MYTHCOMICS: BORN TO KILL (BATMAN AND ROBIN 1-8, 2011-12)

 

Not long after Grant Morrison finished his run on various Bat-titles with DEMON STAR, writer Peter J. Tomasi and artist Patrick Gleason launched a new BATMAN AND ROBIN title. The first eight issues continued Morrison's narrative regarding the Caped Crusader's relationship to his ten-year-old son, whom Batman agrees to train as the New Robin. And just as Morrison rewrote some elements of the 1987 SON OF THE DEMON story for his narrative, Tomasi did the same for Morrison. In SON, Batman has a consensual love affair with Talia Al Ghul and departed without knowing he'd left a bun in her oven, after which Talia put up the child for adoption. Morrison revised this scenario, in which Talia drugged Batman into having sex with her and thus knocking her up, and then kept the child Damien, but raised him as one of her assassins, capable of killing without remorse. Tomasi alludes to the copulation but implies that it was once more consensual. Tomasi may have done this because he wanted to de-emphasize Talia's role in the molding of Damien in order to better focus on the main conflict of the BORN TO KILL arc: how does a crimefighter dedicated to fighting evil without killing evildoers get through to a young boy who's been taught to "destroy your enemies before they destroy you?"                       

                           

A short prelude introduces the reader to a new Bat-enemy: a professional assassin named Nobody. He targets one of the various "international Batmen" whom Bruce Wayne funded during the Morrison run, and the killer later comments that the appearance of a particular European Batman provoked Nobody to journey to Gotham for a confrontation with the original. This event takes place around the same time as Batman's annual pilgrimage to Crime Alley, to venerate the memory of his slain parents. He encourages Damien to go along for the first time ever, and the boy does so, though he complains of his father's "sentimental nonsense." In truth, Damien desperately wants his father's approval, this being the reason he set himself to become the New Robin. However, the apple has not fallen far from the tree, for like his father Damien also does not like to admit needing anyone but himself. For Batman's part, his new role as a parent may have moved him to break with tradition for the sake of the future. He tells Damien that he will no longer honor the date of his parents' hideous deaths, but rather the date of their wedding, as a means of celebrating life. Batman concludes his last vigil in Crime Alley by taking a memento of that fateful night-- a ticket or brochure from the movie Bruce Wayne and his parents before the latter two perished. He makes the keepsake into a paper boat and watches it sail off into the sewer-river beneath Crime Alley.                                                                                                                                                                

Shortly thereafter, Batman and Robin contend with a gang of gunrunners. The criminals appear to get away but in truth they're caught and killed by the newly arrived Nobody. The villain makes a telling reference to his earlier slaying of the Euro-Batman, whom he regards as part of the crusader's "new global circus act." (Was the "circus act" metaphor a Dick Grayson reference?) Meanwhile, Bruce Wayne frets about Damien's barely repressed tendencies toward homicidal violence. The hero wonders if he's as perverse as Talia, for though Batman was born to prevent other children from meeting terrible fates, he shows an uncanny penchant for attracting younger people to serve in his crusade. But soon Batman has bigger problems, as he encounters, for the first time in many years, Morgan Ducard, grown son of Henri Ducard, one of the men who tutored Bruce Wayne in certain crimefighting skills. As a result of this new encounter with an old enemy, Batman grounds Robin from going on patrol.                                                                                                                                   

Not surprisingly, the volatile son of Batman takes the restriction as a personal affront, refusing to stay under cover from a threat his sire will not identify. Robin duly takes down some thugs harassing a couple of victims, with a very timely scene in which one thug tries to take phone-photos of Robin's death and the young crusader punches both the creep and his phone. However, his being out and about gives Nobody the chance to play mind games on the boy. Nobody correctly notes that one of Robin's opponents, while alive, is now all but brain-dead from the beating, and the assassin finishes the man off. He also paralyzes Robin, moments before Batman arrives. The older hero contends with Nobody, instantly realizing it's Morgan Ducard despite the concealing costume.                                                           

   Batman loses the fight, but Nobody, like many an earlier Bat-foe, wants the chance to gloat. He binds both heroes and makes them watch a homemade movie on an otherwise deserted drive-in movie screen, showing "Batman's Greatest Failures"-- that is, all the chaos made inevitable because Batman would not simply execute the villains he battled. Alfred comes to the rescue with Bat-tech, and Nobody is forced to flee. However, the fact that Batman didn't bare all regarding the origins of Nobody leads to new friction between the two crimefighters. Robin once more escapes Wayne Manor, though this time he plans to fake allying himself to Nobody in order to bring the villain down. While searching for Robin, Batman records, for his son's potential benefit, the full story of Bruce Wayne's experiences with Henri and Morgan Ducard. I won't elaborate that backstory here, except to say that Wayne's training under Father Henri resulted in creating Morgan's jealousy of the new student, thus leading to this current jeremiad.                                                         

