That which we are drawn to, we draw from. That which has expression, we view as a source of inspiration. Perhaps to plunder for our own, perhaps to disseminate in a contemporary version to feed the mob: the arts obsessed public whose thirst is never quenched.
In the words of Lucan, taken out of context for I do not propose to speak of battles, 'all will stand [or sit] rapt, enthralled'. The fates of those they read of or look at bearing down upon them from ages so far away they can only picture them vaguely, if at all. And yet the enjoyment they feel is intense, and their abandonment to it persuasive. Something new can come from old. The old can be reborn and brought to later nations where fame alone will carry them. Their feats or achievements, their downfalls broadcast throughout the world; renewed and lived through and identified with.
That which we are drawn to and then draw from, we also compare to and with. Hearts tremble with hope and fear. Blood boils with rage. Eyes look away from the page or scene when death looms, pricked with sorrow. Throats refuse to swallow when we too feel the guilt of the guilty. And mouths cheer when the outcome is as it should be, as we knew it would be. We ask of ourselves, if it's unclear, the motives of characters, and whether we too would have acted the same had we been in their position, had we lived in their times. We are disappointed or surprised by the choices people make, when choosing whatever they did would not to us have occurred. The same two questions recur: Would I...? Could I...? for these can be applied to almost any situation, any person. Or we reverse them and ask: Would they...? Could they...? i.e. what would they do if they were stood here right now in my shoes?
We strip History bare as we compare and rewrite and retell, and rob it of its gleaming fruits. Some, it seems, gleam more than others, for they are plucked many times over, and grant to the mortals they symbolise eternal life. Their story, however it's told, with truth or myth, never gets old or tired. It's fruit not forbidden by any gods, but given again and again to eat freely of.
Names that were great remain great, perhaps becoming greater than they were; names that weren't are discovered and become so. The Great can fall, just as less great mortals can commence to shine. Their life not valued for its longevity but what they did with it. For who they were. The actual (person) intertwined with the fictionalised, or their experiences imbued with, and viewed, through a mythological or contemporary lens. The mob wants, and often wants more of, only what they can understand. The Great, whomever they were, must be made relevant. If their persons cannot lend themselves to relevance they cease to exist. Their gleam diminishes.
But Fate and Fame may beckon some time in future, and rescue the long forgotten or the long lost; pluck them from the highest branch or from where they've lain on the ground, in slow decay, and through diligent labour – the poets, the writers etc. - once again bring some profit to great names.
Picture credit: The Garden of the Hesperides, 1892, Frederic Leighton (source: WikiArt).
Written February 2021.
