On Satire in Aristophanes’s
Clouds
[The following is the text of a lecture by Ian
Johnston, delivered in part in the main lecture for Liberal Studies 111 at Malaspina College (now Vancouver Island University)in
November 1998 References to the text are to the Arrowsmith
translation in Four Plays by Aristophanes, Penguin, 1962. This document
is in the public domain, released November 1998, and may be used by anyone, in
whole or in part, for any purpose, provided the source is acknowledged]]
This lecture was last revised (very slightly) in
August 2003. For comments and questions, please contact Ian Johnston.
For an e-text translation of The
Clouds, please click here
A. Introduction
Today I want to begin by considering a curious topic: What is
laughter and why do we like to experience laughter, both in ourselves and
others? This will, I hope, serve as something of an entry point into a
consideration of the social importance and uses of laughter in cultural
experience. And this point, in turn, will assist in an introduction to the
importance of humour and laughter in an important form of literature, namely,
satire. All of this, I trust, will help to illuminate what is going on in the Aristophanic comedy we are studying this week, The
Clouds.
To cover all these points is a tall order, and as usual I’m going
to be skating on thin ice at times, but unless we have some sense of the social
importance of humour and group laughter, then we may fail fully to understand
just what Aristophanic satire is and what it sets out
to do.
B. Laughter as a Shared Social Experience
Why do people laugh? And what is laughter? I don’t propose to
answer this very complex psychological problem, but I would like to make some
observations about laughter and humour which may help to clarify the issues
usefully.
When you think about it, laughter is a curious phenomenon. People
momentarily lose their poise, screw their faces up into funny expressions,
often rock their bodies back and forth, and emit strange animal like noises
which in almost any other circumstance would be considered socially quite
unacceptable--snorting, wheezing, and so on. This odd behaviour is usually
accompanied by feelings of emotional satisfaction so strong that the first
impulse after a good laugh is to see if one can experience it again.
Also, the best laughter appears to be a group phenomenon. That is,
we laugh best when we are with others and when they are engaging in the same
sort of behaviour. That which occasions laughter, the joke, is above all a
social phenomenon. It requires a teller and an audience. We don’t tell jokes to
ourselves, or if we do, they may prompt a modest chuckle. But when we get to
the pub, we tell the same joke to a group and laugh uproariously along with all
the others. When we hear a good joke, we normally don’t immediately want to run
away and ponder it alone in the woods; we think about what fun we’re going to
have telling it to a group of people who don’t know it and thus repeat the
experience we have just been through. For it’s a curious fact that, even if we
know the joke, we can derive considerable pleasure and laughter from hearing it
or telling it again in the right context. In other words, the group response
is, I would suggest, one key to understanding why laughter matters.
That’s why a laugh track is an important part of TV comedy. After
all, watching television is not really a group experience, so if we are to
enjoy the laughter a group has to be manufactured for us, so that we have the
impression of participating in a group experience. In a tense TV drama, we don’t
have a “gasp” track or anything that might put us in imaginary touch with a
group undergoing the same experience. That’s not necessary, because in such
situations we are very alone in some ways. But anything that we are supposed to
laugh at is just not as funny if we are very conscious that there’s no one else
participating with us. As the old saying has it, “Laugh and the world laughs
with you; cry and you cry alone.”
Now, this on the face of it is odd. Human beings seem to derive
great pleasure in sitting around listening to stories or seeing behaviour which
then reduces them to a state in which they momentarily lose control of
themselves and revert to strange animal-like behaviour, totally unbecoming to
anyone who has any concern for self-control or a normal reasonably dignified
appearance.
And this I think offers an important insight into the nature of
laughter. When we laugh we are acknowledging that a good deal of what we do in
life is rather silly, that human life is full of aspirations to be something
better than we really are. A joke, and our shared response to a joke, deflates
the dignity and self-control and self-imposed value that human beings place on themselves. When we laugh we are, in a sense, acknowledging
that by our temporary loss of self-control and dignity.
For example, to take the simplest and commonest form of a joke. We spend a
lot of time trying to walk upright in a graceful and well coordinated manner,
and an important part of our self-identity is that we, well, are worth looking
at: cool, dignified, and coordinated. Yet, nothing is funnier to us than to see
someone take a well-staged pratfall, to slip on the banana peel, to lose the
equilibrium we try so hard to maintain, which is such an important part of our
individual dignity. Similarly, when someone is trying to reach up to the stars
and his pants fall down (often as a reaction to the effort of reaching upward),
we see that as funny, because its a sudden and
unexpected reminder of the ambivalence of being a human being, a creature who
aspires to great things in search of nobility but who has to cover his rather
silly looking backside. The temporary and unexpected loss of control over ourselves registers as a shared agreeable experience.
C. A Sense of Humour
We talk about people having a sense of humour. What we mean, I
think, by this phrase is the ability to perceive a certain discrepancy between
the normal behaviour and the unexpected deflation of it. When a joke presents
itself in language, responding to it with a sense of humour depends upon being
able to see the ways in which language may be manipulated in unexpected ways to
produce a curious effect, contrary to what we might have expected.
The most obvious example of this is the pun, which depends upon
the audience’s ability to recognize the way in which a particular word can be
unexpectedly manipulated to produce an effect contrary to our expectations.
Some people have great difficulty appreciating puns--they don’t see the humour
of treating language that way, either because they don’t see the multi-layered
meanings of words or because they see them but they don’t think it’s very funny
to treat language that way or because they find the pun just too common and
obvious a form of comic surprise.
Possessing a sense of humour is a complex business. It’s not just
a matter of rational understanding. We all know how lame it is to have a joke
explained. The source of the humour may be exposed, but the joke is not funny any more. In other words, if the punch line doesn’t have a
punch, a sudden and instantaneous effect, then the joke doesn’t do its work
properly.
Another point here, of course, is that a sense of humour is
something often unique to a particular cultural group. That’s clear enough,
given that humour has to draw upon the shared experiences of the group in order
to contradict them or surprise them. Listening to Bill Cosby’s story about Noah
makes little sense to anyone who is quite unfamiliar with the story, who has
never wondered exactly what a “cubit” it, or who has no knowledge of what
modern suburban living really is. That’s one reason perhaps why one can learn
the language of a country very well and yet still find much of its humour
incomprehensible or unfunny (e.g., American Jewish humour, Chicano humour, and
so on).
