From: Vol. 7 June 2003 p. 11-12
"Politics as Theater in Arthur Miller"
Ashis Sengupta, University of North Bengal
If the stage is a world in its own right, all the world is equally
a stage. And the world-stage metaphor has preoccupied Arthur Miller
ever
since he wrote The Archbishop's Ceiling (1977[1989]),
crystallizing--as
it were--in his delightfully acerbic On Politics and the Art
of
Acting (2001). The former is a critique of the political stage in
1970s
Czechoslovakia, while the latter is a discursive analysis of the modern
American political scene. Despite wide historical, cultural
differences,
what brings the two works together, making each a commentary of sorts
on
the other, is the presentation of political life as a world of
competing
performances.
"[A]cting is inevitable," Miller observes, "as soon
as we walk out our front doors and into society." But "power changes
how
people act," he adds (On Politics 1, 10). The
politician-as-performer
has to perfect his show to draw together a fragmented public. And the
public-as-audience
is also called upon to join in the acting since the show must go on.
But
what happens when the rituals of "truth" produced for public
consumption
stand challenged, or the show fails to woo and win? The stage has
to be reset, and the theatrics revised. A cynically contrived
performance
replaces persuasive gestures, disguising the crude exercise of power.
No
wonder people under the archbishop's ceiling, which is presumably
bugged,
find it hard to locate reality and turn into contrived selves
despite
their resistance or dissent. As Sigmund, the dissident writer,
laments
in the play: "We must lie, it is our only freedom . . . . Our country
is
now a theater, where no one is permitted to walk out, and everyone is
obliged
to applaud" (Archbishop 69).
Both politics and theater thrive on "lies like
truth."
However, in the end, we call a play trivial when it illuminates little
beyond its own artifices. The same goes for politics which
bespeaks
some narrow interest rather than the greater good. "The fault is not in
the use of theatrical arts," Miller concludes in On Politics,
"but
in their purpose" (83). No Miller work precludes an ultimately
moral
imperative. Archbishop, too, finally asks if the
writer-as-actor,
despite his knowledge that survival depends on adaptive performance
skills,
must not have a permanent allegiance to the love of creating art that
would
attribute meaning to life.
"The Importance of Naming in The Ride Down Mt. Morgan"
Susan C.W. Abbotson, Rhode Island College
The similarity between the names Loman and Lyman (from The Ride
Down
Mt. Morgan) can hardly be coincidental. In many ways, Death
of a Salesman's Loman seems to be the prototype for Lyman.
While
Loman was a man striving against the difficulties of living inherent
during
the forties and fifties, Lyman is a man for the eighties, and unlike
Loman,
a very successful businessman. While Loman's name tends to evoke
discussion of Willy as a "low-man" in terms of his abilities,
character,
or prospects, Lyman's name with its possibilities of outrageous deceit
(lies), passion (to lie with), and, as June Schlueter suggests, the
concept
of one who is "lionized" (143), clearly evokes a different sense of
being.
Where Loman is shown to be powerless, Lyman is fully empowered.
Lyman
is, what Willy Loman wanted to be, if only he had had that charisma and
business sense he so dearly wanted. But we can also see, even
more
clearly than Salesman informs us, just how misguided Willy's
desires
were, as we witness the dangerous and unsatisfactory life Lyman has
created
with all those skills and advantages for which Willy had longed.
Miller clearly wants us to see the deep irony
in Lyman's situation--a life-insurance mogul who may have just tried to
kill himself, and in a car just like his predecessor, Willy
Loman.
As with Loman, Lyman is a character through whom and through whose
actions
we are being asked to question a number of the values we have so
complacently
accepted and lived with, without sufficient understanding. Just
like
Loman, Lyman too seeks that elusive "main thing"; the secret to life
each
feels exists but is somehow being kept hidden from them.
The scene between Lyman and the lion is an important
piece--we see in it an act of identification and test of the
self.