    

Refreshingly, though, Tomasi reveals that Nobody never really intended to make Robin his new apprentice just to screw with Batman's head. Rather, because Morgan Ducard tried to kill Bruce Wayne, who retaliated by beating Morgan bloody and dumping Morgan in Henri's lap, Nobody intends to visit the same violence upon Damien, just to one-up Batman in symbolic terms. "You stole my father, so I'm stealing your son! Quid pro quo!" The two foes battle, and Batman wins, predictably sparing Nobody's life despite Batman's earlier "and you expect to live?" rhetoric.                                                                         

               

                                                                                                                                                                  However, because Nobody knows the heroes' civilian identities, and thus can strike at them again and again, Damien does what his mentor won't do: using the same paralysis technique Nobody taught him, in order to terminate the villain's life. Yet Batman does not upbraid his son this time. He only tells him that he will have to live with his act for the rest of his life-- even as Bruce Wayne lives with having come close to killing Morgan earlier-- but that he can still "be the best Damien Wayne you can be." And so, going back once more to my distinction between problems and conundrums, the "dramatic problem" of what to do about Nobody's menace is solved, but the "mythopoeic conundrum"-- as to whether killing is ever justified-- always remains partly open.      

DIDACTICISM DELIBERATIONS

Originally this essay was meant to build on my distinction between problems and conundrums. In my September 2023 post WHAT VS. HOW, I gave examples of two narratives which used a particular psychological source of knowledge, that of Freud, as a "half-truth" to set up conflicts between fictional characters. The first narrative dealt only with the ontological pattern in terms of "what things happened in the story," so it used its pattern superficially, just to create a "problem" that the characters could solve. (A superficial use of the pattern would also be a "problem" even if the characters failed to solve the difficulty.) The second narrative did make a thorough use of its epistemological pattern in such a way that it illustrated a "conundrum" for the audience. This level of difficulty would continue to exist for real people in their world, no matter whether the characters did or did not solve the way the conundrum manifested in their world. Originally, I wanted to emphasize that fictional works in which the author thoroughly explores a given epistemological pattern parallel the way real humans beings are obliged, by the nature of the reality they experience, to judge the patterns of that reality and make decisions on their interpretations of experience.

However, in the course of ruminating, I reread another epistemological post from May of this same year, FUNCTIONS OF KNOWLEDGE. In this post I distinguished two complementary terms, the "stereotype" and the "simple variable," as distinct from two other complementary terms, the "archetype" and the "complex variable," in that the latter possessed a greater than average functionality, itself termed "super-functionality."

All well and good, according to my system. But "stereotype" and "archetype" only apply to one of the two "vertical" systems by which authors and audiences derive knowledge-based meaning from stories. That virtue belongs to the "mythopoeic potentiality," which manifests through the elaboration of the *quanta* I term "correlations."

Still okay, but I've not said nearly enough about the other vertical system, the didactic potentiality, whose quanta I've termed "cogitations." Stereotypes and archetypes have often been applied to symbolic discourse, so those terms don't translate well to talking about didactic constructions of meaning. But I've certainly seen cogitations that I thought were simple and merely functional, as against those that are complex and super-functional-- but for the time being, I'm proposing no new terms for these respective states. 

In my survey of the individual episodes of Classic STAR TREK, I'm sure I generally confined myself to exploring the mythopoeic correlations of each episode. But in theory, I *could* have explored that particular series purely in terms of whether its didactic cogitations were "functional" or "super-functional." Here are two examples.

As most TREK fans know, showrunner Gene Roddenberry was an avowed atheist. Nevertheless, the scripts he accepted for filming (and which he always re-wrote to suit his beliefs) sometimes involved the role of religion in the future-culture of the Federation, and Roddenberry did not present a standard atheist's view of religion. He knew his audience would not accept overt atheism, so often the producer accepted scripts that simply talked in general terms about the role of religion in society.

I gave the second season episode a poor rating "Bread and Circuses" in terms of its mythopoeic correlations, but it doesn't fare any better in terms of didactic cogitations, as should be clear from this excerpt:

Kirk, Spock and McCoy are initially captured by a resistance-group fighting Roman hegemony. They are much puzzled by the members' claim to be worshipers of the Sun, and McCoy even states, with amazing falsity, that the Romans of Earth had no sun-worship. By the end of the episode, though, it's revealed that the renegades are actually the Christians of this pseudo-Earth; they just took an extra 2000 years to show up. Despite an early claim in the story that the Federation embraces many religions, the story ends on an egregiously proselytizing note. Safe back on the ship, the crew-members content themselves with the ideal-- derived from many a Cecil B. de Mille movie, no doubt-- that in due time the evil of the Romans will be conquered by the goodness of the Christians. One may safely assume that Magna Roma's destined religion will also eventually lead to liberal democracy.

