"You cannot move me. I will know the truth."
The truth bubbles up slowly, like dross atop molten metal. It burns the hands dipped in to draw off the imperfections. It's much easier to discard the disagreeable, to insult the wise when their words chafe against your oversized ego. Even more than a diviner, poor Tiresias absorbs so much punishment. Only Orestes remains open to correction, and his dark revenge succeeds as a result: "You then shall hear my plan, and as you listen / Give it your sharp attention, to amend / Whatever seems amiss."
Oedipus knows the truth from the start, but denies it. The terrifying thing isn't the particular doom the gods predict, but that the gods are true. Freud and others miss the point, being enamored at the gimmicky violence, the incest. But the real terror slumbers deeper. It hides among the lines of dialogue, eating up delayed action like manflesh. It's so tempting to "live at random, live as best one can," as Oedipus' wife suggests. Hers is a passive attempt to escape from the truth, while Oedipus' is active. He runs away from fate, thinking he can avoid the Oracle's warning by leaving his adopted hometown. But lies that were told to protect him only compound his suffering.
Cornered, Oedipus tries to delay the truth. He's not stupid, he asks "How can I believe this with no proof?" He trusts in himself; after all, he was the one who banished the Sphinx! It's mentioned time and again, a crutch he allows himself, the proof of his superior intellect and his favor with the gods. But wit is not the same as wisdom, as he painfully learns.
And learning is pain. Often it's excruciating. The overwhelming pain of knowledge leads many characters to suicide in these plays. Iocasta hangs herself beside "The bed where she had borne a double brood, / Husband from husband, children from a child." The dramatic irony is so tightly wound it can't help but explode upon impact. But curiously, Oedipus proves himself the biggest coward of these three plays. He doesn't kill himself, instead "only" blinding himself. When he finally sees this truth, there is no more need of sight. He wishes he could deafen himself, could become completely insensate. Knowledge, though so desperately sought, renders inactive once it's achieved. We in the postmodern age can deeply relate. But for us, the supposed knowledge is that there are no gods, no saviors, no fate, no rules. Agoraphobia is our plague. For Oedipus, the opposite: the gods are true, everything is fated before our times, there is no freedom.
Oedipus, like us, attempts a grammatical escape:
You said that he reported it was brigands
Who killed the King. If he still speaks of 'men',
It was not I; a single man, and 'men',
Are not the same. But if he says it was
A traveller journeying alone, why then,
The burden of the guilt must fall on me.
Fear of the truth while ostensibly chasing the truth. It makes the soul ugly, makes the doer insult honest friends, transforms wit into savage cruelty: "You live in darkness; you can do no harm / To me or any man who has his eyes." But Oedipus' folly is that none have eyes; those with eyes to see are the more misguided, ironically, for they think they see the world. Tiresias' entrance is marked by "Ah! what a burden knowledge is, when knowledge / Can be of no avail!" His blindness resulted from compounded knowledge, a gradual filling up of the mind so that the eyes clouded over. Oedipus' revelation is too sudden for sight to survive, too traumatic. Knowledge is a burden, is traumatic, is something which causes slowness in action, rather than speed of action. Oedipus' hyperactivity turned into wrathful resentment the moment he realized the truth; he didn't acknowledge that truth until he had no other choice. The entire play is the building up of pressure, the kettle steaming on the stovetop with no one brave enough to remove it.
Many of us are stuck in that same dread limbo that Oedipus roils in throughout the play: "Strange, disturbing, what the wise / Prophet has said. What can he mean? / Niether can I believe, nor can I disbelieve; / I do not know what to say." We feel permanently stuck in this liminal state, our premonitions preventing sleep, but not enough evidence to clearly damn us. We squint at the creature in the dark bedroom corner, unsure if it's clothes on a hanger or something worse. Usually we're too tired to turn on the light or to hang up the clothes, so we wallow in fear. Oedipus was lucky enough to be damned outright, to get the blinding over with. We, however, are stuck in the entryway, not able to enter fully, nor able to escape. We knock and knock, wishing we could take off our shoes.
The ending is most confusing, with Oedipus still alive, too cowardly to die in his shame, too shamed to look upon the sun. His daughters (who are also his sisters) are brought out. They remain silent at the horror, propping him up. His blood-black beard must still be wet, complicating their embraces, staining the innocent with the sins of their forefather, their brother. The last lines are as follows:
CREON. Ah no! When I
Am ignorant, I do not speak.
OEDIPUS. Then lead me in; I say no more.
CREON. Release the children then, and come.
OEDIPUS. What? Take these children from me? No!
CREON. Seek not to have your way in all things:
Where you had your way before,
Your mastery broke before the end.
Creon's refusal to speak when ignorant is a sort of wisdom Oedipus may have benefited from. But after that, things tangle. Why are they bringing Oedipus indoors, when he has banished himself from the city? Why does he have to let go of his children, his siblings, his only family left? Is everything he does tainted, every act, every touch, so that no matter what he wants, is damned? And where are his sons, the ones who would take over as king in his wake?
Antigone answers that question. They have killed each other while striving to be king. Creon, suddenly thrust into leadership, loses the wisdom he had in the previous play. The distance he had had proved to be the source of his wisdom, and now on the throne, he displays the same short-sighted rage as his dead brother-in-law Oedipus. In the aftermath of the senseless fratricide of Oedipus' two sons, Creon denounces one and makes a hagiography for the other. The distinction is completely arbitrary, completely artificial. Oedipus' daughter Antigone detects this falsehood. She, seeing the truth of the gods, their fateful power on display in her own father's life, openly disregards Creon's unjust denouncement of her brother. Antigone stands on her principles, a true role model:
Nor could I think that decree of yours---
A man---could override the laws of Heaven
Unwritten and unchanging. Not of today
Or yesterday is their authority;
They are eternal; no man saw their birth.