Getting close to death makes him feel more alive, but it is fraught
with
danger. Lyman lives life dangerously and tempts the fates by wild
acts which are tantamount to hubris. It is as if he wants to be a
god--not for the power that would entail, so much as the fact that a
god
does not have to feel guilt, and it is this which is continually
threatening
his peace. The laws of tragedy insist the hero must suffer for
his
hubris when at the peak of his existence, which is at this point when
he
faces the lion. Lyman declares that this was when he lost his
guilt
and therefore felt most godlike--but this is a lie--this is the lie he
is indeed most guilty of. We know his guilt exists, after all why
marry Leah and give his son a legal father but for the social mores
which
insist on such actions as right, and also, as he tells us, to assauge
the
guilt he feels from an earlier illegitimate child. It is with the
lion that he decides to keep two wives, and be lionlike with his
"pride."
A comparison of Lyman to that Lion of Judah--King David seems not out
of
place. David was a great uniter of warring factions who tried to
build a golden ideal, but was eventually torn apart by the conflict
between
public appearance and private indiscretions--a similar dynamic to
Lyman's
life.
A religious/Jewish sybolism behind the characters
is evidenced in a complex network of predominantly Biblical naming
beyond
a simple comparison of Lyman to King David--Lyman is also related to
another
Jewish "founding father": Jacob, famous for his two wives (perfectly
legal
in his day!). Lyman's mother was Esther, recalling the Esther
Jews
recall every Purim. Esther thwarted the plots of Haman to kill
the
Jews by using her feminine wiles on the king--through her actions she
keeps
the Jews alive. We should note that Lyman's mother was very
disappointed
that Theo was not Jewish, because Jewishness is passed on matrilinearly
and so Bessie is not technically Jewish. Lyman eventually marries
a Jewish woman in order to preserve his Jewish heritage (passed on to
him
by his mother) and he names him Benjamin after his mother's
grandfather,
Ben also being Hebrew for son--and so finally preserves the Jewish
line.
In this way Esther is once more victorious.
Lyman's Jewish wife is Leah. Leah was one
of Jacob's famous two wives, her sister, Rachel, being the other.
Between them, Leah and Rachel are the matriarchs of Israel, bearing to
Jacob the children who will eventually be the founders of the tribes of
Israel. Jacob also had children by another woman, a servant he
never
married, which could relate to Lyman's illegitimate child--but he was
married
to both Rachel and Leah, though Rachel was his preferred wife and so
given
primary status. Jacob fathered a Ben too, though with Rachel
rather
than Leah. But Lyman calls his son Benjamin Alexander, the
Alexander
being his father's name, a man for whom religion had no import.
Alexander
is not a Jewish nam, and could recall Alexander Hamilton, evoked in The
Last Yankee by Miller as one of America's founders. It seems
to me that in the naming of his son, Lyman illustrates the ambivalent
nature
of the child's heritage--he becomes an archetypal Jewish-American and
therefore
the true offspring of Lyman, caught between dueling cultural heritages
and possibilities.
Lyman's other child, Bessie, by his Christian wife,
Theo, may bring to mind the New Testament figure of Elizabeth, Mary's
cousin
who gave birth to John the Baptist. Bessie, too, is a prophet
like
figure who offers words of wisdom which are largely ignored, words
which
are also strongly redolent of New Testament philosophy in their
insistence
that you consider others before yourself. Even Theo's name has a
religious connotation with its root connection to theology, the study
of
religion--perhaps emphazising her extremely rational nature. She
is the hub around which religious concepts spin in America and her
father
was after all a preacher. Tom Wilson, the Quaker, and other
representative
of the New Testament side of the matter may bring to mind "doubting
Thomas."
At a point near the close of the play, when Theo seems to be won over
to
Lyman's outlook, we find Tom seeming to distance himself entirely from
the group. Like the doubting Thomas figure he may represent--he
wants
to believe but has trouble committing himself to a more audacious set
of
beliefs. In Aramic, the name Thomas means "twin" and in many ways
Tom is a twin to Lyman, being a "would be Lyman," only without
the
necessary spirit. Early on, Tom advises Lyman to lie and not to
be
honest because the truth is often too hurtful (Ride 29).
Such
moments allow us to question just how complicitous in all of this is
Tom.