In my view, the episode advanced the didactic view that the pattern of cultural development seen on Earth was going to be duplicated on the world of Magna Roma: brutal polytheism being succeeded by a kinder, gentler monotheism, which is turn would be succeeded (though the episode does not directly say so) by the sort of secular humanism one beholds in TREK. It's in such a secular humanism that it's possible, as my note specifies, that many religions can prosper alongside one another, though it's a mark of Roddenberry's true sentiments that one hardly ever sees religious celebrations either on the Enterprise or in Federation colonies. I think the proselytizing note with which "Bread" ends was nothing but protective coloration, to diffuse any possible accusations of "space atheists," but whether I'm right or not, the proselytization contradicts the earlier statement of overall tolerance, and so the "cogitation" is not well executed. Even the reference to "panem et circenses" in the title fizzles out after the first arena-scenes.

In contrast, another second-season episode, "Who Mourns for Adonais," while it only rates "fair" in terms of its mythic correlations, might enjoy a "good" rating in terms of didactic cogitations. I would surmise that Roddenberry was probably more in sympathy with the story's ethos, even though again he threw in a minor anti-atheistic statement:

The trope of "aliens who were once Earth-gods" has always been absurd, but Coon and Ralston strive to give it some gravitas. On one hand the future-men declare that they no longer need the parenting influence of gods-- though, perhaps to keep from sounding too atheistic, Kirk delivers a line about finding it adequate to have "one" god. On the other hand, the script attempts to capture the Glory That Was Greece in this science-fictional context, and to admit, however obliquely, that all human culture descends from early man's attempts to understand the universe through a multiplicity of deities.

This script is not interested in the actual dynamics of Greek religion any more than "Bread" was interested in the dynamics of early Christianity. Still, there's a much better understanding of how early religion provides a foundation for secular humanism, even though the two seem opposed. That's why, following Apollo's defeat and extirpation, Kirk wistfully wishes they could have burned one laurel leaf to the memory of the deities that brought humanity out of ignorance. And so "Adonais" provides a "super-functional" cogitation, and for good measure works as a elaborate "conundrum" within the didactic potentiality, while the story of Magna Roma is merely a superficial "problem."

WHAT VS. HOW

 One key notion I argued in the cited essay was the importance of epistemological patterns to the process of concrescence in fiction. It's not that any work of fiction necessarily seeks to make definitive statements about epistemology. But in the process of any act of imitation, it's natural though not inevitable for authors to attempt buttressing their fictional works by drawing upon patterns that represent the "real world." Often these patterns are based upon propositions that the consensus-audience no longer accepts, or does not accept universally, ranging from the Oedipal theories of Freud to the 19th-century theories of "the Hollow Earth." To the audience, what's important is whether or not the author can make even the most absurd proposition "entertaining"-- and this, not real-world applicability, is what gives even the weakest of weak propositions a peculiar endurance, if not strength in the usual sense.-- THE FULL VALUE OF THE HALF-TRUTH.

Today I thought of a simpler way to distinguish "problems" from "conundrums" as I originally defined them in  2021's PROBLEMS VS. CONUNDRUMS, to wit:

A narrative's "problems," its lateral/literal virtues as expressed through either the kinetic potentiality, the dramatic potentiality, or a combination of the two, concern WHAT THINGS HAPPEN in the narrative.

A narrative's "conundrums," its vertical virtues as expressed through the either the didactic potentiality, the mythopoeic potentiality, or a combination of the two, concerns HOW THINGS HAPPEN in the narrative.

I gave a few examples of specific problems and conundrums in the 2021 essay, but rather than go over the same ground, I'll try to show how one of the examples I gave in FULL VALUE can apply across the "problem/conundrum" continuum. I haven't encountered a surfeit of stories about the Hollow Earth, but certainly there should be a number of ways in which Freud's Oedipal theory has been used for both lateral and vertical formulations.

In the interest of testing my theory on as broad a canvas as possible, I'll choose my examples from among the most recent analyses I made of Oedipal narratives on my movie blog, rather than choosing examples from famous franchises like DRACULA or PSYCHO.

The very last Oedipal narrative I examined happens to fall into the category of "what things happen." The cheapie sword-and-sorcery adventure EYES OF THE SERPENT uses what might be termed a feminine "Oedipal conflict," but it uses the pattern only for the dramatic potentiality. In the rambling narrative, young princess Fiona falls in love with roving (and somewhat kooky) swordsman Galen. Fiona enlists Galen to help Fiona's mother Neema fight Neema's enemies and regain control of the kingdom. However, Neema covertly puts the moves on the younger Galen. It's loosely implied that Neema does so in order to keep control of the warrior, rather than her doing so just because she's attracted to him. In this, Neema is the mirror image of her sister Corva, in that both are ruthless in their pursuit of power, and the movie's conclusion, in which the two sisters destroy one another in battle, indicates that the "lateral meaning" of EYES is to validate the more innocent Fiona as the royal figure who deserves to control the realm. I will happily admit that the story of EYES has only a fitful claim to the dramatic potentiality. However, the scene in which Galen tells Fiona about Neema's treachery, and Fiona refuses to believe him, does have the bare function of establishing that at some point Fiona must come to terms with Neema's corrupt nature and bind herself to the comparatively virtuous Galen.