D. The Joke: Some Thoughts About
Structure
The things that make us laugh, I would suggest, are often of this
nature. They are out of the blue reminders that, for all our pretensions to
greatness, nobility, value and what not, we are curious animals, whose body
parts and behaviour can often reveal that we are quite ridiculous, no matter
how hard we try to avoid that truth. When we laugh together, we are sharing an
insight into our common human nature.
Hence, the common observation that the most basic joke is one that
contradicts our expectations (this is a standard Aristophanic
device). In telling a joke, we set up certain expectations, which are then
violated or altered in some unexpected way. The humour comes from a shared
recognition that we’ve been had, that our human natures are somehow rather
different from what we had imagined. Telling a joke well thus often requires
two things: the ability to set up the expectation and then the ability to
deliver the punch line which contradicts or deflates that expectation in an
unexpected manner.
We all know people who are very poor joke tellers. They have no
sense of structure or they blow the punch line too early. And few things are
more frustrating to listen to than someone who tells jokes badly. Presenting a
joke requires a certain sophistication, either in
physical presentation or in the verbal telling, and if it’s not done right,
then the shared group experience doesn’t take place. Setting up the joke is
probably the more difficult part of the exercise, a fact which may be the
reason why in a comedy twosome, like Abbott and Costello, the straight man, the
set up artist, usually gets more pay than the deliverer of the punch line.
The ability to tell jokes well, however, is an enormous social
asset, primarily because it’s the quickest way to get the group’s attention, to
consolidate the feeling of a group as a group, and to transform any disunity or
irritation into a pleasant, non-threatening, shared social experience. Many
people, like myself, learn early in life that telling
jokes or transforming potentially threatening situations into jokes is an
enormously powerful survival tactic. If you can make someone who is threatening
you laugh with you, then you have transformed the situation from one of danger
to yourself into one of a shared moment of understanding of your common
humanity.
The Greeks themselves had a favorite story about this phenomenon.
It featured their most popular folk hero, Hercules. On one of his adventures he
captured two nasty brothers, the Cercopes, and was
carrying them off to do away with them. As they lay hanging down Hercules’s
back they started making jokes about his hairy, ugly rump. They were so funny
that they got Hercules laughing so that he couldn’t stop, and he had to let
them go. After all, it’s difficult to feel hostile towards someone who is
constantly making you laugh together.
E. The Two-Edged Nature of the Joke
I have tried to stress the social basis for the humour which
arises from sharing a joke in order to bring out the first key point of this
lecture, that laughter and the presentations of jokes which bring it about, is
above all else a social experience which has to be shared in order to be
effective. Someone who is incapable of participating in a joke, for whom there is no laughter of the sort I have been
describing, is in some important ways cut off from full participation in many
of the most important ways in which groups consolidate their identity and learn
together.
It’s important to stress that not all jokes work in the same ways.
There are, for example, at least two common effects of jokes--those which
reinforce a group’s identity by excluding others and those which educate the
group into a new awareness of itself. For instance, a good deal of the most
common colloquial humour is what we might call “locker room” laughter, the
shared experience which comes from making fun of someone whom the group wishes
to exclude. For it’s clear that one of the most powerful ways in which a group
of people can repel any outsiders or deal with the threat of unwelcome
intrusions by outsiders is to make fun of such outsiders, to, in effect,
dehumanize them, so that what we are sharing in our laughter is the shared
awareness that we are better than such people.
Such “exclusionary” humour is the basis for a good deal of humour
which these days we consider unacceptable--racist jokes, sexist jokes, ethnic
jokes (The Andrew Dice Clay school of comic
performance). While we disapprove of such humour often for the very Platonic
reason that it corrupts our understanding of others not immediately like
ourselves, we have to recognize that it is amazingly popular, no where more so than on the Internet. If we need any
evidence of the importance many people place on using jokes and shared laughter
as a means of maintaining a sense of exclusionary solidarity in the face of
constant threats of intrusion, we have only to dial up an appropriate “hate”
address on the Internet.
But humour can also be educational, that is, it can transform our
understanding of the group, and by doing that in a way that we all share it can
effect a pleasant, yet very effective transformation of the situation. To
listen to Bill Cosby, for example, is to be reminded through laughter, that the
life of a black child or parent is, for all our particular racial stereotyping,
a shared human experience. In laughing at what we share together, we are
unconsciously transforming our understanding of our mutual relationship in a
common group. That why, in a sense, one of the surest ways to educate a group
into a new awareness of something is through comedy.
And that’s the reason perhaps why often we find stand up comedians
in the forefront of those who are pushing hardest at our understanding of
ourselves, frequently in very painful ways. When Lenny Bruce used to stand up
and chant the word “Nigger” at his audience or make jokes about dope addicts
and prostitutes he was, in effect, pushing at the envelope of what that group
accepted as normal. For many people, his jokes were offensive, that is, the
shock or the punch line was too unexpected to overcome the built-in habits of
the group. But for those who found themselves laughing at the humour, the
experience was, in a small but important way, a means of reminding them of the
limits of their understanding and thus, to a certain extent, an expansion of
their knowledge of what the group was and what it might include. When we laugh
at Bill Cosby’s humour, for example, we are ignoring or forgetting the fact
that he is an Afro-American different from white folks and are acknowledging
our common human identity.
F. Satire: A General Definition
The mention of the name Lenny Bruce brings me to the main point of
the first part of this lecture, the particular form of humour which we call
satire. We are all more or less familiar with what satire is, since we are
exposed to it a good deal, but its precise literary sense may not be quite so
clear.
Formally defined, satire is “A composition in verse or prose
holding up vice or folly to ridicule or lampooning individuals. . . . The use
of ridicule, irony, sarcasm, etc., in speech or writing for the ostensible
purpose of exposing and discourage vice or folly.”
In other words, satire is a particular use of humour for overtly
moral purposes. It seeks to use laughter, not just to remind us of our common
often ridiculous humanity, but rather to expose those moral excesses, those
corrigible sorts of behaviour which transgress what the writer sees as the
limits of acceptable moral behaviour.