In a way, he has been living vicariously through Lyman, allowing him to
take all the risks. We are all "Toms" in a way, with a tendency
to
let others live the sensational lives as we stand by and
watch--becoming
virtual "Uncle Tom" figures in our "yes man" complacency.
From: Vol. 8 December 2003 p. 13
-- In response to "The Importance of Naming in The Ride Down Mt. Morgan" (Vol #7), Peter Hays (University of Califormia, Davis) writes: "I read with interest the explication of the names in The Ride Down Mt. Morgan. The one that I have wrestled with is the one in the title. There is no Mt. Morgan near Elmira; in fact, there is no mountain near Elmira. Elmira Heights is 659 feet in altitude. Two interpretations are possible: Morgan refers to J.P. Morgan, and thus, indirectly, to Lyman's and America's lust for wealth. Or, it could refer to Mark Twain's Hank Morgan of A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court. Twain had a farm near Elmira, and as his pen name reveals, he had a penchant for duplicity, like Lyman."
-- In response to a question (vol.#7) regarding the suicide of David Beeves in The Man Who Had All the Luck, Chris Bigsby informs us that David Beeves committed suicide in the original novel, which Miller wrote prior to the play version. While adapting the story into play form, he dropped the certainty of Beeves' suicide for a more ambiguous ending .
-- In an initial response to the discovery of the Dramatists Play Service edition of "I Can’t Remember Anything," from 1987, which ends in a very different fashion to the earlier Grove Press edition of 1986, Steve Centola writes:
"I like the Dramatists Play Service version better because it
resonates
with greater suggestiveness and ambiguity at the play's end--and such
openendness,
for me, is simply a more accurate reflection of life's
complexity.
To me the “tension” we feel at the end of the Dramatists Play Service
version--both
between Leo and Leonora and within Leo (and possibly also within
Leonora,
given Leo's comments in their final telephone conversation that she
again
is pretending not to remember)--suggests greater complexity in
characterization
and, I believe, a more realistic and accurate portrayal of the
complexity
of the feelings and situations affecting these two characters.
The
Grove Press version perhaps too conveniently offers the audience an
implausible
happy resolution to the tensions dividing these two characters at the
play's
end and, therefore, leaves us with the unrealistic conclusion that a
definite
solution has been achieved during this evening. The Dramatists
Play
Service version, on the other hand, suggests, to me at least, that no
such
resolution occurs--or perhaps can ever occur--for the individuals will
continue to wrestle with their feelings and (in)ability to come to
terms
with their past, their values, their feelings, and their personal
responsibility
for the life lived and the situation that now serves as a challenge and
a threat to them. To some degree, both characters continue to
live
in denial at the play's end. Leonora, perhaps disingenuously,
still
contends that she cannot remember anything, and Leo similarly pretends
that he does not care about Leonora and wants to be freed from the
burden
of responsibility for her, while also deriving some consolation from
the
overly simplistic, and undeniably inaccurate, characterization of her
as
exclusively responsible for his own distress. Yet, simultaneously, the
play's end shows that both obviously remain connected to each other.
I believe the fact that the play ends while they
are talking, regardless of what they are saying, on the phone again
reinforces
the connections between them that are evident in their interactions
this
evening and revival of memories that are too important to be
forgotten.
Leo may be telling Leonora that he cannot continue to see her, but the
fact is that he does continue to talk to her--a clear indication that
his
action belies his speech, in a manner that is reminiscent to me of
Charley
saying he never cared about another human being while he continues to
give
Willy Loman $50 a week in Death of a Salesman.
In any event, for me, the Dramatists Play Service
version is a better conclusion because it is riddled with the kind of
ambiguity
that speaks more insightfully about the complexities of life and human
relations. The tension that reverberates in this ending compels our
attention
more so than if the play ended with a more definite resolution, and we
inevitably find ourselves thinking long afterwards about Miller's
themes,
his characters, and the implications of their conflict for all of us.
From: Vol. 9 June 2004 p. 13-15
-- Crucible script
An inquiry from a bookshop in Plainfield, Vermont which recently bought
a collection of books, many on drama, from the estate of a gentleman
who
was once, we were told, a drama critic for the old Herald Tribune
in New York City, named Bert McCord.