In contrast, the last Oedipal narrative I examined which concerns "how things happen" is 2010's THE WOLFMAN. In my review, I contrasted the clear Freudian schema of this film in comparison to the 1941 classic.

There's no rational-minded, overbearing dad this time. Scripters Walker and Self wanted a Heavy Father straight out of Freud's TOTEM AND TABOO. The original Larry Talbot left the British Isles for America for reasons loosely associated with sibling rivalry. In contrast, Lawrence is sent to an asylum after he, as a child, claims to have witnessed Sir John's act of uxoricide, slaying Lawrence's mother during one of the lord's beast transformations. (Lawrence, unlike Larry, at least has a mother in his story.) After years of being treated by the barbaric alienists of the late 1800s, Lawrence recants his story and becomes an actor. (I'm convinced Walker and Self made this alteration to the protagonist's background simply so that they could reference HAMLET, which Freud famously associated with Oedipal urges.) 

One point I didn't cover in detail is that the film implies an equivalence between both violence and sex in the wolf-persona of Sir John, though I did address somewhat the Freudian concept of the "primal scene:"

Freud hypothesized that children who witnessed their parents having sex for the first time-- the so-called "primal scene"-- might believe that the mother was being attacked, or even murdered. Lawrence sees his mother murdered for real, and then his brother is slain because his father craves the brother's future wife. 

To expand on this formulation slightly, even though Sir John gets his werewolf curse from an outside source, his actions can only be explained by Freudian dynamics about sex and violence, which explain "how things happen" in the WOLFMAN world. Sir John's murder of his wife can logically be viewed as the beast's way of satisfying both a lust for sex and for violence, though the film does not make this proposition explicit. But if it is true that the beast slew Lawrence's mother to satisfy both bloodlust and sex-lust, then it follows that deep down Sir John intends to wreak the same violence upon Gwen, whom Sir John believes to have a resemblance to the unnamed mother of Lawrence and the late Ben. (Viewers don't see the mother, so the default assumption would be that Sir John is correct about the resemblance, and it certainly fits the Freudian paradigm that both of the mother's sons fixate upon Gwen for the same reason Sir John does.)

So the TOTEM AND TABOO paradigm of a father-son battle is carried out in a very different manner from a similar trope in 1941's WOLF MAN, meaning that Lawrence must defeat his vicious father in lycanthropic battle. In the review I mentioned in passing that Lawrence, unlike Fiona in EYES OF THE SERPENT, does not prosper after slaying the Heavy Father. I stated that Gwen shoots Beast-Lawrence with a silver bullet to spare him further suffering. However, Beast-Lawrence is by his nature as great a physical threat to Gwen as was his nasty dad, and so there's certainly an element of self-protection in Gwen's action as well. By her action Gwen alone is spared the holocaust of the Oedipal conflict, though of course the film has no interest in what happens to her once the story is over. 

I may conceive of other demonstrates between the pathways taken by "what" versus those of "how," but for now these two suffice for my purposes.

SO THE DRAMA, SO THE MYTH

 I mentioned in PROBLEMS VS. CONUNDRUMS some examples, mostly from Classic TREK, wherein certain episodes emphasized one potentiality more than any other. But it occurs to me that it would be interesting to show in greater detail how a given story works out a dramatic "short-range" problem in a hyperconcrescent fashion, but does not venture into the deeper level of abstract thought that would promote a mythopoeic "long-range" conundrum, particularly in the realm of a psychological epistemological pattern.

The manga NAGATORO is my subject this time, and for the most part its principal emphasis is that of the dramatic potentiality. One of this manga's most interesting aspects is that author Nanashi is as careful as any novel-author to introduce dramatic problems early in the manga that are not "solved" until they appear again in a much later arc.

Here is a key scene from the third installment of the official NAGATORO manga. The set up is that, after the young woman has emotionally bullied the introverted young man whom she calls (with subtle sarcasm) her "senpai," he finally forces himself to ask her what her name is.

Now, an American reader might not know that in Japan it's customary for high school students not to call each other by their first names as casually as do Americans of the same age. First name address between male and female implies the familiarity of boyfriend and girlfriend, so using a surname, as Nagatoro does here, is common. Nagatoro does not even offer her given name, and before the young man can offer either of his names, she shuts him down, asserting that she prefers to keep calling him "Senpai." Even much later, after the young girl has heard other persons use Senpai's full name, she declines to call him that.

