This was all kinds of amazing. Maybe I'm so impressed because it's the first time I've ever read Euripides. (Predictably enough, I'm dazzled by tragedy).

The version I read is the translation of Bacchae by Richard Lattimore (I know goodreads says I read another edition, but I just really like this cover!)

Translation of a work, especially when the language is so far away from contemporary English-- not just linguistically, but also in terms of a difference in epoch and culture of two millennium-- can make or break a work. The language Lattimore shapes into his English translation is a carnal poetry, beating like a drum to the same rhythm of the shuddering violence and shock of the original. You can still feel the passion of this play, as vivid as ever, 2,500 years later. That's quite a feat. Then again, it's sort of hard not to be entranced by a play where a mother "maddened by the breath of god" of a vengeful Dionysus, literally tears her son apart with her bare hands and mounts his head on her thyrsus because she thought it was a lion's. But bad translations can suffocate even the most alive of stories, so I'm very thankful to Lattimore. I bet Anne Carson probably does a good translation of this too, but I couldn't find a copy of her Bakkhai floating around.

My two favorite sentences from this were:

"When you set chains on me, you manacle a god." (Dionysus in disguise, being very dramatic before he throws his eventual temper tantrum that includes the razing of a palace and incitement of a family to dismember their son).

Also:
"Poor child,/ like a white swan warding it's weak father,/ why do you clasp those white arms around my neck?" (This is said by Cadmus to his muderess daughter, once they know they're both exiled).

Like I said, amazing.

Talk shit, get hit, I suppose.

I will also say, reading this right after The Secret History? Very, very appropriate.

Euripides hit the nail on the head with this one. Having Oedipus Rex as my favourite tragedy for roughly 7 years now, this quickly flew to take its place. Bacchae is short and easy to read, the concepts easily digestible yet incredibly stark in candour. I do love commentary when it comes to conformity, and this play certainly points out the dualistic clash between control and freedom.
(Overall 4.75/5 stars)

Innombrables sont les manifestations de la volonté divine; innombrables aussi les événements qu'ils accomplissent contre notre attente. Ceux que nous attendions ne se réalisent pas ; ceux qu'on n'attendait pas, un dieu leur fraye la voie.



Les Bacchantes (Βάκχαι) sont une pièce écrite par Euripide (-480;-406), mais jouée un an après sa mort en -405, et ayant remporté le prix du concours de théâtre Athénien des fêtes de Dionysos. Elle met en scène le dieu lui-même, retournant dans la patrie de sa mère, séduite par Zeus, et venant chercher vengeance du mépris de ses tantes, qui taxaient d'affabulation l'origine divine de leur neveu, et qu'il punit en les rendant folles. Il s'oppose aussi frontalement à Penthée, son cousin, qui tente follement de s'opposer aux menées du dieu asiatique en enfermant celles et ceux qui lui rendent un culte, si bien que ce Penthée finit lui-même déchiré par sa propre mère en proie au délire, alors qu'il tentait d'espionner les mystères du culte rendu à son rival.

n  Le sol de lait ruisselle, il ruisselle de vin, du nectar des abeilles. Il ruisselle - tandis que monte comme une vapeur d'encens de Syrien

Ce qui ressort de cette pièce, c'est le caractère ambivalent de Dionysos: il offre d'un côté un abord galant, un teint frais, de longs cheveux, des traits délicats, et ses propos son plein de gaité et d'alacrité: il est le dieu du vin et du miel, des douceurs qui font oublier les soucis, délient les langues, font naître l'amour et les discours inspirés; mais d'un autre côté, ce même Dionysos offre un spectacle inquiétant: l'oubli de la raison, la folie, engendrent la violence aveugle, une force démesurée et débridée, un gout du sang, une cruauté joyeuse et sans frein qui plongent dans la stupéfaction et l'horreur ceux qui reviennent à eux-même, après s'être laissé allé à l'ivresse. Au lendemain de la fête, tous les hommes sont perdants: celui qui s'est opposé au dieu, comme celui qui s'y est soumis, tous sont soit tués, soit ravagés par le chagrin; seul triomphe le dieu.