Ben Koenig, owner of the store, is researching a
mimeographed script in a simple gray binder. It has no title page but
is
definitely the script for The Crucible. It seems like a
working
script from the New York original production. The outer cover has
a label from "Anne Myerson Manuscript Typing & Mimeographing
Service."
There are several sections crossed out. These sections do not
appear
in the revision of the play which was published after the play
opened.
There are also some changes in which one character is delivering the
dialogue
and this character was later changed to a different character.
Almost
all the pages have act-scene-page numbers on top. Several pages
apparently
were added with new dialogue. On one of these pages is the
handwritten
name,"McNeil" and all of the crossed out passages concern Tituba.
Since the actress Claudia McNeil was a replacement for Tituba’s part,
then
this is, perhaps, her copy of the script.
If anyone has any information that would help Ben
authenticate or allow him to compare his copy with another, or
information
on where might something like this be archived, contact: The Country
Bookshop,
35
Mill Street, Plainfield, VT 05667, Phone and fax: 802-454-8439 e-mail:
<bookshop@TheCountryBookshop.com>
-- Symbolism of the Pen in Death of a Salesman
A teacher from New York who was teaching a Death of a Salesman Unit
in 11th grade was asked about the symbolism of the stealing of the
fountain
pen. All of the teachers he knew had been suggesting it
represents taking
a piece of success, is a symbol of success, and that Biff steals it
when
faced with adversity. He saw a possible connection between this
and
the common Jewish practice of Bar Mitzvah, when the boy becomes a man
and
passes into maturity and manhood. In the time that the play takes
place,
a common gift to the barmitvah'd boy was a fountain pen. In fact,
the
newly made man would address his audience and announce, "Today I am a
FOUNTAIN
PEN." He wonders if the pen might not, therefore, symbolize
Biff's realization
of his maturity. He finally can "see the sky." He sees the
light, the
mask of fantasy has been taken off, and he then goes on a mission to
make
everyone around him stop lying and face the truth as he now can.
"Arthur Miller--A Chronicler of Our Times"
By Aysha Viswamohan
If history can be defined as a documented fact of civilization,
Arthur
Miller can justify his position as the chronicler of our age. Whether
it
is the Depression (The American Clock), McCarthyism (Crucible,
After the Fall), anti-Semitism (Incident at Vichy, Playing
for Time), the Watergate (The Archbishop's Ceiling),
or the excesses of the Reagan-Nixon era (Ride Down at Mt. Morgan),
Miller's plays invariably offer the readers a slice of the times we
live
in. While discussing his views on the Vietnam War and the Theater of
Absurd,
Miller confesses , "behind the play--almost any play--are more or less
secret responses to other works of the time," and admits
that
The Price . . .was "a reaction to two big events that had come
to
overshadow all others in that decade."(Echoes Down the Corridor,
297).
A fascinating feature of Miller's output is his
non-literary essays. He observes: "Looking through the scores of essays
I have published . . . I find myself surprised at how many were
involved
with the political life of the times . . . By political I don't mean
the
question of who should be elected to office but rather the life of the
community and its apparent direction." (Echoes, ix). With
reference
to this postulation, one has to consider Miller's views on delinquent
behavior
("The Bored and the Violent"), blacklisted artists in authoritarian
regimes
("What's Wrong with This Picture", "Dinner with the Ambassador"),
political
machinations ("Making Crowds"), concern with the environment ("Ibsen's
Warning"), and the censors ("The Good Old American Pie"). If his
account of Mandela ("The Measure of the Man") is an affirmation in
man's
indefatigable spirit, equally heart-warming is his defense of the
"fallen-from-grace"
President Clinton ("Clinton in Salem"), where he likens the
Clinton-situation
to the witchcraft hysteria in Salem. Elsewhere, with a unique sense of
perspicacity, he discusses Cuba and Castro; the attack on the twin
towers,
and the need for tolerance toward members of all religious communities.
