Aryaman Kakkar's Archive

In the tragedy of Oedipus Tyrannus, the divinities of ancient Greece – called ‘daímōnes’ in the classical Greek – are beings of great power and unpredictability; qualities which made them feared amongst their human devotees. This fear of the Gods and their powers was the primary driving force of the Grecian fatalistic culture. In this essay, I shall explore how the god-fearing culture that is deeply entrenched in Grecian society – depicted via narrative exposition – is employed by Sophocles as a plot device, which allows the Greek pantheon great agency in Oedipus Tyrannus.  In Oedipus Tyrannus, the narrative exposition of the Grecian fatalistic culture occurs throughout the tragedy. The premise of the play is set in the Prologue, when the Oracle of Delphi advises Oedipus to ‘make those who killed Laius pay’: ‘Someone must be exiled, or a death must pay for a death.’ The Oracle of Delphi, a maiden blessed with the prophetic powers of Apollo, acts as an intermediary between the morta...

  Note: Please listen to ‘Where Do I Go From Here? 9 ’ by A Year On Earth while reading this poem.  We are such beautiful, deathless things. To live for seeing the stars, to smile at the child who says ‘Look  at the moon tonight! She is looking so pretty!’  To roam the streets while obscure sirens fill our ears with the melancholy of human melodies. They sing  of things soft and shiver-wracking, of feelings we push down at lunches and dinners,   of voices so silent, that they are the only ones who write and speak of such things.   We sing along in the night, in empty apartments, deserted hallways, ballrooms, gardens, curling and  twisting fingers around the rose-coloured dew petals that you see at dawn. Or sitting in front of a screen,  tears drowning words and love so deep that they have to be reeled in to the light by the rising climax and  the crescendo that so beautiful.   I don’t need a minute, don’t need an hour...

  It is midnight, and yet it seems the sun has just set. The night has just risen, and any moment now, my  friends shall return bathed in the orange light of the streetlamps, walking along the flickering concrete  road. There is this shade of fog rising from where the treetops meet starless sky and for the first time, I   feel cold. The night echoes, and waterspouts escape my mouth as they rise to fly the breathless wind. Feel  this night, as shivers claim your body and feel your fingers cracking ice as they tap tap tap across the  keyboard. It is a typical night; dogs howling in the distance with the quiet whispers of something secret,  the hidden laughs of a time never to return. We are all that is left of a night that smells of your blocked  nose and listens like trucks on the highway. I will not cry for the blind stars tonight, they have witnessed  enough midnight massacres to know everything there is.  But…  We haven’t. So...