Nothing more is said about the matter of names until Nanashi finally begins a full arc on the subject in Chapters 61-62. When Nagatoro stays out of school with the flu, Senpai visits her at her home. Nagatoro accuses him of trying to snoop on her secrets:

While Nagatoro brings up the subject just to rag on him about his supposed perversions, Senpai blurts out that he wants to know "your name... and stuff." Nagatoro is mildly flummoxed to realize that she never did disclose that information to him.

Without going into specifics about how this scene plays out, Senpai does find out that Nagatoro's given name is "Hayase." That said, even though he feels mildly stoked by having that knowledge, he doesn't start using the given name since that would imply a possible romantic connection. 

Then in Chapter 66, Senpai gets sick with the flu he caught from her, and she visits him at his home. However, he falls into a semi-delirium in which he imagines a new familiarity with Nagatoro-- and he actually thinks he's dreaming when he calls her "Hayase" to her face. 

Senpai then promptly passes out, and Nagatoro becomes stoked by this indirect expression of intimate feeling, so much so that she almost kisses him in his sleep-- only to get interrupted by exigent circumstances. 

This arc more or less concludes in this same chapter. Senpai recovers from the flu and goes to school the next day, confused as to his memories of his "dream." But Nagatoro not only remembers everything that happened, she suddenly shows extreme resentment of the feelings he invoked in her. She punishes him for her own reactions by kicking him, and her line, "You're just Senpai" is clearly her attempt to thrust him back into a completely subsidiary relationship. 

This arc appears to conclude the whole "what's your name" business. The most current installment of the series, Chapter 104, depicts a closer relationship between the potential romantic couple, but they still address each other as "Senpai" and "Nagatoro." IMO Nanashi just wanted to explore the drama of two young people with considerable ambivalence about their feelings toward one another. 

But is there any way in which Nanashi's insight into teenaged psychology could be deemed what I would term a psychological myth? 

It might be argued that Nagatoro and Senpai's feelings for one another are being channeled through a matrix of cultural expectations; that of the expectation that only possible romantic partners use first names with one another. However, in my estimation this custom has no deeper resonance. The name-custom is the equivalent of a "stop-sign." Such a sign has one meaning, and one meaning only, so the custom doesn't compare, say, to a more multivalent custom. For instance, the idea of an enduring relationship between a samurai and his leader may be said to be based in custom. But it's a custom that can take on a range of meanings in literature, and thus manga as different as DANCE IN THE VAMPIRE BUND and ROSARIO + VAMPIRE can use that resonance for very different purposes.

Thus, when I search for a psychological myth, I look for an elaboration of symbolic resonances into mythopoeic concrescence, which is only possible when the author is a "long-range" mode. A dramatic concrescence can be formed from any number of "short-range" emotional states, but that concrescence does not depend on any abstractions as does the mythopoeic type. 

HALF-TRUTHS AND CONUNDRUMS PT. 2

Around the same time I began turning my thoughts to the topic of half-truths, problems and conundrums, as seen in Part 1, I started re-reading the 1998 critical work DEEP SPACE AND SACRED TIME: STAR TREK IN THE AMERICAN MYTHOS, by Jon Wagner and Jan Lundeen. I consider this a felicitous, given that "Classic Trek" was the source of some examples as to how both problems and conundrums function in narrative within the originating essay. In an earlier formulation I had also used Classic Trek and one of its many epigoni as illustrations of the more specific notions of "moira" and "themis" in this essay, which probably sustains some parallels with my current opposition of problems and conundrums.

I remember enjoying MYTHOS, though I'm reasonably sure I haven't revisited it in ten years. But the opening chapter by Wagner and Lundeen does state some views on the idea of "myth in popular fiction" with which I'll take issue.

The first passage presents no serious problems:

Because the bare physical universe offers so little comfort to the mind, people strive through the medium of myth to center themselves and to make cosmological sense of their experiences.

I would not personally favor the term "comfort," even though it bears comparison with Tolkien's concept of "consolation," and at present I have greater liking for Whitehead's concept of *concrescence,* which has more to do with a perceiving entity sussing out the values that other entities have for him and for his culture. But this is a viable and popular interpretation of myth's function, and the authors bend over backwards not to get caught on the proverbial "Procrustean bed" of any single interpretation. 

On the same page, though, the question of a given narrative's truth-value comes up. The authors admit that "fantasy fiction and science fiction" are the two "narrative realms" that most often invite comparison with archaic myth, but then, as if signaling their own Procrustean preferences, they state that "While fantasy may bear a superficial resemblance to traditional myth in its rustic and magical character, science fiction has a stronger functional parallel with older myths, because its futuristic setting can entail a more serious truth claim." A bit later the authors claim that "Like the primal past but unlike overtly fictional settings, the future can be thought of as potentially real and true."