How keenly Miller observes us, is obvious
in his recent play, Resurrection Blues, where he questions:
what
would happen if a revolutionary Christ-like figure suddenly emerged
from
among the people. Miller assumes that the head of the state would
not only have him crucified, but would also sell the worldwide
television
rights to an advertising agency for $25million.
In Resurrection Blues, the dramatist
ridicules
the greed and materialism which afflict our society. Set in
a
Latin American country there is an enormous gap between rich and poor,
with 2% of the population owning 96% of the wealth (which again, is a
telling
commentary on situations in most countries). In addition to
attacking
the absurd social/economic inequalities, Miller also explores the
gross
commercialization of television, where a crucifixion would be
interspersed
with ads for falling hair, gum disease, underarm deodorants, diapers,
ear
wax and rashes. What's worse is the fact that even the people, for whom
the savior is willing to die, are eager to capitalize on the event.
Thus,
many villages clamor to become the location for the crucifixion, as it
would catapult the status of their village as a tourist
attraction.
In fact, the greater the shock value, the better it would be for the
economy.
And as the dictator says, "Shooting doesn't work! People are shot on
television
every ten minutes . . . nail up a couple of these
bastards."
The play concerns itself with commodification of capital punishment,
along
with the notion of infotainment, as witnessed by our growing
fascination
for the television (also see, "Privatize Executions"). In a
recent
interview, Miller says, " . . . Resurrection Blues becomes an
eerie
reflection of our culture as a whole--our morals, ethics, and
compassion
for others. The airing of a worldwide broadcast of a crucifixion would
certainly peak an audience's interest. But whose responsibility
is
it to determine what is morally acceptable?" (Etemad). It is
worth
noting that even as Miller nears his ninetieth year, his preoccupation
with humanity has not diminished one bit.
Miller once stated, " . . . it is remarkable how similar the
fundamental
preoccupations are around the world. The dilemmas of my
characters
turn out to be quite familiar elsewhere" ("Global"). This
assertion
is valid because as a contemporary chronicler , Miller shows a mirror
not
merely to his own, but to all societies, and emerges as a universal
dramatist
in exactly the same way as when he wrote Death of a Salesman.
His immense creative output is enough to redefine his position not just
as one of the greatest playwrights, but also as an important
socio-political
thinker of our times. And this is from where the relevance of
studies
on Miller stems.
Works Cited
Miller, Arthur. Echoes Down the Corridor: Collected Essays
1944-2000. Ed. Steven Centola. New York: Penguin, 2001.
—. "Global Dramatist." New York Times. July 21, 1957. Retrieved
from the internet.
—. Interview with Nakissa Etemad. Open Stages: The Newsletter
of the Wilma Theater. Sept./ Oct.2003. Retrieved from the
internet.
—. Resurrection Blues (2002). Unpublished.
Plays as Political Allegories: The Ride Down Mount Morgan
and Tughlaq
By Ashis Sengupta
Historical/political allegory, according to Abrams, has in it
characters
and actions which, while signified literally, represent in turn
historical/political
personages and events (Glossary of Literary Terms 4).
Allegory
as a narrative mode has fallen into "critical disrepute," thanks to the
modernist hostility to "the intentionalist . . . assumptions" that it
makes
as well as to the poststructuralist rethinking of the notions of
reference
and representation (Fowler Ed. DMCT 5-6). Nevertheless, it
continues
to flourish in prose fiction and drama, with changes in its conception
and practice, though. Since a text is no longer considered as having
"the
power of closing off its performance or reading," "the conditions of
signification"
follow from its open-endedness (Chase, "de Man, Paul," John Hopkins
Guide to Literary Theory and Criticism). The reader's experience of
allegory, in this view, can be an experience of the
provisionality/undecidability
of figural meaning. However, the act of reading remains a possible way
of positing rather than discovering the literal and figural dimensions
of a fictional narrative, notwithstanding the text's indeterminacy
which
interferes with its self-knowledge.
