment her life intersects with Polynices's shame, her personal identity is completely surrendered to these forces larger than herself; her actions are completely dictated by them, for their demands must be satisfied.
It has nothing to do with our modern-day drugs and brothels, but this surrender of oneself to something larger, higher, greater -- the leaving of one's self behind in order to experience the cosmic -- was the original meaning of ecstasy. "Ek-stasis": literally, it is to leave one's center, one's self; to go outside. It is an experience not taken as normal (and certainly not as normative) by modern American culture; it is fundamentally in contradiction with the ideal of free will, for how can one have free will when one no longer has a self? How can one have free will if an external power dictates all one's actions?
Yet even if it is frightening there is something very valuable about this kind of ecstasy. It gave Antigone the power to stand up for righteousness when to do so would deprive her of all place in society, even of her life. Its value has been recognized by many religions and philosophies. In ancient Greece, it was used most notably by the Dionysiac cults, in whose frenzied rituals women would leave their everyday lives as less than citizens and become something more than human -- a portion of a god. Certain Christian sects -- all of them kept at an uncomfortable distance by the modern mainstream -- recognize speaking in tongues as evidence of possession by (that is, ecstatic connection with) godhood. Could there be a knowledge more transcendent?
Yet we, enamoured of our philosophy of free will, our rugged American individualism, keep ecstatic experience at a distance. We are so needful of our liberation as individuals that we let this liberation, in turn, possess us -- keep us from the experience, or even the comprehension, of ecstasy. Are we, then, liberated? If a philosophy has cut us off from even entertaining the existence of outside possibilities, has it opened our minds? If a philosophy cuts us off from ecstasy, has it freed us?
I do not say it is time to burn our known philosophies; they are a light and comfort. This does not mean that they must be our only guide. I suggest, instead, perhaps...
...picture an open lawn in the midst of the noise of humanity. Far, far above, looking on, calm and still, lie the clouds, unconcerned by our noise. They are layers, rings, rivers; they slide over one another, the ragged tufts of fast-moving clouds closest to us rushing to reveal, beyond them, slower wisps, great swaths of whiteness brushed like women's hair. They capture a ring, a perfect circle, of red and rainbow light; in the middle of the circle drifts the moon, brilliant and pale. It is thousands upon thousands of miles away from all of our confusion. If you catch your breath and let the noise of everyday human concern fade away, if you reach out not with your hands but your heart, you almost can touch it.
Far, far above the moon, telling us both how small we are and how vast is this universe to which we belong, glowing silently, the starlight. Through us blows the wind. Silence.
They have left, their noise and sorrow; all of it is small before the vastness of the universe and time; we will and must return but here we have found a song of silence running through it all, just outside ourselves. You can imagine an Artemis, a Zephyr, a god of stars who in one flash of clarity shows you truth, who in one unbelievable moment tells you the secrets of the silences. And you understand because you, for that moment, are not a creature of yourself and your limited perceptions; you have become a corner of the mind of god. Catch your breath. They call it ecstasy.
And where do we find this open lawn, these clouds, the starlight?
Consider a universe, not unlike our own...