Let me put this another way. If we see
someone or some group acting in a way we think is morally unacceptable and we
wish to correct such behaviour, we have a number of options. We can try to
force them to change their ways (through threats of punishment); we can deliver
stern moral lectures, seeking to persuade them to change their ways; we can try
the Socratic approach of engaging them in a conversation which probes the roots
of their beliefs; or, alternatively, we can encourage everyone to see them as
ridiculous, to laugh at them, to render them objects of scorn for the group. In
doing so we will probably have at least two purposes in mind: first, to effect
some changes in the behaviour of the target (so that he or she reforms) and,
second, to encourage others not to behave in such a manner.
In that sense, what sets satire apart from normal comedy (and the
two often shade into each other in ways which make an exact border line difficult
to draw), is that in satire there is usually a clear and overt didactic
intention, a clear moral lesson is the unifying power of the work. Whereas in
normal comedy, we are being asked to laugh at ourselves and our common human
foibles, in satire the basis of the humour is generally some corrigible
unwelcome conduct in a few people or in a particular typical form of human
behaviour. Normal comedy, if you will, reminds us of
our incorrigible human limitations; satire focus rather on those things which
we can correct in order to be better than we are (or, if not better, at least
not as bad). This is no doubt a somewhat muddied distinction at this point, but
it should become clearer as we proceed.
At the basis of every good traditional satire is a sense of moral
outrage or indignation: This conduct is wrong and needs to be exposed. Hence,
to adopt a satiric stance requires a sense of what is right, since the target
of the satire can only be measured as deficient if one has a sense of what is
necessary for a person to be truly moral. And if this satire is to have any
effect, if it is to be funny, then that sense of shared moral meaning must
exist in the audience as well. Satire, if you like, depends upon a shared sense
of community standards, so that what is identified as contrary to it can become
the butt of the jokes.
This moral basis for satire helps to explain why a satire, even a
very strong one which does nothing more than attack unremittingly some target,
can offer a firm vision of what is right. By attacking what is wrong and
exposing it to ridicule the satirist is acquainting the reader with a shared
positive moral doctrine, whether the satire actually goes into that doctrine in
detail or not. Aristophanes in the Clouds may be taking a harshly critical
view of Socrates (and others, as we shall see), but there may well be an
important positive moral purpose behind that.
[I should note here that it is possible to write satire in the
absence of any shared sense of moral standards, but the result is a curious
form of “black” satire. This genre is particularly common today. Modern satire
typically makes everything look equally ridiculous. In such a satiric vision,
there is no underlying vision of what right conduct is and the total effect, if
one tries to think about it, is very bleak indeed--a sense that we might as
well laugh at the ridiculousness of everything because nothing has any meaning.
Whether we call this Monty Python or Saturday Night Live or This
Hour Has Twenty-two Minutes or whatever, it seems to add up to an attitude
that since there’s no significant meaning to anything,
we might as well laugh at everything. That will enable us to retreat with style
from the chaos. Such an attitude is very much at odds with traditional satire,
which tends to work in the service of a moral vision which is being abused by
particular people or particular conduct]
G. Satire: Some Comments on the Range
Given that central to what we call traditional satire is some
underlying moral vision, so that the “negative” portrayal of the target works
in the service of a “positive” vision, it is clear that satire can take on a
wide range of tones. That is, the moral indignation at
the heart of the satirist can lead him to something really vicious and savage,
an unrelenting and unforgiving attack on what he sees as extreme moral
corruption in what he is ridiculing, or, alternatively, the indignation of the
satirist may temper itself with some affection for the target, so that the
satire is much more good natured, less abusive and aggressive, even to the
point where we are not sure just how much the comic portrait is really satiric
or simply comic (as in, say, a celebrity “roast,” where a group of people
attack one of their friends, but do so in an affectionate way, so that the
target really has nothing to complain about, even if some of the jokes hit a
tender nerve at times).
Satire thus can come in many forms, from savage to gentle, but it
remains satire so long as we feel that the writer’s main purpose is making us
laugh at conduct which he believes ought to be corrected. Whether we see Aristophanes’s portrayal of Socrates as aggressively
vicious or as much more affectionately funny, the satiric purpose remains clear
so long as we sense that Aristophanes intends us to see the Thinkery
as something we should not place our faith in, as something ridiculous. To the
extent that Socrates and the Thinkery become
attractive to us (say, because of the energy and humour of the place), the
satiric purpose is diminished. More of this later.
H. Satire: Some Basic Techniques
How does a satirist set about ridiculing the vice and folly she
wants the audience to recognize as unacceptable? Remember that the challenge to
the satirist is to get the moral point across with humour, so that the audience
or the reader laughs in the appropriate manner. Put another way, the challenge
is to put across serious matters in humorous ways.
Let me restate this point because it is crucial. The central
message of satire is often very simple and can be stated quickly. Satire is,
for reasons we shall consider in a moment, not a genre which encourages complex
explorations of deep psychological issues in the characters. It’s much more
like a repetitive insistence on the foolishness of certain kinds of behaviour.
So the problem for the satirist is to make his treatment funny, that is, to
keep the jokes coming quickly and with sufficient variety so that the audience
stays interested in what is going on. Nothing is staler in art than a satire
which runs out of steam or which starts to repeat itself in predicable ways.
That’s why the staple form for modern satire is the short skit--set up, punch
line, fade out. In a longer satire, like an Aristophanic
play or Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels the problem is to keep the reader
interested through one’s technique.
Well, there are a number of basic strategies. I list them here in
no particular order.
1. First, the satirist sets up a target--either a person like
Socrates or Strepsiades or Pisthetairos or a group like the Thinkery--which
will symbolize the conduct he wishes to attack. Satire, in other words, has a
clear target. Setting up the target in a way that can generate humour in a
variety of ways is an important talent. The Thinkery,
for instance, is not just a one-line joke about the nature of Sokratic inquiry; in the play it becomes the source for a
number of other jokes, verbal and visual, e.g., Socrates hanging in a basket,
the pot bellied stove (always emitting strange smoke), the students gazing at
the ground with their bums in the air, all sorts of strange quasi-philosophical
mumbo jumbo, and so on. On the stage, the Thinkery is
a fertile source for humorous variety; the initial message may be simple and
repetitive, so to keep the audience interested the theatrical presentation has
to be varied and funny. Nothing is duller than a humorless satire.
But in The Clouds the target is not just Socrates. Another
target is clearly the middle-aged Athenian male, Strepsiades, full of energy
and crudity, desperate to sort out the difficulties of his personal life (the
problems of belonging to a litigious, imperialistic society from which
traditional systems of order have disappeared). And this Groucho
Marx like character is put into hopelessly exaggerated situations, where he has
to deal with the Thinkery. His reasons for wanting to
have anything to do with Socrates and his manner of dealing with his trouble
(in all its variety) is the source of most of the satire and identifies for us Aristophanes’s main target--the average Athenian citizen.
