The sphinx is a good test case illustrating the complexities of studying Greek hybrids. The pronounced sexuality of modern sphinxes (notably those of Moreau and Ingres) sets them apart from Greek examples, which themselves are very different from the sphinxes of Egypt and the Ancient Near East. Common to all is the blurring of human/animal boundaries, a phenomenon going back to the Palaeolithic. Modern comparisons from New Guinea and Africa confirm that there is an animal dimension at the heart of being human. Hybrids, born of this mixing, are polymorphous, polysemic and polyvalent. Around the hybrid there lurks a host of questions: what bits have been mixed, how exactly are the parts combined, and is the mixture taxonomically fitting or anomalous? Each of these questions shapes our response to a hybrid, affirming the power of hybridity to challenge (or affirm) categories and taxonomies. And since taxonomies are the proof of our comprehending the world by classifying phenomena, hybridity represents a culture’s uneasiness with the limits of its epistemology. If such things exist, even if only in our stories and imagination, how certain is certainty?

Chapter Two addresses the first example of a metaphorical use of blindness: the idea that blindness is a kind of punishment (and results from immoral behaviour). In particular, the chapter focuses on a particularly dangerous category of this trope that persists into the present day – the idea that blind people (and blind characters) are immoral because they are pretending to be blind. Ancient examples in this chapter are Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannus and Oedipus at Colonus and Euripides’ Hecuba and Cyclops (these ancient texts recur in almost every chapter). Modern texts under examination here include Shakespeare’s Henry VI part 2, and King Lear, French medieval drama (especially farce) and the anonymous Historie of Jacob and Esau. As well as introducing this metaphorical use of blindness, this chapter also delves further into the question of temporality and origin-positioning.

This chapter explores the contrast between two types of ultimate authority (the tyrant and the sovereign) and the material limits on both through a study of Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannos. It begins with an examination of the shared terrain between the two terms, and then moves to a study of the discursive development of tyrannos in ancient Greece. Two insights result: first, notions of sovereignty depend on some idea of limits or boundaries, whether recognized or not, to differentiate it from illegitimate tyranny. Second, the legitimacy problem is always political, depending on power and contestation; claims to either sort of ultimate authority will never find secure or self-evident foundations. Oedipus – a benevolent tyrant who has faith in his power because he escaped his fate and has bested the Sphnix – ends up unwittingly demonstrating the limits of both types of claims to ultimate authority. Attempting to find freedom beyond democratic knowledge and the constraints of time and inheritance, Oedipus’s refusal to remain bounded by the material limits of human existence results in his tragic downfall.

To read Lear as connected to Union debates is not reductively topical: the story of Leir belongs to the Galfridian history on which England’s British claims were founded. Moreover, as a Senecan Oedipal tragedy, Shakespeare’s Lear responds to the ‘Oedipal Britain’ found in Elizabethan tragedies such as Gorboduc, Jocasta and The Misfortunes of Arthur. These are national tragedies that lament the natio/nation as lost place of origin, a mother destroyed by her children. Shakespeare’s Lear resists this identification. In Shakespeare’s Lear, the ostentatiously childless deaths of Goneril and Regan destroy the Galfridian prophetic future, while the doubling of Oedipus and Antigone in Lear/Cordelia and Gloucester/Edgar thoroughly ironises and makes impossible any tragic identification of nation and maternal birthplace. In consigning the futureless ‘state’ to Albany and Edgar, icons, respectively, of Scottish enmity and English sea-sovereignty, Shakespeare compounds the tragedy’s ironic relation to contemporary naturalisation debates.

Chapter 4 discusses autonomy (or its lack) as a key element in characters’ fictional ontology. It divides the topic into three themes - freedom, revenge, and suicide - each of which plays a vital role in Seneca’s dual concept of personal and fictional independence. The first section addresses Stoic isolationism as an assertion of individual sovereignty and demonstrates that this trait is shared by Seneca’s sapiens and tragic characters alike. The second section examines revenge as, simultaneously, an amplification and limitation of characters’ autonomy. Finally, the chapter considers Senecan suicide as an expression of free agency in the midst of misfortune, charting its importance across both the prose and the dramatic works.

