Dying Inside

The Electra of Euripides is virtually at an opposite pole from the concept of Aeschylus; though he uses the same plot, he elaborates and innovates to provide far richer texture. Electra and Orestes stand out in relief in Euripides: Electra a near-mad woman, banished from the court, married to a peasant, craving vengeance; Orestes a coward, sneaking into Mycenae the back way, abjectly stabbing Aegisthus from behind, luring Clytemnestra to her doom by a ruse. Euripides is concerned with dramatic credibility, whereas Aeschylus is not. After the famous parody of the Aeschylean recognition scene, Orestes makes himself known to Electra not by his hair or the size of his foot, but rather by

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Oh God. Oh shit. Shit shit shit. This is deadly. This is no fucking good at all. Could Yahya Lumumba have written any of this crap? Phony from Word One. Why should Yahya Lumumba give a shit about Greek tragedy? Why should I? What’s Hecuba to him or he to Hecuba, that he should weep for her? I’ll tear this up and start again. I’ll write it jivey, man. I’ll give it dat ole watermelon rhythm. God help me to think black. But I can’t. But I can’t. But I can’t. Christ, I’d like to throw up. I think I’m getting a fever. Wait. Maybe a joint would help some. Yeah. Let’s get high and try again. A lil ole stick of mootah. Get some soul into it, man. Smartass white Jew-bastard, get some soul into it, you hear? Okay, now. There was this cat Agamemnon, he was one big important fucker, you hear, he was The Man, but he got fucked all the same. His old lady Clytemnestra, she was makin’ it with this chickenshit muthafuck Aegisthus, and one day she say, Baby, let’s waste old Aggie, you and me, and then you gonna be king — gwine be king? — gonna — and we have a high ole time. Aggie, he off in the Nam runnin’ the show, but he come home for some R R and before he know what happenin’ they stick him good, right, they really cut him, and that all for him. Now there this crazy cunt Electra, dig, she the daughter of ole Aggie, and she get real uptight when they use him up, so she say to her brother, his name Orestes, she say, listen, Orestes, I want you to get them two muthafucks, I want you to get them real good. Now, this cat Orestes he been out of town for a while, he don’t know the score, but -

Yeah, that’s it, man! You’re digging it! Now go on to explain about Euripides’ use of the deus ex machina and the cathartic virtues of Sophocles’ realistic dramatic technique. Sure. What a dumb schmuck you are, Selig. What a dumb schmuck.

FIFTEEN.

I tried to be good to Judith, I tried to be kind and loving, but our hatred kept coming between us. I said to myself, She’s my kid sister, my only sibling, I must love her more. But you can’t will love. You can’t conjure it into existence on nothing more than good intentions. Besides, my intentions had never been that good. I saw her as a rival from the word go. I was the firstborn, I was the difficult one, the maladjusted one. I was supposed to be the center of everything. Those were the terms of my contract with God: I must suffer because I am different, but by way of compensation the entire universe will revolve about me. The girlbaby who was brought into the household was intended to be nothing more than a therapeutic aid designed to help me relate better to the human race. That was the deal: she wasn’t supposed to have independent reality as a person, she wasn’t supposed to have her own needs or make demands or drain away their love. Just a thing, an item of furniture. But I knew better than to believe that. I was ten years old, remember, when they adopted her. Your ten-year-old, he’s no fool. I knew that my parents, no longer feeling obliged now to direct all their concern exclusively toward their mysteriously intense and troubled son, would rapidly and with great relief transfer their attention and their love — yes, particularly their love — to the cuddly, uncomplicated infant. She would take my place at the center; I’d become a quirky obsolescent artifact. I couldn’t help resenting that. Do you blame me for trying to kill her in her bassinet? On the other hand you can understand the origin of her lifelong coldness toward me. I offer no defense at this late date. The cycle of hatred began with me. With me, Jude, with me, with me, with me. You could have broken it with love, though, if you wanted to. You didn’t want to.