Clearly, most Athenians are not exactly like Strepsiades, but there’s enough
connection between him and the average citizen to make the satiric point clear
enough.
2. Second, the satirist will typically exaggerate and distort the
target in certain ways in order to emphasize the characteristics he wishes to
attack and, most importantly, to provide recurring sources of humour. Such
exaggeration and distortion are key elements in the humour. The target must be
close enough to the real thing for us to recognize what is going on, but
sufficiently distorted to be funny, an exaggeration, often a
grotesque departure from normality. The Clouds still can provide an
amusing and provocative evening’s entertainment for someone who has never heard
of Socrates, but obviously the person who does have some familiarity with that
figure is going to derive a great deal more from the play.
The example of a political cartoon is instructive here. When we
laugh at the cartoon of, say, Clinton, we are responding to two things: a recognition of the original and of what the satirist has
done to distort the original so as to make it ridiculous for a particular
purpose. The cartoon may still be very funny for someone who doesn’t know
Clinton, but some of the immediate edge will clearly be lost.
In that sense, all satire is, of course, unfair, if by that we
mean that the depiction of the target is not life-like, not a true copy, not
naturalistic. Of course, it’s not. There would be no cartoon if all we had was
a photograph of Clinton. Making the targets ridiculous means bending them out
of shape (as in a distorting mirror), not beyond recognition but certainly far
from their normal appearance. The point of the satire often lies in the nature
of the distortion. Much of the best satire depends, in other words, on a
skillful caricature or cartoon, rather than on any attempt at a life-like
rendition of the subject.
So to complain that Socrates in The Clouds is nothing like
the real Socrates is to miss the point. Aristophanes is setting up his Socrates
to symbolize in a ridiculously distorted manner certain ways of behaving which
he wishes his audience to recognize as absurd. At the same time, the portrait
has to have some recognizable connection to Socrates if the play is to make a
connection with the audience. But it’s important, too, to recognize that the
main satire may not be directed so much at Socrates, ridiculous as he is, but
at Strepsiades for his desire to believe in Socrates for his own
self-interested purposes.
Such distortion obviously involves setting up a certain distance
between the target and the audience. That is, we are not in a satire invited to
consider the inner feelings of the targets or to speculate on any complex
psychological motives for why they behave the way they do. The satirist focuses
his ridicule on external behaviour, not on speculating about possible complex
psychological motivation for that behaviour. To do the latter is to bring the
audience into the inner workings of the target’s heart and mind, and once one
has done that, it is difficult to respond to the target satirically. As the old
French saying has it, “Tout comprendre c’est tout pardonner” [“To
understand everything is to forgive everything”]. For that reason it’s difficult
to satirize anyone whose inner psychological troubles are well known. Richard
Nixon was easy to satirize until he broke down on national television and bared
his truly desperate feelings to the world.
3. Once the target is delineated in an appropriately distorted
way, the satire proceeds by an unrelenting attack. Here the satirist has a
variety of weapons, ranging from rude direct insults and a lot of robust
physical humour (pratfalls, misunderstandings, mock fights, farting, waving the
phallus in the air) to more complex assaults parodying various forms of
language and belief. The Clouds is justly famous as a very robust satire
featuring a wide variety of satiric techniques, some very corny, some rude,
some very physical, some sophisticated parody (in language), some pointed
personal references to members of the audience, a direct address to the
audience, some lyrical interludes, lots of dancing and singing and music, and a
wealth of technical detail in the stage design and costumes, and so on, a whole
arsenal of techniques designed above all else to keep the attack varied and
funny (with no concessions to political correctness). The audience doesn’t have
time to pause, because something new and unexpected is about to happen at
almost every moment.
This emphasis on the variety of an unremitting attack may help to
explain the structure of Aristophanic comedy, which
at first glance seems to suffer from the lack of any complex plot. In a sense
it is a very linear form of drama in which one incident follows hard upon the
heels of another, more like a series of skits held together by a common central
character, than a carefully crafted story in which a lot of the interest comes
from curious twists and turns in the plot.
This form of play, the Aristophanic comedy,
is technically called Old Comedy, and it is, as I have observed, marked by a
continuing variety in what goes on, more like an old style pantomime than the
sorts of situation comedies we are used to (which derive from what we call New
Comedy). The story, such as it is, focuses on one person’s attempts to cope
with the complexities of Athenian life in the face of very odd circumstances
marked by all sorts of interruptions. As a vehicle for dramatic variety it is
unsurpassed, but it certainly won’t answer the needs of those who demand the
consistent depiction of a naturalistic slice of life drama with an intricate
plot.
A good many of these attacks are going to draw upon the shared
cultural milieu of the playwright and the audience (names of particular people
and events, excerpts from particularly well known speeches or plays, references
to current affairs, and so on). The aim of the satirist is to deliver an
unremitting attack on the target which the audience can laugh at, so that the
audience’s shared response, its laughter, can effectively deal with the
behaviour which the satirist wishes to correct.
In this connection, the notion and use of satiric irony is
important. This is a technique which, as its name suggests, confronts the
audience with the discrepancy between what characters say and do and what we
fully understand by their actions. To appreciate satire, that is, we have to
have a sense of where the satirist is coming from, so that we recognize the
distortion and the ridiculous behaviour for what it is. If we fail to see the
satiric irony at work, then our response may defeat the purposes of the
satirist, because we will be tempted to say one of two things: (a) well, life’s
not like that so I don’t see the point (e.g., there is such place as the Thinkery and that portrait of Socrates is just stupid,
because he’s not like that in real life) or (b) hey, I think that action by the
target is just great; maybe we should all be more like that (e.g., Hey that’s a
great idea. I think I’ll enroll my son at the Thinkery).
If we fail to see the function of the satiric irony, in other
words, we may dismiss the fiction as mere stupidity, or we may embrace it as
something admirable. So the challenge of the satirist is to make the satiric
intention clear but not overly obvious, so that the audience derives a certain
pleasure from participating in the in-joke, in seeing what the writer is
getting at through the humour.