n  O mon enfant, dans quel terrible malheur nous sommes tombés, toi, malheureuse! et tes sœurs chéries, et moi, misérable! Je m'en irai chez les Barbares, malgré ma vieillesse, en étranger. Il m'est encore prédit que je conduirai en Grèce une horde barbare.n

Cette pièce peut offrir de nombreuses prises à l'interprétation, et je propose la mienne à prendre cum grano salis. Penthée représente l'homme raisonnable qui veut enfermer la part de divin et d’irrationnel dans ses raisonnements, comme il charge le dieu de fers dans la pièce. Il ne s'agit pas de critiquer l'usage de la raison en général, mais de celle qui s'aventure sur les terres du déraisonnable. C'est une critique du rationalisme, assez semblable à celle que Platon met dans la bouche de Socrate lorsque le vieux philosophe se moque de ceux qui cherchent à rationaliser tous les mythes, et tirer du sens de ce qui n'en a pas. C'est une critique de ceux qui veulent manier la folie et l'enthousiasme, religieux ou politique, pour leurs propres fins, croyant que leurs raisonnement seront une borne suffisante à la fureur qu'ils alimentent: ils finiront mis en pièce par ce qu'ils ont cru diriger. Mon interprétation, car comme le souligne Tirésias dans la pièce: un rhéteur habile, et fort de son audace, sans raison, n'est qu'un fléau pour la cité.

Ever since I read this I have been insufferable and I love explaining it to unsuspecting people who slowly become more concerned about me

Euripide non è mai stato il mio tragediografo preferito: di lui salverei solo “Medea” (un capolavoro), “Troiane”, “Ecuba” e le due “Ifigenia”, ma per il resto siamo su due fronti opposti: troppo astruso, troppo abusivo il suo uso del “deus ex machina”, troppo intrecciate le trame che spesso non sanno come risolversi, troppo sofista. Euripide è insieme colui che ha decretato la morte della tragedia e il “più tragico dei tragici”, ambedue definizioni aristoteliche che mettono in luce la contraddittorietà del tragediografo e dell’uomo.

È proprio l’ambiguità di Euripide – democratico o assolutista, sofista o anti-sofista, socratico o anti-socratico, religioso o blasfemo e dunque peccatore di “asèbeia”, empietà? – che ha fatto sì che come prodotto finale della sua carriera scrivesse le “Baccanti”, un’opera dal dissacrante simbolismo e dalla disarmante semplicità, tanto che io credevo, a un certo punto, di star leggendo un’opera di Eschilo (semplice nella struttura, archetipica, sacra) libera da ogni forma di laicità e in netto contatto con la tragedia delle origini. Per la prima volta (per quanto ne sappiamo) il conflitto tra Apollineo e Dionisiaco viene rappresentato direttamente in scena, senza che esso debba essere inteso tra le righe: non perché nella tragedia appaia Apollo, ma perché l’elemento razionalistico del pensiero greco – quello che, secondo il Nietzsche de “La nascita della tragedia”, avrebbe decretato la morte di dio – rappresentato da Penteo e dai Tebani, si oppone diametralmente alla spiritualità e alla vitalità sanguigna e sanguinosa di Dioniso. La frase più illuminante dell’intera tragedia è senz’altro: “To sophòn d’ou sophìa”, “La sapienza non è sapienza”, situata nel secondo stasimo, in cui “sophòn” farebbe riferimento al sapere arzigogolato, elaborato, concettoso e dunque inventato dei sofisti – a questo proposito ci viene in aiuto una frase pronunciata da Tiresia: “Non bisogna fare i sofisti con gli dèi!” – mentre “sophìa” farebbe riferimento alla sapienza per quella che è, pura, incorrotta e incorruttibile, non propria degli uomini – nemmeno dei filosofi, visti quasi come dei ciarlatani – ma degli dèi.