Was I to stand before the gods' tribunal
For disobeying them, because I feared
A man? I knew that I should have to die,
Even without your edict; if I die
Before my time, why then, I count it gain
Antigone displays the bravery of the Christian Martyrs. She knows she has done what is right; she has visited the tomb of a dead man wrongfully accused, a dead man guarded by soldiers. The parallels are curious. She likewise defies peer pressure, whether man-made laws or threats of shame: "Have you no shame, not to conform with others?" Her sister attempts a middle ground, which proves cowardice. To her, Antigone pronounces "I love not those who love in words alone." The sisters in Electra face a similar dilemma, where one acts on her words, but the other hides behind her words.
Haemon, Creon's son, interposes for Antigone, warning Creon similarly to how Creon warned Oedipus. The generations roll on, but the same folly perpetuates itself. The worst danger proves to not be overmuch knowledge, but the knowledge of overmuch knowledge; i.e. the pride that comes with wisdom, a pride which blinds and makes one worse than an ignoramus:
The man
Who thinks that he alone is wise, that he
Is best in speech or counsel, such a man
Brought to the proof is found but emptiness.
There's no disgrace, even if one is wise,
In learning more, and knowing when to yield.
Strangely, wisdom works like the sort of optical illusion which only shows up if you don't look directly at it. Too-direct an approach kills the truth. Likewise, too-direct leadership destroys the government:
CREON. Am I to rule for them, not for myself?
HAEMON. That is not government, but tyranny.
...
CREON. Villain! Do you oppose your father's will?
HAEMON. Only because you are opposing Justice.
CREON. When I regard my own prerogative?
HAEMON. Opposing God's, you disregard your own.
Wisdom proves something so difficult because of the impossibility of explicitly stating it. And, like for Oedipus, once it is learned it is too late. The bodies have already been laid out, the sins have already been revenged. Justice proves as swift as the fates are inescapable. Tiresias and his blind wisdom hobble on stage only long enough to accuse Creon of his folly, and he walks off stage before he can be insulted further. He hauntingly asks himself "Does any man reflect, does any know..." He asks this rhetorically, for he knows no men reflect, none know, otherwise his slow, blind wisdom would not be needed.
Electra, the final play of the book, is much louder. The title character laments, insults, plans, and rejoices, all at maximum volume. Her loudness almost gives her away, but her revenge is just. Or is it? She uses the following to condemn her mother's murder of her father (Agamemnon), but turns it around to justify her revenge against the same mother (condemning her in a different sense):
Be careful; if you set
This up for law, Blood in return for blood,
You may repent it; you would be the first
To die, if you were given your deserts.
As Christ knew, "an eye for an eye" threatens to spiral out of control, creating an recursive revenge loop. Someone must be the first to break the cycle. Electra and her brother Orestes decidedly continue the cycle.
So why are they not stopped by the gods? Is Sophocles implicitly supporting this revenge, while only criticizing it in language? In a parallel to the denunciation in Antigone, Electra rants at her sister: "You hate them, so you tell me: / Your tongue may hate them; what you do supports / Our father's enemies and murderers." Perhaps Sophocles couldn't bring himself to the same conclusion Christ reached; to love one's enemies? That's too revolutionary, too un-Greek.
This play is probably the worst of the three, in several senses: it's the least gripping, has the most excessive lamentation (Oedipus has very little but it's very effective), and its morality is the most dubious. Sophocles of course gets you in a wrathful mood, so you grimly cheer on the murders at the end, but a higher part of yourself questions that. Should I be jeering, cheering them on? Is this deception and matricide merely a pretense to perpetuate chaos?
Orestes proves himself a sort of anti-Christ, leaving the empty tomb, coming "back from the dead" (dispelling the rumors of his death, which he himself propagated), only to bring vengeance and secure his own earthly kingdom. His kingdom is furthered by subtrifuge, by artifice: "This is Orestes only by a fiction. // ...It is Orestes!---dead, by artifice, / And by that artifice restored to us." The urn which supposedly holds his ashes is a decoy, a fake, a prop in this play-within-a-play which he is re-writing, which he is directing. Electra, the ad-hoc executive producer, goads his darker side on. You hear their mother's death off stage. She takes a long time to die. Even just reading this, it feels unsettling. You literally hear them "turn their laughter into silence." This contrasts sharply with Electra's loud wailing, creates a haunting void. The play ends silently, with the last murder occurring off stage, after the final line. Electra has delayed her satisfaction, but now she smiles a grim, blood-splattered smile. "There will / Be time enough to smile when we have conquered." But where does this conquering end? Will she turn on Orestes if things go south? What of the guards who certainly will come running to the sound of these murders? Where does the bloodshed end?
The "Tutor" cries out, like the ground receiving Abel's blood: "You reckless fools! ... Are you demented?" But he cries out to chastise them for being too loud, not for their bloodthirsty plan. At the end, Electra silences Aegisthus, the regicide (now become a victim of regicide himself); her only weapon proves to be her language, and she uses it (literally, to fill the air so no one else can speak) to silence others. One can imagine the sound of birds taking over after the characters walk off stage; they were originally mentioned on the first page, but now, probably in the heat of the afternoon, they're getting settled in the branches, calming down for a siesta, for a nap, for a return to silence. But, as you look up from the book, you realize it's been silent this whole time, it's been an artifice, "Orestes only by a fiction." But the terror was real, the wisdom was real, and the knowledge... it's what we don't want to be true, but know to be true. Will you open your eyes, or close them?