I won't launch into a detailed defense of fantasy fiction's equal claim to "truth" in the sense I've discussed it here. It's clear to me that even though cutting fantasy fiction out of the picture is a pretty large process of logic-chopping, I understand that the authors' prime consideration was to provide support for the position that science fiction generally had a superior "truth claim" because this argument allows them to concentrate on the superior capacity of the STAR TREK franchise to reflect truth. They also admit that "all literature is thought experiment," with which I partly agree, though with the caveat that mythopoeic thought tickles a different part of the human psyche than does didactic thought-- and that Classic Trek in particular is an ideal modern narrative which can show each form working separately or in tandem. 

To admit that "all literature is thought experiment," even without a well formulated theory of mythopoesis, is tantamount to making the same purpose I've identified in both archaic myth and in literature: that of "exposing audiences to pure possibilities." I assume that like many other modern authors, Wagner and Lundeen attempt to promote the idea of those possibilities as having a "truth claim" because the majority of readers have been trained via public school to view literature as fiction whose real purpose is to communicate enlightening messages. This is one of those bromides that sounds so logical on the surface that it's practically impossible to eradicate without a book-long argument to that effect. Naturally, Wagner and Lundeen are mostly concerned with simply validating the linked narratives of one overarcing fiction-franchise, not seeking to stem the tide of functionalism, so they can't be criticized for not doing something they didn't purpose to do. I don't know if I will blog about other aspects of their study in future, but if I do, I imagine I will continue to pursue the chimera of, "Now here's what *I* would say about the matter..."

 

HALF-TRUTHS AND CONUNDRUMS PT. 1

So if philosophical epistemology is concerned with the nature of absolute truth-- even if it might be, as in William James, to disprove its existence-- then mythico-literary epistemology is concerned only with "half-truths," with exposing its audience to pure possibilities.-- AND THE HALF-TRUTH SHALL SET YOU FREE.

Given this statement of the nature of "truth" in myth and literature, I want to bring it into line with my newly formed dichotomy between "problems" and "conundrums" as delineated in this recent essay. 

Though I didn't make any comment on the four potentialities in the first HALF-TRUTH essay, the subject did come up in the second essay. 

As I reconsidered this in greater depth, I feel it necessary to explain that though the kinetic and the dramatic potentialities certainly do draw upon "patterns" derived from sense experience, those two potentialities don't make substantial use of what I've called "epistemological patterns." I suppose I might term the first type of patterns "existential," since these two potentialities are more concerned with translating existence as the fictional characters *seem* to experience it. The other two potentialities, however, are rooted in a fictional form of epistemology, because the forms they deal with depend on abstract constructions. 

My more recent formulation was an attempt to identify the types of propositions involved with each potentiality, after making the determination that the "existential" types of propositions were short-range in nature and followed the paradigm of the idea of the "problem that can solved" (even if said solution is a negative one, as one often sees in horror stories), while the "epistemological" types were long-range and followed the paradigm of the "conundrum that may not be entirely soluble." From this line of thought I formulated this schema:

KINETIC PROBLEM-- how a protagonist solves a short-range problem with the use of kinetic applications, usually in the forms of "sex and violence." Aligned with Jung's "sensation function."

DRAMATIC PROBLEMS-- how a protagonist solves a short-range problem with the use of dramatic interactions with other characters. Aligned with Jung's "feeling function."

DIDACTIC CONUNDRUM-- how a protagonist reacts to a long-range conundrum through didactic assessments. Aligned  with Jung's "thinking function."

MYTHOPOEIC CONUNDRUM-- how a protagonist reacts to a long-range conundrum through symbolic embodiments. Aligned with Jung's "intuition function."

On a side note, in keeping with my observations in KNOWING THE IDEA FROM THE CONCEPT, from now on I'll attempt to term all "symbolic embodiments" as either "ideas" or "idea-tropes," while "didactic assessments" will be termed either "concepts" or 'concept-tropes."

Now, as I've conceived the relationship of problems and conundrums, they exist to complement one another. A reader doesn't necessarily find both a problem and a conundrum in every narrative, but the potential is always there, in keeping with Northrop Frye's observations about the distinction between narrative and significant values  (a set of paired terms that I used for some time before gravitating to others.) But since I stated at the outset that the purpose of mythico-literary epistemology was to create "half-truths," the following question arises, at least for me: "What is the half of the narrative that is MORE true than the other?"

And my answer is, inevitably, "the conundrum, not the problem." The PROBLEM is rooted in the existential nature of entities who never truly existed, even when an author has scrupulously sought to base a given fictional entity on a real person, as William Styron did in his CONFESSIONS OF NAT TURNER. The CONUNDRUM, because it is based in an epistemological idea or concept, has a degree of truth-value, even if the idea or concept is itself untenable as a source of philosophical epistemology. (One earlier example of such an untenable concept was that of Freudian psychology.) Again, the main purpose of narrative epistemology is to "expose... audiences to pure possibilities," which in turn can be aligned with Cassirer's notion of "a free selection of causes."

