“Antigone is a particularly modern heroine. She is a rebel, a refusenik, a feminist, an anti-capitalist (principles are more important than money), a suicide perhaps, certainly a martyr, and without doubt a difficult, insistent person, not unlike some of Ibsen’s women. More decisive, less irritating, talky and circular than Hamlet – but, you might say, equally teenage – she has blazed through the centuries to remain one of the great characters of all literature. Is she a saint, a criminal of extraordinary integrity, a masochist, or just stubborn and insolent? Or even ‘mad’, in the sense of impossible to understand?”
“The text, described by Hegel as ‘one of the most sublime, and in every respect, most consummate works of human effort ever brought forth’, is a contribution to showbiz and not a thesis, although as a character Antigone is infinitely interpretable and has been repeatedly written about by philosophers, psychoanalysts, feminists, literary critics and revolutionaries.”
“There cannot be exceptions, that is the point of the law: it is absolute. But for her the law is pathological and sadistic, and ethics are ideology.”
“Antigone is certainly a feminist, a girl defying patriarchy, a lone woman standing up to a cruel man. But she ain’t no sister; there’s no solidarity or community in her actions. She is a rebel but not a revolutionary.”
“What is terrible about Antigone is not so much her belief, but the way she assumes it. She is entirely certain. She is no paragon; and rather than being an example of someone who sticks to their desire, she is a person who cannot think, lacking intellectual flexibility.”
“The good is that which can be argued about, but there is no possibility of a final position without imposing it, a form of utopia which can only lead to fascism.”
“But this beautiful story of ‘demonic excess’ can only end badly on both sides, with Antigone killing herself and Creon having lost his son, consumed with guilt and eventually murdered by the mob, his palace burned down.”
“The play doesn’t tell us what to think, for it is not a guide to thought, but is another thing altogether: a guide to the necessity of perplexity. It illustrates a necessary conflict, showing that useful rather than deadly conflicts make democracy possible.”
Hanif Kureishi
“The Fast Runner, a unique film retelling an old Inuit (Eskimo) legend, was made by the Canadian Inuits themselves in 2001; the director Zacharias Kunuk decided to change the ending, replacing the original slaughter in which all participants die with a more conciliatory conclusion. When a culturally sensitive journalist accused Kunuk of betraying authentic tradition for the cheap appeal to contemporary public, Kunuk replied by accusing the journalist of cultural ignorance: this very readiness to adapt the story to today’s specific needs attests to the fact that the authors were still part of the ancient Inuit tradition – such ‘opportunistic’ rewriting is a feature of premodern cultures, while the very notion of the ‘fidelity to the original’ signals that we are already in the space of modernity, that we lost our immediate contact with tradition.”
“Such experiments often ridiculously misfire – however, not always, and there is no way to tell it in advance, so one has to take the risk. Only one thing is sure: the only way to be faithful to a classic work is to take such as risk...”
“to use the metaphor evoked by Walter Benjamin, to act as if the classic work is a film for which the appropriate chemical liquid to develop it was invented only later, so that it is only today that we can get the full picture.”
“... the change has a tremendous power of revelation: one cannot resist the strong impression that ‘this is how it really should be’.”
“So can we imagine a similar change in staging Antigone, one of the founding narratives of the Western tradition? The path was shown by none other than Kierkegaard who, in ‘The Ancient Tragical Motif as Reflected in the Modern’, a chapter of Volume I of Either/Or, proposed his fantasy of what a modern Antigone would have been. The conflict is now entirely internalized: there is no longer a need for Creon.”
“Her deadlock is that she is prevented from sharing this accursed knowledge (like Abraham, who also could not communicate to others the divine injunction to sacrifice his son): she cannot complain, share her pain and sorrow with others.”
“We can imagine the same shift also in the case of Abraham. The God who commands Abraham to sacrifice his son is the superego-God who, for his own perverse pleasure, submits his servant to the utter test. What makes Abraham’s situation non-tragic is that God’s demand cannot be rendered public, shared by the community of believers, included into the big Other: the sublime tragic moment occurs precisely when the hero addresses the public with his terrible plight, when he puts into words his predicament.”