The Ride Down Mount Morgan (1991) by Arthur
Miller and Tughlaq (1964[1975) by Indian playwright Girish
Karnad
share several significant features as political allegories. While the
former
probes into the paradoxes of American politics under Reagan's
leadership,
the latter focuses on those of Indian leadership during the
Jawaharlal-Indira
regime. Miller draws the character of a bigamist to make his political
statement; Karnad turns to the career of a fourteenth-century sultan of
Delhi to make his. Both Lyman and Tughlaq are immensely capable of
action,
and both are sincerely convinced of the righteousness of what they do.
Each strongly believes, and is partly able to make others believe, in
his
visions of self-integrity and stakes everything to translate them into
reality. However, both of them want the world to conform to their
visions
and therefore ignore every kind of difference and dissent. To come back
to the real-life models, Reagan, the most successful American
politician
of the late twentieth century, sought to rebuild America as the world’s
strongest nation when it was in fact undergoing a crisis of confidence.
He sold the American dream of heroic individualism to strengthen the
country's
economy and adopted foreign policies with a view to establishing
America
as a "benevolent" force in the world. But despite his zeal and
intellect,
he ended up as a failure for not examining his values in any greater
depth
than Lyman. When he left office, America had record budget deficits and
a bruised self-image to the international community due to the
Iran-Contra
scandal. On the Indian side, Nehru saw himself as the architect of an
independent
nation and wanted to release the "vast stores of suppressed energy and
ability of his people" in order to give "her the garb of modernity" (Discovery
of India 50). But with the nation's increasing "disenchantment with
visionary leadership and the consequent emergence" of a politics of
power
relations between religious and ethnic groups, Tughlaq appeared to be a
more accurate portrayal of "the brilliant but authoritarian . . .
political
style" of Indira Gandhi (Dharwadker, PMLA 110.1: 50). She too
sought
to modernize and discipline India, but with such zeal that she came to
abuse power by imposing herself on her people.
The Ride Down Mount Morgan is "a completely
political play," says Miller. Lyman is "the apotheosis of the
individualist
who has arrived at a point where the rest of the world has faded into
insignificance"
(qtd. in Bigsby, Modern American Drama 122). This type of
character,
Miller adds, is not new: "it’s just that Ronald Reagan gave it the
imprimatur
of society" (qtd. in Griffin, Understanding Arthur Miller 175).
Lyman is "a man of high integrity," Miller observes, "but no values."
And
it is a great "paradox." He does create "a socially responsible
corporation"
which has liberal policies toward minorities. But he is also "intent on
not suppressing his instinctual life, on living fully in every way
possible."
He will "confront the worst about himself and then proceed from there"
(qtd. in Bigsby, Cambridge Comapanion to Arthur Miller 171-72).
Metaphorically, the accident Lyman meets with blows off his cover and
necessitates
a scrutiny of his past. However, it is far from an objective
reconstruction
as the past is presented to us through the wild fantasies of Lyman. His
present, too, is largely shaped by his conscious rationalizations.
Since
he inhabits a world where others are but projections of his desires and
fears, he legitimizes "an imperial self" detached from all
responsibility
(Bigsby, Modern American Drama 121). Lyman acknowledges his
wildness
but then justifies it as the proof of life in him. He is "the
quintessential
Eighties man," Miller observes, "who . . . keeps saying he's telling
the
truth about himself, but [who] in fact [has] had to conceal everything"
(qtd. in Modern American Drama 122). Reagan also
understood
the need for a laudatory rhetoric that would restore the nation’s faith
in its old myths of innocence and success. However, the moral rhetoric
both Reagan and Lyman appropriate only disguises the moral decay of the
"Me" generation.