ADDENDUM: The above terms "ideas" and "concepts" have been replaced by the more arcane "correlations" and "cogitations."

PROBLEMS VS. CONUNDRUMS

                     

 I’ve been meditating on the familiar opposition of “problem and dilemma” for possible application to my theories regarding the narrative interactions of lateral meaning and vertical meaning. The regular opposition goes as follows:

 

A problem is a difficulty that has to be resolved or dealt with while a dilemma is a choice that must be made between two or more equally undesirable alternatives.

 

For reasons I’ll discuss shortly, the idea of the “problem” aptly sums up the literary appeal of a text’s lateral meaning, because this is the part of the story in which the reader primarily invests himself, to see how the main character deals with the difficulties he faces, even if said character’s solution may be to avoid said difficulties.

 

However, “dilemma” in no way sums up the appeal of a text’s vertical meaning for readers. So, as my title suggests, I’m substituting the concept of the “conundrum,” variously defined as “an intricate and difficult problem” or “a difficult problem, one that is almost impossible to solve.”

 

My last major statement regarding the lateral and vertical forms of meaning appeared in 2016’s THE LONG AND SHORT OF WILL. In the passage that follows, I didn’t utilize the term “vertical meaning,” since at the time I was preoccupied with seeing how that meaning could expressed by the joint terms “overthoughts and underthoughts,” but both of these together were always intended to make up my concept of vertical meaning.

 

Plainly, what I call a work's "lateral meaning," glossed with a combination of two of Jung's psychological functions, is confined to what sort of things happen to the story's characters (sensation) and how they feel about those developments (feeling). The function that Jung calls "intuition" finds expression through the author's sense of symbolic combinations, which provides the *underthought* of a given work, while the function of "thinking"finds expression through the author's efforts at discursive cogitation, which provides the work's *overthought.* It's possible for a work to be so simple that both its underthought and overthought amount to nothing more than cliched maxims, like "good must triumph over evil," but even the most incoherent work generally intends to engross the reader with some lateral meaning.

 

Nowadays I would reword this statement to elide the reference to overthoughts and underthoughts, because over time I have began to find these terms cumbersome. From my current position it’s easier to speak of all these narrative meanings in terms of their potentiality-alignments: “lateral meaning,” which is comprised of the kinetic and dramatic potentialities, and “vertical meaning,” which is comprised of the didactic and mythopoeic potentialities.

 

As for the essay’s observations on the concepts of “close sight” and “far sight,” these remained unchanged, and the notions of “the problem” and “the conundrum” can be used to symbolize the different ways each of the meaning-formations appeal to readers.

 

As stated above, the lateral meaning is that which presents the reader with the immediate, close-range difficulties in the lives of one or more characters, difficulties which must be solved in some fashion, just as difficulties in the reader’s real life must be solved in some way (even if the reader, like the fictional characters, may make the wrong choice).

 

Vertical meaning, however, is the part of the story that allows the reader to contemplate the character’s conflicts from the long-range view, with the understanding that those difficulties metaphorically embody some “conundrum” regarding the nature of human life. The conundrum exists alongside the problem, and since it’s more abstract in nature, the reader doesn’t necessarily expect to see the conundrum solved, even badly, because it embodies some intellectual or imaginative conflict inherent in human life.

 

Rather than starting with an example drawn from high culture, like HAMLET or LIGHT IN AUGUST, I will begin with applying the conundrum-concept to the two examples of mythopoeic and sub-mythopoeic meanings seen in my essay regarding two Silver Age ATOM stories. Both stories dealt with the Tiny Titan's battles against an insect-themed villain, the Bug-Eyed Bandit, produced by the same creative team and within months of one another. Though I was primarily oriented on the second of the two stories to show its qualifications as a mythcomic, I also included a rationale as to why the earlier story did not qualify as a mythcomic. I argued that the first “Bug-Eyed” story did not have a strong cosmological meaning, because the villain used generic robot-insects against the hero. However, in the second “Bug-Eyed” story, author Gardner Fox more strongly patterned the robot-insects on the capabilities of real insects. This narrative strategy produced a fictional “simulacrum of knowledge” and thus gave the story a stronger mythopoeic meaning. In both stories, the hero's problem is identical; to defeat the villain, primarily through the use of kinetic displays of force. (One story also has a very minor dramatic problem, to keep the villain from kidnapping an old flame, but the kinetic problem is paramount.) There is no didactic conundrum, but the amplification of the villain's insect-theme provides a mythopoeic conundrum; one best summed up as a fascination with biological adaptations in real animals.  

Now, neither of these comic-book stories makes any pretension toward the didactic form of virtual meaning, so a more complex example is needed to show how didactic and mythopoeic conundrums may exist separately or work in tandem.