“Can we not imagine God himself giving a similar answer if Abraham were to ask him publicly, in front of his fellow wise elders, if he really wants Abraham to kill his only son? ‘If I should say I do not want you to kill Isaac I might say perhaps more than I think. And if I should say you should do it, I might plunge myself into peril (of appearing an evil barbaric God, asking you to violate my own sacred Laws), from which you, my faithful follower, labour to save me.”
“Furthermore, insofar as Kierkegaard’s Antigone is a paradigmatically modernist figure, one should go on with his mental experiment and imagine a postmodern Antigone with, of course, a Stalinist twist to her image: in contrast to the modernist one, she should find herself in a position in which, to quote Kierkegaard himself, the ethical itself would be the temptation.”
“Antigone insists up to her death on performing a precise symbolic gesture: the proper burial of her brother. Like Hamlet, Antigone is a drama of a failed symbolic ritual – Lacan insisted on this continuity (he analysed Hamlet in his seminar that precedes The Ethics of Psychoanalysis). Antigone does not stand for some extra-symbolic real, but for the pure signifier – her ‘purity’ is that of a signifier. This is why, although her act is suicidal...”
“And, back to Christ, this, then, should be the first step of a consequent reading of Christianity: the dying Christ is on the side of Sygne, not on the side of Antigone; Christ on the cross is not a sublime apparition but an embarrassing monstrosity. Another aspect of this monstrosity was clearly perceived by Rembrandt, whose ‘Lazarus’, one of the most traumatic classic paintings, is a depiction of Christ at the moment he is raising Lazarus from the dead. What strikes the eye is not only the figure of Lazarus, a monstrous living dead returning to life, but, even more so, the terrified expression on Christ’s face, as if he is a magician shocked that his spell really worked, disgusted by what he brought back to life, aware that he is playing with forces better left alone. This is a true Kierkegaardian Christ, shocked not by his mortality but by the heavy burden of his supernatural powers which border on blasphemy...”
“Sygne stands for the Christian tragedy. Sygne lives in the modern world where God is dead: there is no objective Fate, our fate is our own choice, we are fully responsible for it. Sygne first follows the path of ecstatic love to the end, sacrificing her good, her ethical substance, for God, for His pure Otherness; and she doesn’t do it on account of some external pressure, but out of the innermost freedom of her being – she cannot blame any Fate when she finds herself totally humiliated, deprived of all ethical substance of her being. This, however, is why Sygne’s tragedy is much more radical than that of Oedipus or Antigone...”
“she refuses to confer any deeper sacrificial meaning on her suicidal interposition, there is no tragic beauty in this refusal... she remains a disgusting excremental stain of humanity, a living shell deprived of life. There is no love here either; all her love went into her previous renunciations.”
“This moment of tragedy, this return of the tragic in the very heart of Christianity as the religion of love, is also the point which the self-erasing mystique of ecstatic love cannot properly grasp: when mystics talk about the ‘Night of the World’, they directly identify this Night (the withdrawal from external reality into the void of pure innerness) with the divine Beatitude, with the self-erasing immersion into Divinity; for Christianity, in contrast, the unbearable and unsurpassable tension remains...”
“From the standpoint of eumonia, Antigone is definitely demonic/uncanny: her defying act expresses a stance of de-measured excessive insistence which disturbs the ‘beautiful order’ of the city; her unconditional ethics violates the harmony of the polis and is as such ‘beyond human boundary’.”
“So while Antigone is an uncanny figure who disturbs the harmony of the traditional universe, one should no less resist the opposite temptation to interpret her as a proto-modern emancipatory heroine who speaks for all those excluded from the public domain, all those whose voices are not heard; in short, for what Agamben calls homo sacer. Agamben’s analysis should be given its full radical character: his notion of homo sacer should NOT be watered down into an element of a radical-democratic project whose aim is to renegotiate or redefine the limits of in- and exclusion, so that the symbolic field will be more and more open also to the voices of those who are excluded by the hegemonic configuration of the public discourse.”