Chapter 3 charts the prevalence of physical description in Senecan tragedy, arguing that this is not a symptom of Rezitationsdrama, but a consequence of Seneca’s interest in physiognomy and pathogonomy, both of which use bodily signals to evaluate the quality of people’s internal psychological / emotional / mental states. Like coherence and exemplarity, physiognomic analysis unites the quasi-personal and purely fictional elements of character, on the one hand by encouraging audiences to infer a psychology behind characters’ surfaces, and on the other by focusing attention on textual signs and symbols. This chapter discusses the confluence of bodily and mental states in Seneca’s Phaedra and Oedipus.

This chapter continues the theme of the last two in terms of imprinting on a particular object and event, but the two cases described are somewhat more speculative. They are paired together because of their similarity. Both killers were raised in very squalid conditions under the powerful influence of their mothers. Both were exposed to an animal carcass being strung up by their parents. Both subsequently strung up female victims in a manner comparable to the carcass, suggesting a transformation of something aversive into something attractive. Apart from killing two women, Gein dug up bodies of women,who bore some resemblance to his mother, and used body parts as fetish objects. Gein’s behaviour was not associated with dominance. Pickton was subject to harsh punishment as a boy. He was sometimes high on crack cocaine and his victims were sex workers in Vancouver, who were killed in the act of intercourse.

The cholos which is one of the constitutive features of Hera is at the heart of this chapter, which treats the narratives and traditions which recount conflicts involving the Hera of Zeus and certain of Zeus’s sons (e.g. Herakles, Dionysos, Hephaistos), and where her wrath is decisive for the definition of their divine prerogatives and their full integration into the Olympian order. By challenging some of Zeus’s illegitimate children, Hera works as a power of legitimation, redefining the divine family. In the world of heroes, the angry Hera is an agent of legitimation as well, but also of delegitimation, especially in cases of human sovereignty: her intervention contributes to identifying rulers whose sovereignty is rotten, as is the case with the royal family of Thebes under Oedipus, and that of Iolkos, in the epic of the Argonauts. Her interventions are nothing but actions that take charge of and realise the boulai of all the gods collectively and of her husband in particular. She does this, to be sure, in her own way, as a goddess whose characteristic is constructive opposition, but her anger remains, in the final analysis, at the service of an order guaranteed by Zeus.

Books focusing on Sigmund Freud are voluminous; dedicated scholars have spent their lives combing through every detail of his life and contributions, and controversies surrounding his relationships with his followers, colleagues, and patients. However, there has been very little focus on his addiction to cocaine. Even less attention has been paid to his dependence to cigars, which persisted despite the development of oral cancer and numerous surgeries. This chapter focuses on his life vis-à-vis these highly addictive and dangerous substances, discussing their significance in the context of his personality, childhood experiences, and career trajectories. The main purpose of the chapter is to use this dimension of his life to highlight his remarkable strength as well as his vulnerability, and to demonstrate that suffering (childhood adversities and career disappointments) often go hand in hand with unyielding striving leading to remarkable achievements.

King Lear is structured by a surprisingly comprehensive and sustained engagement with Senecan tragedy. The play is about the collapse of society, and the antisocial nature of Senecan tragedy is its major intertextual resource for thinking about the tragic self in relation to community. The play’s first two acts draw heavily on Senecan language to imagine Lear’s furious response to his daughter’s independence. The middle portion of the play, especially the part with Lear in the storm, interrogates a style of high-flown Senecan rhetoric as the voice of a tragic brand of solipsism. The final movement of the play draws heavily on scenes of fraught and partial reconciliation in Seneca’s Hercules Furens and Phoenissae. Since the 1960s, King Lear has been celebrated as the preeminent dramatic representation of deracinated modern subjectivity, at once uplifting and corrosively skeptical. The play has come to be seen as a representative example of the type of modernist allegory Benjamin finds in Trauerspiel – as a representation of what it means to be human after having lost the ability to feel like part of any larger whole. But since Shakespeare achieves this via Seneca, it may be worth revisiting how modern the perspective actually is.