Karnad writes in his program note to the 1975
production
of Tughlaq: "Our interpretation of the play is one in which the
politics of the entire [national] situation are all-important and the
violence
of the…play is evident" (Enact [Sept-Oct]). Karnad's protagonist
appears to be an idealist; yet in the pursuit of his ideals, he
perpetrates
their opposites. Tughlaq dreams of a kingdom that would be a land of
justice
and peace, communal harmony and progress. He is even ready to
announce
his mistakes to the whole world and be judged in public. Tughlaq is
always
conscious of his role as shaper of history, as Prime Minister Nehru was
ever preoccupied with India’s "tryst with destiny." However, the
sultan's lofty view of himself and his empire is not only expressive of
the juridical and cultural ideals of Indian monarchy but also
complicitous
with the idea of unquestionable royal authority. Power can be violent
and
coercive when the idea of government (a structure of actions upon other
actions for desired outcomes) is frustrated. Contrary to his earlier
self-projection
as a humble king, Tughlaq starts killing his kin and critics for the
sake
of what he calls "an ideal." While Tughlaq earlier subjected his
credulous
people to his authority by his emotional theatrics, he now exercises
his
power rather crudely to make them follow his whims. The basic motive
behind
some of the sultan's radical measures might have been effective
administrative
control, but he neither probed the ground reality nor recognized the
public
will as of any importance at all. Instead he wanted to reduce history
to
a kind of autobiography. Ms. Gandhi comes closer to Karnad's
protagonist
as a mixture of paradoxes, choosing coercive strategies "out of a
compulsion
to act for the nation." After a State High Court set aside her
election
to Parliament in 1975, she declared a national emergency on the grounds
that she was "the only person" "to lead [the country]" (qtd. in Moraes,
Indira Gandhi 220). Like Tughlaq, she chose evil in the
self-destructiveness
of her authoritarianism (Dharwadker 52).
Neither the fictional Lyman in Miller nor the "historical" Tughlaq
in Karnad evokes any contemporary figure consistently, and sometimes
they
each evoke only themselves. Moreover, as a fictional
narrative/historical
fiction possesses meaning "independent of specific topical contexts"
(Dharwadker
56), one character cannot either substitute completely for another. Yet
few will perhaps miss the allegorical structures of both plays even as
the allegorical signs in them point to things that differ from their
literal
meanings.
N.B. The third paragraph of this short essay has been adapted from a
section Sengupta wrote on The Ride Down Mount Morgan in "The
Late
Plays of Arthur Miller: Problematizing the Real," which will be
included
in the forthcoming Miller and Middle America, edited by Paula
Langteau
(UPA).
From: Vol. 10 December 2004 p. 3
In response to last isssue's suggestion of the Fountain Pen relating to Biff passage into maturity:
From JHK: But nothing about the Loman family (including their name) is Jewish, and Biff is 33, not 13, and what is more important, he is horrified that he has taken the pen. I don't see it as grasping for success, or a realization of maturity--indeed, it's quite the opposite. Biff has been stealing for years, as his father never taught him proper moral values. Biff is struggling to escape his youth and the tyranny of his father's ridiculous worldview--taking the pen is more a symbol of his inability to do that--he has been tricked once more into behaving like his father--going to Bill Oliver with the ridiculous idea the man will lend him money and he can start a successful business--but he is to Bill Oliver only what he proves himself to be by taking the pen--a little sneak thief (just like he took the crate of balls all those years back). It is not until he faces his father and tells him the truth that we see him beginning to grow.
To which the original NY teacher responded:
I think that most English teachers who do not know about the
significance
of the fountain pen to that era's Jews all say similar things in a
struggle
to grasp the meaning of what is obviously a symbol of some type.
As for
the Lomans not being Jewish, does it really matter? It is the
author who
is Jewish and would embed his own experience into his work. Biff
is a
late bloomer, sure, but again, he takes the pen at the point he has his
epiphany. He runs down 11 flights of stairs and sees the sky aka
"seeing
the light." His eyes are now open. His mission henceforth
is to make
everyone else see reality and lift the veil of fantasy. JHK, I
appreciate
your insight - it matches the opinions of many English teachers.
I encourage
you to re-read the section with the pen and the rest of the Act and
you'll
maybe come to a middle ground with me.
Questions still looking for answers…write in here if you know the answer to any of these and we can include your response!
--Who said that Arthur Miller "is the only playwright to influence the American theatrical landscape for the entire twentieth century"?
--Which Miller play is dedicated to Robert Ferris?
--Where did Miller write/say something along the lines of: "Let history stay in the history books . . . the theater is for . . . something"
--Where/when did Miller say something to the effect that most human
endeavors are bound to failure, but a great deal of good things happen
along the way?
Last updated 3 August 2006