Faulkner said that the young writers of his time only had one question, "When will I be blown up?"
At moments of crisis, I fear that something similar happens. We lock up the present into a kind of tunnelvision and lose our wider senses. The kind of behavior that causes a lack of policy ability, or freezes a deer on a highway.
The Greeks cuts through this sense with Tragedy, capital T, a balls to the wall anguish that cut them open again. In our most critical moments, whether we're responding or just watching the news, this is critical.
The attached paper fumbles toward just this sense of the tragic, but cast in a Modern realm. The trappings of the Greeks can't do anything for is--but we have to have some way to break through ourselves. Or we may just keep running toward the cliff without looking, or breathing.
So, the open question is, what can we do?
Be warned, this is heavy semiotics. Herbert Blau, Umberto Eco. But, for the rare Augusto Boal fans out there, you're in for a treat.
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