That quality of satire makes it, for all its frequent crudity and
knock-about farce, a much more “intellectual” genre than many others. To
appreciate satire one has to be able to recognize the continuing existence of
different levels of meaning (that is, of irony), and the more sophisticated the
satire the more delicate the ironies. Or, put another way, satire requires a
certain level of education and sophistication in the audience. People can still
respond to the fun of Aristophanes, to the dramatic action and the crude fun,
but with no sense for satiric irony, the point of the piece will get rather lost.
4. In assaulting the target in this way, the satirist is going to
be pushing hard at the edge of what the audience is prepared to accept. If the
satirist wants really to connect with the audience, then the writer is going
often to be pushing language at the audience in new ways, taking risks with
what they are prepared to accept. After all, if the purpose is to wake people
up to the moral realities of their daily situation, then often some fairly
strong language and surprising imagery is going to be in order. That, of
course, presents the risk of offending the audience’s taste. If an audience
turns away from the work in disgust, then they are not going to attend to
whatever important moral lesson the satirist is striving to call attention to.
Hence the more aggressive the satirist, the more delicately the writer has to
walk along the line of what is acceptable and what is not. It’s no accident
that expanding the envelope of what is acceptable on the stage or in prose is
often the work of our satirists.
This point is worth stressing, because if a satirist is really
touching a nerve in the audience, then a common response is to find ways to
neutralize the satire. I have sketched out four of the common methods one can
use to do that: (a) take the satire literally and dismiss it as absurd or
embrace it as a good idea (the satiric irony is thus lost and the point of the
satire evaporates), (b) reject the satire because it is too rude or crude (it
offends my taste); (c) reject the satire because it is “unfair” or not
sufficiently true to life (this is very similar to point a above); (d) reject
the satire by failing to respond to the ironies.
I. Is Satire Ever Effective?
How effective is satire at realizing its objective, that is, the
moral reformation of the audience? I suppose the short answer is not very
often, especially nowadays, when being laughed at is often a sign of celebrity
rather than something one is automatically ashamed of. I suspect that in
closely knit groups, where one’s status and dignity are important, becoming a
laughing stock is something one worries about. Under these circumstances, the
satirist may indeed really connect with the target. That, however, may prompt
extreme hostility to the writer rather than a reformation of the target’s character.
Swift observed that satire is like a mirror in which people see
everyone’s face except their own. That, I suspect, is a very accurate
observation, and to that extent the satirist is probably engaging in something
of a vain endeavour: to get people to recognize their own ridiculousness and to
avoid it in the future. Still, there may be some other, more useful point. For
satire is not just a matter of attacking the target; it’s also a matter of
attacking or at least challenging those who believe in the target, who do not
see, that is, the moral imperfections at the basis of a particular social or
political stance.
So it may be the case that satire works most effectively at
educating an audience to see through the pretensions and folly of people whom it
takes much more seriously than they ought to be taken. If it does that, then it
has used laughter in a very constructive way, as mentioned above: it has helped
to show us that too often our sense of what we are, as individuals and as
groups, is too limited by delusions of grandeur. Too often we become enamored
of false idols. Satire is one means of educating us against the practice.
J. The Clouds
If we acknowledge, then, that The Clouds is a satire, what
does Aristophanes wish us to learn from witnessing the play? I take it that
many of his satiric techniques are obvious enough from the text, although one
needs to affirm that we are most unlikely to realize the full satiric potential
of this wonderful play without witnessing a first-class production of it. There
are few dramas that proffer such an invitation to use the full resources of the
stage to keep the audience constantly involved in the action: all sorts of
amazing stage devices, pyrotechnics, amusing costumes (including phalluses),
repeated physical conflict, and so on. We gather only a small and insufficient
sense of the dramatic potential of the work by reading it.
Still, we do get some sense of how this play might appear, so we
are in a position to explore what Aristophanes wants us to think about. I would
maintain that the satire here goes through at least three distinct stages and
that, in going through these stages, the tone of the satire changes from
something very amusing and distant from us to something much closer to us, more
potentially disturbing, and perhaps apocalyptic. By the end of the play we may
well have moved beyond satire; we are, in any case, a long way from the opening
scenes of the play.
In the opening scenes of the play, the butt of the satire is
clearly Socrates. This may be (indeed, is) an unfair portrait of the Socrates
we know from the Gorgias and the Apology
(for one thing in those works Socrates is not concerned with physical science
and expressly repudiates the notion that he wants to make the weaker argument
the stronger). But the satire is very vigorous and funny. As an audience we can
laugh good humouredly at a familiar face and place a considerable distance
between us and what seems to be the major target of the satire.
One point to stress here is that in the opening of the play, the
satire is (for an audience) quite comfortable. The laughter is (if we discuss
it in terms of a distinction I introduced earlier) exclusionary. The variously
silly things about the Thinkery and Socrates invite
that audience to laugh at him as a charlatan and humbug. This is
comfortable for an audience, because the satire is apparently directed at a
single person, not at them, and since they are not Socrates, they are clearly
not implicated in Aristophanes’s ridicule.
However, Socrates does not remain the sole (or even the most
important target of Aristophanes’s satire), for the
main aim of the satire changes somewhat when Strepsiades decides to enroll in
the Thinkery himself. Strepsiades, after all, is a
representative Athenian, and it is made clear to us that for him the attraction
of Socrates’s school (which he has told us is humbug)
is naked self-interest. He wants to defraud his fellow citizens out of the
money he owes them. He wants, as he makes clear to us, to learn the art of
breaking his promises at the expense of his fellow citizens.
At this point, Aristophanes is casting his satiric net more
widely: this is no longer an attempt merely to expose Socrates to ridicule but
to include the self-serving greed of Athenians, including, of course, some of
those in the audience. In some respects, at this point Strepsiades becomes a
more serious and uncomfortable target than Socrates--and the moral tone becomes
potentially somewhat more serious. After all, Socrates is in some sense better
than Strepsiades. He may be silly, but at least he believes in what he is doing
and devotes all his energies to doing that. Strepsiades, by contrast, is not at
all interested in learning anything about what Socrates is up to; he simply
wants to be equipped to escape his obligations. The satire here is just as
funny, especially Strepsiades’s stupidity. But his
willingness to corrupt language to serve his own interests is something more
serious than Socrates’s wild speculations.