Dioniso, infatti, è il dio delle mille contraddizioni: è uomo e donna, è uomo e dio, è dio del vino e dell’ebrezza, ma mentre gli altri si ubriacano, lui resta lucido, e macchina e ingegna nel suo essere una divinità. Dioniso è il dio che nasce due volte – una dal ventre di sua madre, l’altra dalla coscia di suo padre (versione per altro smentita da Tiresia, che ritiene si sia fatta confusione tra “mèros”, coscia, e “òmeros”, ostaggio, regalandoci il primo di una serie di giochi etimologici tanto cari a Euripide) – ed è il dio che muore e risorge per mezzo della madre Rea/Cibele; è il dio del vino celebrato nei misteri eleusini assieme alla dea del grano, Demetra (questi ultimi due riferimenti vi ricordano qualcuno che abbiamo festeggiato recentemente?) ed è, oltretutto, il dio del teatro.
Nelle “Baccanti”, Dioniso rievoca il tragico per quello che è, condannando i Tebani e Penteo per primo a quella consapevolezza che, prima di essere realizzata, deve passare per l’inconsapevolezza, per la follia, per l’illusione di avere consapevolezza senza realizzare quanto sono arroganti e ridicoli i confini della mente umana. Il gioco etimologico tra il nome Penteo e il sostantivo “pénthos”, “dolore” – che condividono la stessa radice del verbo “pascho”, “soffrire” – rende al meglio l’idea secondo cui il mortale che rifiuta dio è causa di tanto dolore per la sua intera città. Dioniso asserisce che Penteo è figlio di una gorgone e di una leonessa: Euripide non soltanto sta riprendendo un “tòpos” letterario, ma anticipa la fine di Penteo, visto non come uomo ma come leone selvaggio, feroce e pericoloso. A suo modo, Penteo è il doppio di Dioniso; tuttavia, la consapevolezza tragica non si manifesta in lui, che si limita a impazzire, ma in sua madre Agave, baccante che dopo il folleggiamento è costretta a guardare la realtà coi suoi occhi di donna redivivi, ormai tragicamente consapevoli di ciò che ha fatto.

L’Euripide visto fino ad ora è un Euripide antico, “eschileo”; eppure, nelle “Baccanti” ritroviamo anche un Euripide moderno, anticipatore e precursore dell’età decadente della “polis” e finanche di quella ellenistica, per i concetti veicolati e per le scelte stilistico-retoriche. Anzitutto, in Euripide c’è un primigenio segnale del superamento platonico delle nozioni di “nòmos”, “legge” e “physis”, “natura umana”: quest’ultime, alla base del conflitto tra Creonte e Antigone nell’”Antigone” di Sofocle, ormai non sono componenti distinte, ma due facce del medesimo tutto. Mentre, per quanto riguarda l’anticipazione dell’età ellenistica, troviamo la tecnica dell’”aition” – amata dai poeti ellenistici, vedasi Callimaco – e la “ringkomposition”: Agave, dopo aver fatto ciò che ha fatto, è costretta a trasferirsi da Aristeo, marito della sorella Autonoe – con cui aveva avuto Atteone, il superbo cacciatore punito da Artemide, macchiatosi di empietà proprio come suo cugino Penteo. Aristeo, protagonista della celeberrima “Fabula Aristei” del IV libro delle “Georgiche” di Virgilio, è lo stesso che ha causato la morte di Euridice, moglie del poeta Orfeo, il quale discende agli inferi per riprenderla e, pur riuscendovi, la perde di nuovo: Orfeo, dunque, si dispera, rifiutando di celebrare i culti degli dèi e di abbandonarsi ai piaceri del vino e dell’ebrezza (storia che ricorre anche nel secondo stasimo della tragedia in esame). Proprio per questo, viene smembrato, trucidato e dunque ucciso. Da chi? Dalle Baccanti.

I read about the god so many are talking about. Interestingly, if I think at the god of the religion of my parents, I feel the automatic urge (?) to write it with a capital G. When thinking about Dionysos, one among other gods, it felt completely naturally to write the word god with a small starting letter.
I got lucky to find this version from Paul Woodruff, somehow translated in a readable way. Like this, it is a quick read. Quick and intense, because Euripides touches a lot of hardcore themes. Moreover the rituals are very descriptive.
I don't possess the knowledge to analyze this tragedy but it is a great piece of work which you simply read breathlessly. But at least now I know what Nietzsche is talking about when he talks about this god and his religion.
Nick Cave could be some sort of my Dionysos. Especially when he plays songs like "Jubelee Street" or "O'Malley's Bar" or "Do you love me".