“Butler develops her reading in contrast to two main opponents, not only Hegel but also Lacan.”
“In what one is almost tempted to call a dialectical synthesis, Butler rejects both extremes (Hegel’s location of the conflict WITHIN the socio-symbolic order; Lacan’s notion of Antigone as standing for the going-to-the-limit, for reaching the OUTSIDE of this order): Antigone undermines the existing symbolic order not simply from its radical outside, but from a utopian standpoint of aiming at its radical rearticulation. Antigone is a ‘living dead’ not in the sense (which Butler attributes to Lacan) of entering the mysterious domain of Até,1 of going to the limit of the Law; she is a ‘living dead’ in the sense of publicly assuming an uninhabitable position, a position for which there is no place in the public space – not a priori, but only with regard to the way this space is structured now, in the historically contingent and specific conditions.”
“Antigone speaks for all the subversive ‘pathological’ claims which crave to be admitted into the public space; however, to identify what she stands for in this reading with homo sacer misses the basic thrust of Agamben’s analysis. There is no place in Agamben for the ‘democratic’ project of ‘renegotiating’ the limit which separates full citizens from homo sacer by gradually allowing their voices to be heard; his point is, rather, that, in today’s ‘post-politics’, the very democratic public space is a mask concealing the fact that, ultimately, we are all homo sacer.”
“Although Agamben denies any ‘democratic’ way out, in his detailed reading of Saint Paul, he violently reasserts the ‘revolutionary’ Messianic dimension – and if this Messianic dimension means anything at all, it means that ‘mere life’ is no longer the ultimate terrain of politics. That is to say, what is suspended in the Messianic attitude of ‘awaiting the end of time’ is precisely the central place of ‘mere life’; in clear contrast to it, the fundamental feature of post-politics is the reduction of politics to ‘biopolitics’ in the precise sense of administering and regulating ‘mere life’.”
“Which Antigone would fit this contemporary condition? Coping with this problem, I imagined another triad: the starting point remains the same, and it is only at the crucial point in the middle of the play – the big confrontation between Antigone and Creon – that the three versions would diverge:
•The first version follows Sophocles’ denouement, and the concluding chorus praises Antigone’s unconditional insistence on her principle...
•The second version shows what would have happened if Antigone were to win, convincing Creon to allow the proper burial of Polyneices, i.e. if her principled attitude were to prevail. In this version, the concluding chorus sings a Brechtian praise of pragmatism: the ruling class can afford to obey honour and rigid principles, while ordinary people pay the price for it.
•In the third version, Chorus is no longer the purveyor of stupid commonplace wisdoms, it becomes an active agent. At the climactic moment of the ferocious debate between Antigone and Creon, Chorus steps forward, castigating both of them for their stupid conflict which threatens the survival of the entire city. Acting like a kind of comité de salut public, Chorus takes over as a collective organ and imposes a new rule of law, installing people’s democracy...”
“Sophocles’ Antigone is thus retold here in the mode of Bertolt Brecht’s three learning plays...”
“Chorus:
But how does your consideration of the dead
help or hurt the living? Hear us then:
we know you are our enemy, an even more dangerous one
than your uncle. This is why we shall now
put you in front of a hole in the earth.
But in consideration of your merits and good qualities
we shall decapitate you with a good sword and bury you with a good shovel in the good earth.
Antigone:
No matter what you say, it’s horrible
to kill a human being …
Chorus:
… but sometimes,
when doing nothing opens up a gate
to the flood of corpses, not to kill
can be an even greater crime.”
“The most important part of true success
is therefore how to deal with man’s demonic excess,
especially with the excess of those who rule us.
Since ruling over people strengthens this demonic excess,
no single man is fit to rule alone. It’s only right
that they rule themselves collectively. In such a way,
they control each other to prevent demonic outbursts
which can lead to catastrophe. Even if there are no gods
to help them, such a collective of equals
is bound by a holy spirit, a bond stronger than fate,
a bond that can defy all earthly powers
and maybe even some divine.”