Orpheus dismembered
But his head sings on . . .
Welcome to the fourth post of Raids on the Underworld, my Substack newsletter, in which I am currently taking a close look at the Myth of Orpheus.
David Brooks, in an article called ‘Poetry and Dismemberment’ suggests that the myth might represent the acting out of a dilemma in the mind of Orpheus, and by implication, of all of us who write:
What I came to realise and accept, as I began to write more, is that most writers are deeply dependant upon the most intense experiences of their lives and draw upon these continually for their work. And these intense experiences, of course, are very often inextricably entwined with the lives of those nearest to them: their partners, their families, their closest friends.
Not all writers are like this – there are other ways, other sources of intensity (imagination, for example, but even the most original feats of imagination are synthesised from the actual experience of the one who imagines them) – but for those who are, writing, in this sense, is potentially fraught with betrayal. And it is not only their friends and their families who can suffer: the writers themselves, isolated, guilty, not trusted to keep the confidences of others, can be torn apart by this, self-banished, exiled, dis-membered (for that, surely, is one of the potential meanings of the term, to be unhouseled, deprived of one’s membership).
Brooks then asks:
Are writing and a 'normal' life at odds in this way? Does writing entail a kind of emotional violence, a dis-membering of lives? Is the writer inherently lonely, sacrificed (sacrificing all?) to his or her art?
I wonder if these are not some of the things encoded or puzzled over in the story of Orpheus' turning: that it might not have been for love, but might have been a conscious choice between art and domestic comfort, connubial bliss – that Orpheus, foreseeing the possible loss of what had made his song so intense, chose instead to lose his Eurydice a second time. Chose art. And, of course, eventually paid an artist's price.
Brooks goes on to argue that there are two subsidiary readings of the Orpheus myth: in one, Orpheus, by his forbidden gaze, is consciously refuting the opportunity of ‘exposing’ himself, by dragging his subconscious self out into the light. In a further reading, he simply decides that he does not want to return to matrimony, to the regular and predictable rhythms of marriage, that in fact he turns, momentarily, to gaze at Eurydice, knowing full well that by doing so he will cause her death a second time.
So, Orpheus turns intentionally, in order to reject stability and domesticity.
This, it seems to me, is to suggest that the life of the artist is in a significant way incompatible with a happy domestic arrangement. This might fit in with the stereotype of the tormented artist, but does nothing to mollify those of us who have sought out a fulfilling relationship with a soul-mate (with or without domesticity) after years of solitary striving, and have found it to be good — and in no manner restrictive of our creativity; or certainly not as restrictive as, say, a boring and time-consuming day job.
But there is another twist to the story. Most versions of the myth maintain that after his return from Hades, Orpheus decides— in a strangely sudden and convenient realisation — that he prefers having sex with men, or boys.
He is said to have encouraged the practice of homosexuality in Thrace, which enraged the Maenads — those wine-crazed acolytes of Dionysos — who punished him, eventually, by tearing him apart, literally, while his severed head rolled away, singing miserably to the stars.
But I am getting ahead of myself.
According to Madeleine Miller’s account:
[I]n Ovid’s telling of the story, he . . . says that many women sought to replace Eurydice in Orpheus' affections, but that Orpheus spurned them all, and turned instead to men, which was the origin of homosexuality in Thrace. A fascinating detail, that Ovid mentions, but does not delve into further.
But why is this detail presented as a reaction to his loss, rather than simply as a predilection? What if Orpheus preferred men anyway, and his marriage to Eurydice had been a front, a marriage of convenience? What if, on returning upward to the world, he realises that he will be forced to remain in a heterosexual marriage for the rest of his days? It seems a fairly obvious question to ask, and yet nowhere — in none of the literature — have I encountered this reading.
Perhaps it’s too rooted in common sense to make any sense in a myth.
And yet it might be argued that a reading of Orpheus that combines the practice of pederasty with a hefty dose of misogyny fits perfectly with a Graeco-Roman patriarchal world view.
Anyone interested in pursuing this line of enquiry might be interested in Orpheus the misogynist, a piece by Joanna Kenty, who puts it this way:
Orpheus’ pederastic songs follow a well-established Greek tradition, but the framing of those songs as a rejection of women, a misogynistic turn after the loss of his wife, is bizarre. Many of Orpheus’ stories do describe accidental deaths that gods are powerless to stop, so they’re more relevant to Eurydice than he might mean them to be. He centers his stories on Pygmalion, whose (unnatural) wish is granted by Venus but whose descendants torment and are tormented by Venus; not a positive take on romantic love. It seems like Orpheus, like most people, finds a strange way of processing his grief.
And in Under the Spell of Orpheus: The persistence of a myth in twentieth century art by Judith E. Bernstock, we find this:
His obsessive need for Eurydice and yet his revived creativity after her final death correspond to the ambivalence of the male artist toward the source of inspiration on whom he depends and yet whom he regards as a destructive obstacle to his creativity.
That Orpheus represents at once joy and lament, fidelity to man and misogynism, and the productive and frustrated artist has made him appeal to a broad range of artistic temperaments. Underlying all the visual images of the singer is a sense that the modern artist uses him, the embodiment of metamorphosis, to transform symbolically the chaos, emptiness, or inadequacy of the inner and outer worlds.
In either case — whether by rejecting their advances or sleeping with their husbands —Orpheus offends the Thracian women.
Another argument entirely was that he had aligned himself himself with Apollo, and this angered Dionysos, who sent his Maenads to punish him.
But either way they punish him, tearing him limb from lim
Not far from his dismembered body, his detached head began to sing, and sings on in hundreds of images depicting the messy slaughter of the poet. Below is an image of his head being carried — with some tenderness — by one of those Thracian women.
A grisly end to the tale, for sure. But what does this dismemberment mean, as an analogy? What does it mean for the writer to be dismembered, unhouseled, torn apart?
And on that thought, we will round up this week’s offering on the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice. I will be retuning for one last post on the myth next week, to tidy up some loose ends, before moving on, with the New Year, to something quite different.
Richard Gwyn is a writer and translator. Information about his books, as well as articles, interviews and forthcoming events can be found on his website at https://richardgwyn.com or by clicking here.