All'inizio della tragedia Dioniso sembra una divinità che ti alleggerisce la vita, dio dei festeggiamenti e del vino, l'umido succo che solleva i miseri d'ogni cordoglio, che sono una distrazione dalle sofferenze quotidiane.
Andando avanti vediamo però che è un dio spietato e vendicativo, che tra l'altro non si limita a punire il miscredente Penteo ma infierisce pure sulla sua famiglia, tra cui ci sono addirittura le stesse baccanti.
Lo scontro fra Penteo e Dioniso sembra più uno scontro fra due rivali politici, due tiranni, dove ognuno cerca di annientare l'altro.

Questa tragedia mi è sembrata un'opera sul potere. Penteo che rappresenta lo stato fa una pessima figura: all'inizio lo vediamo infastidito da Dioniso perché gli toglie autorità, lo priva di giurisdizione sulle donne impegnate nei riti bacchici. Attraverso questi riti le donne riescono ad appropriarsi di una certa indipendenza; sembrano sfogare la loro frustrazione per essere relegate ai margini della società compiendo azioni violente e senza freni. Quest'unica libertà si concretizza in atti di distruzione. Dioniso, il potere divino, non concede nulla di diverso perché è anche lui interessato a una cieca ubbidienza e non ammette né trasgressione né contestazione a ciò che ha stabilito.
In fondo Dioniso e Penteo sono uguali, hanno gli stessi fini e gli stessi desideri.
Non si può non rimanere delusi dal potere di Penteo che non conosce ragionevolezza e niente di meglio offre la religione, se non un potere ancora più assoluto e tirannico.

Ho avuto un po' di difficoltà con questa vecchissima traduzione di Romagnoli e spero di rileggere questa tragedia a breve in una traduzione più fresca.

113th book of 2021.

CADMUS
And whose head do you hold in your hands?

AGAVE (averting her eyes)
A lion's . . . The huntresses . . . They said . . .

CADMUS
Look at it properly. Just a quick glance.

AGAVE
What is it? What am I holding in my hands?

CADMUS
Look closely now. Be sure.

AGAVE
Ah! No! No! I see the greatest sorrow.

CADMUS
Does it still look like a lion?

AGAVE
No! No. It is . . . Oh gods! It is Pentheus's head I hold.

CADMUS
Now you see who I was mourning.

AGAVE
Who killed him? How did he come to be in my hands?

CADMUS
This is too hard, this truth. It took so long to come to this.

AGAVE
Tell me! Please! My heart beats with terror.

CADMUS
You killed him. You and yours sisters.

AGAVE
Where did it happen? Here, at home? Where?

CADMUS
On Cithaeron, where the dogs tore Actaeon apart.

AGAVE
Cithaeron? But why was Pentheus there?

CADMUS
He went to mock the gods, and your rituals.

AGAVE
But we - why were we there?

CADMUS
You were out of your wits.
The whole city was possessed by Bacchus.

AGAVE
I see. Dionysus has destroyed us all.

CADMUS
You enraged him. You denied him as a god.

AGAVE
And where, Father, is the rest of my poor son?

CADMUS (pointing to the stretcher)
Here. I found all I could.

AGAVE
Is he complete, and recently arranged?
But why should Pentheus suffer for my crime?

CADMUS
Like you, he refused the god.
And so the god ruined us all:
you, your sisters, and this boy.
This house is destroyed as well, and me with it.
I have no male heirs, and now I have lived to see
the fruit of your womb so shamefully destroyed.
(addressing the corpse) It was through you, my boy,
that this house regained its sight.
It was you, my daughter's son,
who held the palace together and the citizens in line.
It was you who would punish anyone who slighted me.
But now I shall be dishonoured,
an outcast from my own home.
I, Cadmus the great, who sowed the Theban race
and reaped that glorious harvest.
Dearest of men - for even in death
I count you as the man I love the best -
no more will you stroke my beard, child,
no more will you hug me, call me 'Grandfather' or say:
'Has anyone wronged you or shown you disrespect?
Has anyone disturbed or hurt you?
Tell me, Grandfather, and I will punish them.'
But now there is grief for me and a shroud for you,
and pity for your mother and her sisters.
If anyone still disputes the power of heaven,
let them look at this boy's death
and they will see that the gods live.