 One of the most familiar master-threads found in “Classic” STAR TREK pertains to the crew of the Enterprise seeking to interact with more primitive peoples without violating the “Prime Directive” by interfering with the primitives’ cultures. The second-season episodes “Friday’s Child” and “A Private Little War” both deal with the same range of kinetic and dramatic problems that arise when the Federation’s political rivals, the Klingons, attempt to gain favor with primitive peoples without showing the Federation’s high-minded restraint. In “Child,” a Klingon agent abets an ambitious warlord to overthrow a ruler who is friendly toward the Federation. In “War,” Klingons give relatively advanced weapons to one tribe of planetary primitives to use against another tribe.

In both stories, the Enterprise-crew must seek to mitigate the Klingons’ influence, and so the “problems” that involves the lateral meaning are virtually identical, even if the solutions are not. “Child” is more of a straight thriller, with no deep reflections about the effects of both Klingon Empire and Federation upon the lives of the primitives. “War,” on the other hand presents the viewer with conundrums that invoke both the didactic and the mythopoeic potentialties. The didactic conundrum is the more obvious, since most viewers would have noted the direct parallels to the then-current Vietnam War, in which Americans had to continually arm their allies in order to offset the forces empowered by the rival superpower of Red China. Allegedly the original script was far more caustic regarding the activities of the “Americans,” i.e., the representatives of the Federation, and series showrunner Gene Roddenberry reworked the didactic conundrum so that it implied that the heroes had to do what they did to prevent the spread of Klingon influence. Not having seen the original script, I can’t say whether or not its author utilized the same mythopoeic tropes that appeared in the finished, Roddenberry-edited script. However, because of the way Roddenberry changed the didactic meaning, the mythopoeic meaning changes somewhat as well. When at the climax Kirk muses that they must introduce “serpents” into this planetary “Eden,” the meaning carries a sense of a less didactic, more mythopoeic conundrum. The implication is that, even as the expulsion of Adam and Eve from Eden provided humankind with a chance for self-determination, Kirk’s ambivalent gift, putting more advanced weapons in the hands of the planetary primitives, may also be a rough but necessary means of setting the natives on their own course of self-determination.

 

As with the two ATOM stories, the problems in the two TREK stories are the same as far as involving the viewer in the travails of the main characters. However, “Private Little War” suggests an enduring conundrum that supervenes the particular problems of the particular situation. “Friday’s Child” implies a possible conundrum but does not seek in articulating it in terms of either the didactic or mythopoeic potentialities.

It's worth mentioning a couple of TREK examples which register only in terms of either a didactic or a mythopoeic conundrum. The third-season episode "The Savage Curtain" places Kirk and Spock in the position of "acting out" the struggle between good and evil for the education of some very literal-minded aliens, the Excalbians. The didactic conundrum implies that the struggle between good and evil-- essentially defined as altruism and selfishness-- is a difficulty that never ceases to confront mankind, no matter what happens to any particular heroic protagonists. But despite the evocation of legendary figures from Earth and from Vulcan-- whether historical like Abraham Lincoln and Genghis Khan, or made-up types like Sarek and Colonel Green-- none of these characters make strong use of any symbol-tropes. Even the appearance of a vaguely witchy villainess named "Zora" is given no stature as an incarnation of female evil, in marked to comparison to the "Lady Macbeth"-styled villainy of Nona from "Private Little War."

In my reviews of the first four STAR TREK theatrical films, though, I was rather surprised that the one with the weakest dramatic problem was also the one with the strongest mythopoeic conundrum: STAR TREK THE MOTION PICTURE. The closest thing the film comes to a didactic conundrum is its attempt to show Mister Spock's vaunted logic as inferior to human emotion, but this is underdeveloped in contrast to the predominant mythopoeic conundrum: that of depicting a newly-born machine intelligence recapitulating its creators' need for emotional connection, and enacting a hieros gamos with a human being in order to gain said connection.

I indicated above that I was cycling out the terminology of "overthought and underthought," originally derived from the poet Gerard Manley Hopkins by way of Northrop Frye. I think the terms had a certain usefulness to me, indicating that the "overthought" springs from conscious, often utilitarian forms of thought while the "underthought" springs from subconscious, more playful cogitations. But I value symmetry above everything, and so in future I may start using the following terms:

KINETIC PROBLEM-- how a protagonist solves a short-range problem with the use of kinetic applications, usually in the forms of "sex and violence." Aligned with Jung's "sensation function."

DRAMATIC PROBLEMS-- how a protagonist solves a short-range problem with the use of dramatic interactions with other characters. Aligned with Jung's "feeling function."

DIDACTIC CONUNDRUM-- how a protagonist reacts to a long-range conundrum through didactic assessments. Aligned  with Jung's "thinking function."

MYTHOPOEIC CONUNDRUM-- how a protagonist reacts to a long-range conundrum through symbolic embodiments. Aligned with Jung's "intuition function."