And this is reinforced by the sense that Strepsiades is not just a
single particular Athenian known to the audience (like Socrates). Strepsiades
is also a social type: a man who married above his station and has a son whose
spending he cannot control. He is, in a sense, representative of a certain kind
of citizen, many of whom may well be sitting in the audience. Thus, holding his self-interested greed up to ridicule is clearly
implicating, not just one local weirdo, but a certain social type or social
attitude. In other words, increasingly numbers of the audience who were
laughing so comfortably at Socrates only a few minutes before are now being
forced to laugh at themselves or their neighbours.
A similar shift occurs soon afterwards. Once we come to the debate
between the Old and the New Philosophy, the satire changes its emphasis (or,
rather, enlarges its concerns). This debate makes it clear that what is at
stake here is not just a silly thinker or a greedy social type. What
Aristophanes is after is an indictment of an entire way of life, especially of
the modern trends which are eroding traditional values. The debate (especially
if we see it on stage with the magnificent costumes and the ritualized combat)
is very funny, but the moral concerns are coming much closer to home. The
willingness to dispense with proven values in education and conduct brings with
it the loss of something which the playwright clearly sees as something
valuable.
It may be the case that Aristophanes is a staunch defender of the
old values. But that need not be so. After all, the old philosophy comes in for
some satiric jibes, especially for his prurience and rather simple indignation,
which might well be presented as a sort of naive stuffiness. But there can be
no doubt, I think, of the seriousness of the issues at stake here, the erosion
of old values enshrined in a shared tradition and a communal respect for that
tradition.
In this connection, the decision of the narrator to label the
disputants Philosophy and Sophistry may be somewhat misleading.
Traditionally, these debaters have been called the Just (or Major or Better)
Logic and the Unjust (or Minor or Weaker) Logic (as Arrowsmith’s
long endnote on p. 153 indicates). Arrowsmith
is right, I think, when he claims (in the same note) that “Aristophanes is
talking, not about systems of formal logic, but about whole system of Reason,
discursive and nondiscursive alike),” which he
characterizes later (on p. 154) as an argument between “the rational guidance
of Custom . . . , the corrective rightness of traditional experience as against
the restless innovations and risky isolation from experience and history of the
pure intellect.”
To frame the dispute that way may be fair enough, but the labels
Philosophy (for traditional values) and Sophistry (for innovation) may mislead,
especially if we come to this play (as many readers to) fresh from dealing with
Socrates’s definition of his endeavour as philosophy
(rather than as oratory), for it would appear to load the scales somewhat on
behalf of what Arrowsmith calls Philosophy, when, in
fact, the point of the satire may well be that both disputants are, for
different reasons, equally foolish. The comic dispute, in other words,
may be a funny dramatic symbol for a serious social problem which lies at the
heart of this satire: the traditional ways of valuing have broken down, not
because they have been “defeated” by some newer and more sophisticated form of
valuing, but rather because the old traditions have become stuffy, pretentious,
ungrounded, and silly. Aristophanes, in other words, may not be
celebrating traditional values, so much as satirizing the vain glory of those
values, now without power in a transformed world, forced to defend itself with
indignant comparative spluttering about the penis length.
It’s clear, too, just what is eroding
that tradition: the ability to manipulate language. The New Philosophy
(Sophistry) wins the day because the form of linguistic analysis it uses can,
the face of the weakness of traditional beliefs, undermine the value of
anything. We are seeing here (in satiric comic form) something of the same
thing that Herodotus is doing to traditional stories, subjecting them to
rational analysis. Here, of course, the exercise is a parody of such analysis,
but the effect is the same: calling the old story (and the values which it
expresses) into question. The mistake of the Old Philosophy (or the fatal
weakness) is a simple uncritical trust in a shared system of meaning in words
and of the importance of certain old stores as enshrining permanent values.
Having nothing intelligent to counter the New Philosophy’s demolition of that
shared meaning, the Old Philosophy can only acknowledge the loss.
What has contributed to developments of this method which lead to
the loss of traditional value? The end of the debate between the two
Philosophies makes that very clear. The responsibility lies with the audience
of Athenian citizens, the “buggers,” who are indicted by the Old Philosophy as
he concedes defeat. By this point the easy satire of the opening of the play,
where the audience member could feel a comfortable distance between himself and
the ridiculous figure of Socrates, has altered
significantly. Now, Socrates and his Thinkery are no
longer the issue. The central concern is the neglect by the Athenians
themselves of their old traditions and their love of novelty in the service of
self-interest. The theatrical action is still very funny (the style has not
changed), but the target is now all-encompassing.
The dramatic point is worth stressing. The play begins by inviting
the audience to laugh at the ridiculousness of one particular person for his
outright humbuggery. As mentioned above, such satire poses no threat to members
of the audience and draws them into the story with reassuring ease and much
fun. But in the course of the play, the members of the audience are
pressured to extend their understanding of humbuggery so that it now includes themselves. It’s as if Aristophanes is asking very
pointedly: All right, you found certain conduct in Socrates hilarious. How
about that same conduct in yourselves? What’s the difference?
The consequences of this attitude emerge in the quarrel between
Strepsiades and his son. Again, there’s a lot of humour in the exchange and the
physicality of the staging, but the seriousness of the issue is made explicit.
If we abandon traditions to serve only our individual self-interest, then we
are left with a situation in which the only basis for human relationships is
power. In such a world, why should a son not beat up his father and his mother?
There is no particular reason not to. Since laws are only human conventions
invented by the stronger party, they can be changed once power shifts, and
people can now do more or less as they want. Pheidippides
makes the case that human beings are just like animals, and in the animal
world, the barnyard, power is the basis of all relationships.
It may be all very well for Strepsiades to yell at his son that if
we wants to live as a barnyard animal he can go and
shit on a perch. But Pheidippides’s case has, in
fact, been endorsed by Strepsiades earlier in the play when he puts his own
self-interest ahead of anything else. After all, if, in the interests of one’s
personal advancement, one wants to cheat one’s neighbours of what one owes (and
has promised), then what defense does one have against the son who wants to
beat his parents? The principles that one might want to invoke to prevent the
latter are the same as those which should prevent the former. As Pheidippides demonstrates, once an old tradition grows too
feeble and one sets about undermining tradition with the new linguistic
analysis, anything is possible.