Lately, I’ve been reading a lot of Greek tragedy. But when I attempt reviews, my tongue turns to ashes in my mouth. It’s not that they’re too old (I’ve reviewed older books), nor because they’re so foundational (I’ve reviewed equally fundamental books). It’s because I strongly suspect that I just don’t get it. It strikes me that the Greek tragedians were trying to accomplish something essentially different from what I’ve come to expect from literature.

Greek tragedy has not even the slightest element of suspense. When you read one of Shakespeare’s tragedies, you know that it will end badly for the protagonist (and at least a few other people)—otherwise it wouldn’t be a tragedy. But there always seems to be a glimmer of hope, a chance that it could’ve turned out differently. The tragic outcome hinges on the character of the tragic hero; the final result is tragic because of that tantalizing “what if?” which lingers in the air as the curtain falls.
t
But in the plays of the Greek tragedians, the story is a fait accompli. Everything happens because of the will of the gods, or the mysterious hand of fate. Every character inexorably fulfills their destiny. The only thing they can do, it seems, is to sing about how awful their situation is. Thus we get line after line of the chorus—interrupting the action like a song in a musical, telling the audience what they already know in sing-song verse.
t
This isn't the fault of the playwrights. Because hardly anybody can read Ancient Greek nowadays, we’re forced to read the plays in translation; and poetry is always sub par in translation. Also, these chorus interludes actually did have music when they were performed; so it’s a bit unfair to judge them merely as poetry. (Imagine if archaeologists dug up a book of Beatles lyrics 2,000 years from now. They would have no idea why the Beatles were such a hit.)
t
Nietzsche thought this aspect of Greek tragedy was the root of its power. In his first published work, The Birth of Tragedy, Nietzsche spills much ink in describing his love for the unbridled spirit of life in the music of the Greek tragic chorus. For Nietzsche, the very fact that the music wasn’t ‘realistic’—that it didn’t attempt to portray the facts of life—is what gave it its tremendous power. This is why Nietzsche thought that Euripides was decadent.
t
Euripides is distinguished from Aeschylus and Sophocles precisely for his realism. His plays actually do have that element of unpredictability we’ve come to expect from modern tragedy. We don’t feel that the action is foreordained; that the people are merely acting out the decree of Fate. When his characters give monologues, the poetry doesn’t seem stylized or wooden—like old song-lyrics do. Rather, Euripides seeks to portray the psychology of his protagonists as if they were real people; the final result is more like reading someone's thoughts than reading sing-song poetry.

This is not to say that he didn’t include mythological or fantastic elements. Take this play. For a completely illogical reason, the god Dionysus decides to wreak havoc in Thebes. He doesn’t do it for the sake of justice; nor to accomplish some goal. He does it, more or less, on a whim. This is what makes the action of the play so shocking. It’s as if the reader has been dropped in via helicopter down on some battlefield, and is forced to watch the senseless violence.
t
Nietzsche admired, almost worshiped, the Dionysian impulse—the mad impulse to riot, to dance, to sing, to live. He found in the character of Dionysus the solution to everything wrong with Christian morality and the scientific mentality. Nietzsche believed that the drive to divide up the world into good and evil, and to value the literal truth above figurative myth, destroys man’s ability to reach his highest potential. But Euripides sees something much darker and devious in the character of Dionysus. Euripides sees that, once morality and truth are abandoned, one is left only with naked power. And naked power can be used just as easily for wanton destruction as for beneficent creation.
t
So it’s hard for me to agree with Nietzsche and consider Euripides as a decadent playwright. Every one of his plays I’ve so far read has been a dramatic masterpiece; and when you think about them, there’s usually an intriguing lesson to be learned, a thought to be pondered. Aeschylus and Sophocles remain partially veiled in translation; their music, lost to time. But now, I can at least say I’ve found one Greek playwright I ‘get’.

Σ Υ Γ Κ Λ Ο Ν Ι Σ Τ Ι Κ Ο !

”He shall learn that Dionysos, son of Zeus, is by turns a god most terrible and most gracious to mankind.”

4,5/5!