This chapter argues that Hamlet’s status as the preeminent early modern instantiation of modern subjectivity, which dates back to the romantic era, is predicated upon the downgrading of Senecan tragedy’s status and upon misunderstanding the nature of Shakespeare’s relationship with the Senecan tradition. Senecan tragedy as a tradition offers resources for thinking about self-assertion and its limits, and these underpin questions about agency, choice and pre-scriptedness that have been foundational for the tradition that sees Hamlet as a “tragedy of thought.” Hamlet’s post-Freudian association with Oedipus, meanwhile, though traditionally associated with Sophocles, is better understood as part of what we might call a Senecan Oedipus complex. In Senecan tragedy (including Seneca’s Oedipus) the figure of the mother is one symbolic representation of the limits of human autonomy, but the symbolic meaning of the figure of the mother is not limited to a domesticated narrative of infantile development. Critics have asked why Hamlet, of all plays, should have become the key proof text for modern theories of subjectivity and psychology; this chapter suggests that the nature of the play’s engagement with Seneca may be a major reason.

This chapter explores Wagner’s use of Greek myth as a framework for his operatic reform and as the basis for key aspects of plot and character in the Ring cycle. Providing an overview of the composer’s lifelong fascination with the Greeks, it highlights Wagner’s aim of creating a new form of “music drama” that would capture the spirit of ancient Greek tragedy while constituting its rebirth in a modern Germanic guise. It further calls attention to parallels between the Ring and elements of Greek tragedy but shifts the customary focus away from Aeschylus’s Oresteia and Prometheus trilogy toward the Oedipus myth and specifically the character of Antigone, who bears several similarities to Brünnhilde. Wagner’s apparent use of Antigone as a model for Brünnhilde reflects his understanding of both figures as redemptive agents who, through a self-effacing and thoroughly human kind of love, enact a symbolic destruction of the state and thereby point the way toward a more utopian future characterized by a downfall of the existing world order along with a return of the cultural and artistic significance of myth.

Beckett’s narrator in The Unnamable spurns both tragedy’s undeserved pains and the counter-tragic theology and philosophies (Christianity, Platonism, Epicureanism, Stoicism, Skepticism) that aim to rationalize or overcome pain. Beckett’s character tries and fails to negate his humanity, imagining devolution to insentience. This chapter challenges Beckett scholarship that understands the Unnamable to be in search of mystical wordlessness and self-dissolution. Against the grain, it contends that the more Beckett’s narrator wages war on embodiment and language, the more he severs himself from all attachment to the world. His strategies, I suggest, might kindle the opposite desire in readers. This chapter proceeds to argue that Beckett rewrites this nihilistic character in Company, revisiting his tactics but supplying an alternative to them. Company’s narrator admits the attraction of a suicidal narrative strategy yet opts to resuscitate bonds with others by way of lyrical moments of memory.

Though the main figure of this chapter is the American theatre director and theorist Richard Schechner, it ranges widely in its attempt to understand the philosophical implications of the irrationalism that Nietzsche makes a central part of his vision of ancient Greece. Focusing on Dionysus and Oedipus in The Birth of Tragedy and beyond, it argues that the latter mythical hero represents the negative and harmful consequences of irrational, ecstatic knowledge and experience. After a detour through writings of Freud, Lévi-Strauss and Derrida on this subject, the chapter returns to Schechner and to his iconoclastic production Dionysus in 69. The version of Dionysus that emerged from this performative experience was connected to the contemporary discourse of the Dionysiac that expressed so many of the revolutionary and counter-cultural tendencies of the 1960s. In this way the chapter explores the way that Nietzsche’s Greeks underwrote some of the major symbolism of this significant cultural moment.