Here, of course, Aristophanes is touching a really sore point in
Athenian social life (and in ours). How do we keep the good will of our
children on whom we are going to depend? What is it that keeps children from
exerting their superior physical power to abuse their parents when they don’t
get their way? In Athenian times, and even today, this is a significant
concern, especially since the continuing health and peaceful life of the
elderly requires the benevolent co-operation of the children (much more so then
than now). Once that goes, then something very basic to the fabric of our
immediate family life breaks down. The members of Aristophanes’s
audience would have no trouble seeing in that issue something of direct
importance in their lives (no more than members of a modern audience).
At this point in the play, I am suggesting, the satire, while
still very robust and funny, is a lot more uncomfortable. The action is pushing
us to the recognition that the real issue here is not Socrates (silly as he may
be), but rather a self-interested greed which will rebound on us. Strepsiades’s initial motivation is to serve his
self-interest in any way possible; without realizing it, he initiates a course
of action which leads inevitably to his physical abuse. The
responsibility for this lies, not with Socrates, nor even with Strepsiades, but
with the members of the audience, the “buggers.” And this issue is now
something with which all members of the audience will be fully involved, since
they have parents and children and they certainly have a fear of family abuse.
Aristophanes is pointing out that the very behaviour which makes Socrates so
funny earlier in the play and which they, like Strepsiades, engage in out of
self-interest, may well unleash behaviour of which they are all afraid (or
ought to be).
The Chorus
That such a concern about the Athenian population generally is the
major satiric thrust of the play is made more explicit by the single most
important dramatic presence in the play: the Chorus of Clouds, in many ways the
most ambiguous element in the play.
The Chorus is made up of seductive female singers and dancers
(just how seductive the staging will determine), divine presences bringing with
them the promise of rain and fertility. But it’s quickly made clear that
they are primarily the divine personalities who answer to the desires of those
who wish to create something in words, “goddesses of men of leisure and
philosophers. To them we owe our repertoire of verbal talents; our
eloquence, intellect, fustian, casuistry, force, wit, prodigious vocabulary,
circumlocutory skill. . . .” Hence, they are defined as the patrons of
all those who manipulate others with words. And this function is mirrored
in their characteristic of having no definite shape, but taking on the form in
accordance with what the perceiver wishes to see.
That may be the reason they come through in this play as having no
consistent point of view, no easily assignable meaning. Socrates can hail
them as his patron, and so can the figure of Aristophanes. They can
celebrate Strepsiades’s decision to enroll in the Thinkery and berate the Athenian audience for its silliness
about the lunar calendar--all the time dominating the stage with their singing
and dancing. The “meaning” of the Chorus of Clouds (if that is the right
word) is as protean as their shape: like the language the Athenians use for
various purposes they have no firmness, no determinate form. To the
extent this play has a cosmic divine presence, that’s brought to us by the
Clouds themselves.
That comic business about the Clouds controlling everything for
which the traditional gods are given credit, all that stuff about the cosmic
convection principle, thunder as farting, and so on, may be funny, but the
issue lies at the heart of the play’s moral indignation at what is happening in
Athens, where the possibilities for a significant life are being systematically
corrupted by the seductive power of words, of language itself, which is now
being shaped to human beings’ desires, rather than directing those
desires. The fact that the Clouds spend so much time singing and dancing
(and this, one would hope, would be done beautifully on stage) enacts the very
point the play is making about the issues they represent.
This point about the corruption of language applies to everyone in
the play. For it’s not the case, I think, that Aristophanes is
privileging the older ways. That figure of Philosophy (or the Just
Argument) is as self-serving and silly in his language as is Sophistry (or the
Unjust Argument). Indeed, the similarity between the two in this respect makes
them both servants of the Clouds and conveys a potentially disturbing irony to
all the comic business.
The Ending of The Clouds
That irony I refer to helps to make the ending of this play
potentially so ominous. Of course, a great deal is going to depend upon how the
play is staged. But it’s no accident that Aristophanes ends this comedy with a
wanton act of destruction, the burning down of the Thinkery.
Why does Strepsiades do this? Well, one immediate cause appears to be the
frustration he now finds himself in, when he realizes that he has been trapped
by his own silliness and corruption. Instead of resolving the comedy in a
peaceful way, with, for example, an acknowledgment of his errors and some form
of reconciliation with his son, Aristophanes has him lash out with an action
that indicates his loss of restraint, his decision to abandon thought, and to
channel his confused feelings into violence.
There’s an interesting difference here between this work and the Odyssey.
You will recall that the final act of Odysseus in that work is restraint. The
destructiveness of the civil war is averted when the gods persuade Odysseus to
hold back, to restrain his desire for revenge on the suitors. And the
re-establishment of civic harmony in Ithaka requires
that. This is a common end of a comic plot, where the sources of social
disruption have been punished, killed, expelled, or forgiven, and there is a
general sense of a restored social harmony. Similarly, the end of Oedipus
is marked by restraint. Oedipus inflicts a horrific punishment on himself and
is about to set out into self-imposed exile. But the community is still intact,
still trying to absorb the significance of what has happened. And Thebes has
been saved and will endure.
The ending of Clouds is not like this. The final vision we
have in this play is of destruction. The script does not move us beyond that
act. And if we see, as we might, that this destruction has involved some real
human suffering and perhaps even death, then we have
clearly moved into a world beyond the easy, distant comedy of the opening of
the play. In a sense, we might say that we have moved well beyond satire in the
closing moments, because we are no longer laughing. What we are seeing might be
interpreted as an ominous warning: “What I have shown you is something silly
and ridiculous, but the consequences of that are far from amusing.” This ending
will be all the more powerful if we see in Socrates, as we might, an attractive
energy and tolerable weirdness, so that his defeat registers as something of a
loss.
I stress that this interpretation of the ending is one of many
possibilities. It would be easy enough through the staging to take much of the
sting out of it and to make the destruction of the Thinkery
something relatively trivial and funny, perhaps even therapeutic. Much would
depend upon the presentation of the destruction and the response of the people
involved. But the fact that there is no prolonged choral closure after the
burning, no final comic celebration of a reinstatement of a communal solidarity
does raise the possibility that this ending is something more ironically
serious than much of the rest of the comedy might suggest. It is a vision of
mob violence.