The Bacchae is one of Euripides's most famous tragedies. Dionysos, the god of revelry and wine and madness and celebration, has arrived in Thebes, accompanied by his devout female followers, the maenads. Dionysos is angry that the people and leaders of Thebes have denied him and refused to worship him, and he essentially wants to teach them a lesson about what it means to anger a god. The women of Thebes have forsaken their homes and joined his celebrations and are now running wild in nature with their hair loose and their bodies covered in animal skins, and the leader of Thebes, Pentheus, is left desperate to stop this new, chaotic god from ruining their city and its women.

The Bacchae is a very interesting play. I love how you can interpret it in so many ways: I've heard people say it is a cautionary tale for men, warning them to not try and control women. I've also heard people call it a horror story about what happens when women are allowed to leave their homes and live on their own terms. Some emphasise Dionysos's cunning rage and see this play as a warning about what it means to defy gods and how that never ends well. Some celebrate it as a rare story where women are allowed to be liberated and free of the constraints of their society. I think The Bacchae is, in some ways, all of the above. There is so much to unpack in this play, everything from the relationship between men and gods to gender roles and the playful way Euripides, especially through the character of Dionysos and his followers, approaches those roles. To me this is definitely a play I want to read again at some point, so I can focus more on some of these smaller details and themes rather than just the plot.

The Bacchae is, as all Greek tragedies are, occasionally rather harrowing, brutal and violent, but it is also very funny at times. Dionysos is the sassiest god I've ever encountered in Greek literature, and every scene he's in is just pure gold. He is also just a really fascinating dude. He is half-mortal and half-god, he can be both incredibly violent and petty (like all gods) but his followers also see him as someone who brings them joy, contentment, peace from their worries and liberty. He makes people dance and he makes them happy, but he also makes them mad and violent if he so pleases. He is quite the contradictory fellow, and someone who stands apart from the rest of the Olympians, at least in my opinion.

I highly recommend the Bacchae! It's not my favorite of Euripides's plays, but I did really, really enjoy it. I think it would also be a good place to start if you want to get more into Euripides and greek drama!

NEW THOUGHTS AFTER MY REREAD:

I have been meaning to read this play again for the longest time and underline my favorite passages and make notes in my copy, and I am so happy I finally just sat down and did it. Going through the text with my pen really gave me a whole new level of love for this play (I decided to bump the rating up to 4,5/5!).

This time around I found myself really paying attention to the way Dionysos and his followers keep breaking all these things the Greeks saw - and in many ways we, today, still do – as foundational and the norm, and I am not just talking about the way the maenads and Dionysos break gender rules and lure others to break them too in terms of dress. All these basic ideas of womanhood are distorted: women leave their babies and children behind, the act of breastfeeding becomes repulsive when it is revealed the women suckle baby animals, women engage in physical fights and tear men apart violently, and so on. As an enjoyer of all kinds of gender mayhem and fuckery, this play is an absolute goldmine. This time around I also paid way more attention to the way Dionysos not just bends the "rules" of gender but also inhabits his own place between god, man and beast: he is a god who spends most of the time in a mortal's disguise and he is often referred to as a bull or some other animal, described as a beast. The maenads are given a similar treatment: they are a herd, a pack of wild animals, predators and hunters. All of this – so fascinating.

Pentheus was also a much more engaging character this time around. I like that he is not a completely horrible person, just a bit of an idiot and a proud asshole who cannot stand to see norms being broken or to have a new, "exotic" religion come and destroy the purity of the women of his city. He is someone I both felt annoyed by and felt for, as he is, from the minute he decides to deny Dionysos's power, doomed to a brutal ending – an ending which was, by the way, wonderfully foreshadowed from the get-go by mentions of Actaeon. His dynamic with Dionysos is also pure gold: the god is toying with him, Pentheus seems to be attracted to Dionysos despite also being annoyed by this "stranger", and ahh, I just loved their scenes. There was also, lurking underneath the surface, their familial connection, which Pentheus is not aware of.

Speaking of the familial stuff, I absolutely adore how present Semele is in this play, despite having died years ago. Dionysos introduces himself as the son of not just Zeus but, almost more importantly, of Semele and the insults towards her are a huge part of what drives him. The fact that Dionysos is so outraged over this insult toward his mortal mother whom he never met kinda warms my heart cause so often, in myth, the mothers and women in general are forgotten or just not treated as anything that important. But Semele is important to her son.