And the role of the Chorus at this point in the play is
significant. The Leader of the Chorus incites Strepsiades and Pheidippides on, urging them to give Socrates and his
followers a good thrashing. This, of course, is the man whose labours
they encouraged at the start of the play, a man who regarded them as his patron
saint. There’s a strong sense here that the Clouds themselves are
applauding and enjoying the destruction we are witnessing, and they justify
their encouragement with appeals to the “gods of heaven,” an appeal which has
revealed itself as empty during the course of the play, because no one
manifests any sense of what a belief in such gods might mean.
In this matter of the tone at the ending of the play, there’s an
important ambiguity over Phedippides’ last
exit. Does he go back into his house or return to the Thinkery?
He has not achieved any reconciliation with his father, so the latter is a
distinct possibility that he goes into the school (a suggestion made by Martha
Nussbaum and passed on, with strong reservations, in Alan Sommerstein’s
notes to the play). If a particular production chooses the latter possiblity and includes Pheidippides
among the victims of Strepsiades’ homicidal rage, then obviously the comedy at
the end has become much more ironically bitter. More than that, too,
because Pheidippides’ return to the school is a
direct insult to his father, and thus one might well see
it as the key event which triggers Strepsiades’ final outburst. I’m not
insisting on this view of the ending, but the possibility is certainly there.
If you see that this powerfully ominous ending as a persuasive
possibility, then you can recognize how Aristophanes has significantly shifted
his tone throughout the play and perhaps get a sense of why he does this. In a
sense, he traps the audience. First, we gets us
engaged in the work by inviting us to laugh at a ridiculous stranger with whom
we share nothing in common: the satire is funny but safe, because we are not
like Socrates. But then, by bringing the satire closer and closer to us,
Aristophanes, through our own laughter, brings us face to face with the
recognition that what we are really laughing at is not Socrates but our own
conduct, our own foolishness arising out of self-interest. And then the work takes
us into the consequences of that foolishness, both in the present and, more
ominously, into the future. By the end of the play, we are no longer dealing
with Sophists and greedy debt-ridden farmers; we are dealing with ourselves and
a vision of what we may well become if we don’t recognize what’s at stake in
the promises we make and the words we use.
This all comes about with great theatrical panache and lots of
humour; but those features should not obscure the fact that Aristophanes is in
deadly earnest in getting across his moral concerns about Athens. There may
well be a sense here of tragic inevitability. The satire has gone beyond any
sense of ridiculing behaviour which we can correct into an exploration of the
inevitable destructiveness of the Athenian character: we were laughing at the
particular foolishness of human beings; now we are invited to see that as an
inherently self-destructive impulse which threatens the survival of the
community. The Chorus of Clouds may promise life-giving rain, but what
they represent is the process of destroying the city (and we are not permitted
to forget here that Athens is at war).
We don’t have to know much history to see that, if the ending here
is an ominous warning, then it turned out to be
prophetic. The Athenians did turn against Socrates and they did lose their
traditional virtues in the course of the war. Along with those, of course, they
also forfeited what they were most proud of: their political independence. In
burning down the Thinkery, Strepsiades is pointing
forward to much of the self-destructiveness which
brought the Athenians, and countless other cultures proud of their values but
increasingly consumed with self-interest, to grief.
K. Short Postscript on The
Birds
Given what has been said above about satire, how are we to make
sense of The Birds? Part of the satiric intention is clear enough, but
in some ways there are complexities in this play which might lead us to wonder
about the full satiric intentions.
The play sets up a typical middle-aged Athenian as its main
target. Pisthetairos and Euelpides have left the city ostensibly to find a
better place, one free of the legal, economic, and political troubles of
Athens. They are fed up with life in the city, and the birds, they think, will help
them locate a more peaceful haven.
By the end of the play, of course, all this original intention has
been subverted. Pisthetairos and Euelpides have become rulers of the birds and
are, it seems, about to supplant the gods themselves. In the process they have
persuaded the birds to surrender their freedom in the name of increasing their
power and riches, and so what started out as a quest for a peacefully
independent life for two Athenians ends up with an extension of their empire, a
triumph which is to be celebrated by eating a couple of birds, the very
creatures to whom they came at the start for advice about how to live.
On a fairly basic level the satiric intention here is clear
enough: Aristophanes wants to hold up to ridicule the Athenian habit of
aggressive interference, their innate imperialistic tendencies which make it
impossible for them to live life without seeking domination. It is something
bred into them, no matter how much they may want to escape its consequences. Arrowsmith makes this point in the long note on p. 317:
For if Aristophanes shows us in Pisthetairos here an Athenian exhausted by years of national restlessness and in search of apragmosune [a life of relaxed leisure] among the Birds, it is precisely his point that no Athenian can escape his origin. And once arrived among the Birds, Pisthetairos promptly exhibits the national quality from which he is trying to escape. He is daring, acquisitive, ruthlessly energetic, inventive, and a thorough-paced imperialist. And finally, in the apotheosis that closes the play, he arrives at his logical destination--divinity. For polupragmosune [the combination of these Athenian qualities], as Aristophanes ironically observed, is moved by nothing less than man’s divine discontent with his condition, and the hunger of Athenians to be supreme, and therefore god.
The way in which Aristophanes presents this transformation
suggests that it comes almost by instinct. Pisthetairos is, it seems, genuine
in his desire to escape from the corrupting world of Athens, but he is
incapable of repressing his urge to take charge, to urge the Birds to use
whatever tactics are in their power to increase their dominion. He never
expresses a particular reason for doing this, other than the idea that somehow
power is good for its own sake--if one has an opportunity one should seize it.
It is in one’s self-interest to do so.
So in the play we see Pisthetairos expend a lot of energy to keep
conventional civilization away from Cloudcuckooland--for
his success is attracting settlers. But at the same time his very nature drives
him to seek imperial control, which will, of course, threaten the very thing he
originally sought to attain.
He succeeds in his imperial urges, and this is particularly
significant, because of his linguistic skill, because of his ability to
persuade, to use language to shape people to his own ends:
But my words are wings. . . . How else do you think mankind won its wings if not from words?. . . . Through dialectic the mind of man takes wing and soars; he is morally and spiritually uplifted. And so I hoped with words of good advice to wing you on your way toward some honest trade. (290-291)
But the play invites us to contemplate, through a very exaggerated scenario, the ironic consequences of this
view. How spiritually uplifted is Pisthetairos at the end? Through the most
brutal tactics, which again and again remind the audience of what Athens is
doing to others during the Peloponnesian War, Pisthetairos succeeds in
elevating himself to god-like status, deceiving even the traditional deities
and heroes.